A Late Happy New Year

Good Lord, has it really been so long? Proof positive that (relative) happiness really is a blog-killer. But eventually the fingers itch for the keyboard, and the ears long for the rattle of inept, single-finger typing. And thus the creaky, sporadic and flighty bucket of bollocks that is Late Bland's blog groans back into some sort of life. Will it last? Who can tell. Best not to ask.


As is to be expected when your faithful narrator takes a four-month hiatus (without even a by-your-leave!), there is much to tell. And because your faithful narrator remains, at heart, a lazy fucker, he (I) shall tell it in bullet-point form.


 


- You will be pleased to hear that Lucy and I are still together and still living in sin. There is categorically no chance of us getting married at any point in the forseeable future. After a long night on the tiles, a night which unwisely saw us mixing absinthe, vodka, gin, rum, whiskey, triple sec, bitters and a dash of generic cola to create the monster that is the "Long Island Fucked-Up Tea", I did actually ask Lucy to marry me. Apparently. I don't remember. I do remember waking up with a beauty of a black eye, however - when I inquired my lady love as to where I got the shiner, she replied, "You proposed, so I punched you. It was for your own good." Marriage has not been mentioned since.


 


- Hayley has given birth to her devil-spawn, and has named it Kayleigh. It is nominally a girl (in that it already has pierced ears, and is dressed head-to-toe in a migraine-inducing shade of pink), but it looks like a small, furious Winston Churchill. I have my suspicions that it may turn out to be some sort of genderless Antichrist. On the few occasions that the child has been left in the shop (while Hayley goes off to snog/shag/shoplift) I have had a surreptitious check for any birthmarks of the 666 variety. Nothing as yet, but the mark may be hidden by the infant's Primark romper.


 


- Mee-chelle too has dropped her sprog, giving Wall Street Phil the boy-child he thought he always wanted. The newest addition to the Briggs family arrived on Christmas Day, thereby ruining Mee-chelle's Marks & Spencer-purchased Christmas dinner and dooming the kid to a lifetime of joint Christmas-and-birthday presents. They named the boy Jude (as in Law, I suppose, rather than The Obscure); my suggestion that they call him Mince Pie was met with one of Mee-chelle's patented hard stares. Phil is now trying to adapt to life without sleep. He looked so wrecked the other day that I offered to give him some Plymouth Gin to slip into the lad's bottle, but he just shook his head and stumbled off to buy Pampers. He had a little bit of baby poo on the end of his tie.


 


- And continuing with this theme of new arrivals, the Bottle Shop's little family has also gained a new member. Dylan, the weekend worker. A 19-year-old pain in the proverbial who I hired in a moment of weakness and who, despite the best efforts of Marxist Jim, refuses to quit. For example - Dylan (or "that f***ing irritating streak of piss" as Jim prefers to call him) has a habit of leaving his mobile switched on. Which wouldn't be a problem, were it not for the fact that his ringtone is that execrable piece of aural jism that is "Crazy Frog". And his phone rings all - the - time. Eventually (around 11am on Dylan's first day) Marxist Jim snapped, grabbed the phone - which was still trilling merrily away - and threw it in the toilet. When that failed to stop the device's ringing, he took it outside and reversed over it in his car. Any normal person, faced with this sort of aggression, would have handed in their notice on the spot. Dylan just went a bit pale, then bought a new phone. Either the guy has a commitment to passive resistance that would put Gandhi to shame, or he just really needs the money.


 


- The Cursed Shop is now a health food emporium run by an insufferable hippy called Jake and his significant other, a sloe-eyed exotic lovely called Mahasti. I admit to having a bit of a thing for Mahasti. I think it's the way she says my name, drawing out the 'a' in a deep, liquid purr. Laaaate. And the sensual, almost lascivious way she has with the pricing gun. Of course, if I ever let on to Lucy, I would quickly find myself as the only castrated wine merchant in the Greater London area. So I limit myself to the odd dirty thought and a bit of flirting over the quinoa. A happy by-product of this schoolboy crush is that my diet is suddenly much more healthy. Gillian McKeith, eat your heart out (actually, I'd pay to watch that. Maybe I should contact Channel 4).


 


Well, those were the headlines. The broad brushstrokes, if you like. I'm sure I'll come back and colour in the details sometime next week. Probably. Though I wouldn't go holding your breath or anything. I'd hate to be the cause of the mass asphyxiation of a load of innocent bloggers.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Pirramimma Petit Verdot 2001 (Australia). Rich cherry and currant fruit, overlaid with spicy, almost flowery, aromas. And if you give it to a newborn you are guaranteed an unbroken night's sleep (and probably a visit from Social Services). £9.99
4.2.05 17:45


Romance R.I.P.

I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, my tongue has gone dry and my palms are sweating, which can mean only one thing - it's nearly VD time again (no, not as in "Venereal Disease". Like I would spend the second week in February cruising Kings Cross for pox-ridden crack whores in an attempt to pick up the clap. Pfft. As if).


No, as those of you with long memories will recall, VD is my little pet name for the nausea-inducing festival of pink plush teddies and not-long-for-this-world roses that is Valentine's Day. My natural instinct around this time of year is to dig myself a hole in a quiet park somewhere and make like a flower-bed until the last helium balloon with "I Wuv You" emblazoned on it has been deflated (and maybe burned in a landfill for good measure).


This year, however, I have been faced with a dilemma. Lucy and I have been an item for over a year, and part of me thinks I should do something to acknowledge this. After all, it was her kill-or-cure approach to love that mended my seriously sprained heart. I was a broken thing before I met Lucy, and that's a fact. On the other hand, Lucy shares my allergy to romance (her actual words were "romance is a bit pile of steaming horseshit"), so anything as convential as a candlelit dinner or a dozen red roses would be about as much use as Christopher Reeve on a football team (yes, I know he's dead. Hence my metaphor. Or is it simile? Oh, had I but paid attention in English lessons, rather than drawing pictures of knobs in the margins of my textbooks).


So what to do? I'll tell you what. I've booked us in for a tandem bungee jump.


I acknowledge that this was an out-of-character thing for me to do. I hate heights. I hate those adrenalin rides that swoosh you around until your stomach ends up somewhere in the next county. I hate people who say "Rad" without irony. So to book a day out that combines all of these things was possibly not the best idea I've ever had. Frankly, I blame the Canadian. Picture the scene: it's mid-afternoon in The Bottle Shop. There is a lull. Late is idly surfing the net on the shop's rickety old computer, trying to find something to buy his beloved.


Me: Candy g-string - tacky... roses - boring... chocolates - boring... adopt an otter - bizarre...


Vinnie: What you doing, man?


Me: Fishing off the end of Brighton pier.


Vinnie: (peers at the screen for a few seconds) No you're not.


Me: That, Benjamin, was sarcasm.


Vinnie: Ah, yeah, I've heard of that. Lowest form of wit, right?


Me: No, the lowest form of wit is the ITV sitcom. Now can you leave me alone, I've got work to do.


Vinnie: Looks to me like you're shopping for (reading from the screen) "a his 'n' hers chocolate thong with a free pack of Kamasutra playing cards".


(I quickly navigate away from that particular web page).


Me: If you must know, I'm trying to find something different to get Lucy for Valentine's Day.


Vinnie: Well she sure as shit won't want a... "delightfully silly and edible liquorice whip".


Me: Who buys this crap? Well, that's it. I haven't got a fucking clue what to get her.


Vinnie: (pointing at the bottom of the screen) What about that?


Me: "Tandem bungee jump. A thrilling, adrenaline packed experience for anyone with a daredevil nature." I don't have a daredevil nature. I have a stay-home-with-a-bottle-of-wine-and-a-pizza nature.


Vinnie: Yeah, but Luce does have a daredevil nature.


Me: And how.


Vinnie: So do it. C'mon, man. Do it. Do it. Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it.


Me: If I do, will you stop saying "do it"?


Vinnie: Sure. Do it do it do it do it do it do it do it do it do it do it do it.


Me: Okay okay okay.


And with a few clicks I was the proud owner of "the ultimate thrill for crazy couples". Romance truly is dead - cause of death: severe trauma and internal haemorraging after Romance plummeted 170ft with some glorified knicker elastic tied around its ankles.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Martinborough Pinot Noir 2003 (New Zealand). An invigorating wine with plentiful vanilla and spice flavours. Chosen because it comes from the godforsaken country that invented bungee jumping in the first place, and because it is the same colour as the pool of blood in which I fully expect to find myself come Monday. £16.99
9.2.05 14:29


Boing

Flashback to February 14th, 1999. It is 11am on a sunny Sunday morning. Your narrator is clattering about in his fully-fitted kitchen, making a romantic Valentine's Day breakfast (scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice, strawberries, champagne) for Nell, the love of his life, who is upstairs in bed, indolently reading the Observer. As Late arranges the food on a tray, he is acutely aware of the small box in his back pocket. A box that contains a few grand's worth of diamond-and-emerald engagement ring. In a few moments he will go upstairs, lay the tray on the bed, get down on one knee and ask Nell to spend the rest of her life with him. She will say yes.


Seven months later, Nell will call off the wedding. By phone. She will not return the ring. Your narrator will lose his mind, his job, two stone in weight and his fully-fitted kitchen.


 


Flash forward to February 14th, 2005. It is 11am on a windy Monday morning. Your beloved narrator is shivering at the top of a crane in deepest Essex, while the wind whips around his ankles and a strapping Kiwi called Chris straps him into a harness.


Chris: You're lucky, mate. If it got any windier than this we'd have to close the jump.


Late concludes that this must be a definition of "lucky" of which he was hitherto unaware. The only thing that is stopping him from demanding to be taken down to ground level right now is the fact that he is strapped tightly to the new (and true) love of his life, who is positively wriggling with delight and excitement. If he weren't so shit-scared, Late would be rather enjoying this. For a fleeting moment he considers whether Lucy would object to some bondage in the bedroom. Then he remembers what he is about to do, which quickly drives all amorous thoughts out of his head and replaces them with abject fear.


Lucy: This is the best present ever. I'm so excited. Aren't you excited?


Me: Mmph.


(Wherein "mmph" translates as "no, I'm terrified").


Lucy: We're not that high. Take a look. Aren't you even going to open your eyes?


Me: No, I think I might just keep them shut for the time being.


The last strap is tightened on the harness. A few words of encouragement from Kiwi Chris (drowned out by the blood that is pounding in your narrator's ears) and the lashed-together couple shuffle crablike to the edge of the platform. Late risks a quick peek. The ground is very far away. He lets out an involuntary whimper.


A countdown. And suddenly your narrator is screaming earthwards, Lucy laughing maniacally in his ear. Then twang! The bungee rope reaches its limit and the pair lurch into the sky. Gravity gets irritated by this, and so down they plunge again. Up, down, up, down, until Late vows never to be cruel to a yo-yo again. After a few nausea-inducing seconds, the lovers are lowered gently to the ground and are released from their harness by another strapping Kiwi, name unknown. Lucy is euphoric; Late is sick all over his shoes.


 


I wanted to give my live-in lady a token of my love. According to Lucy, flinging myself bodily from the top of a 170ft crane is "the most romantic thing anyone's ever done" for her. Mission accomplished, then. And next year she's getting a dozen roses.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Vouvray 2003 (France). An eminently quaffable, dry and fruity everyday wine that is perfect for knocking back in one go after you've just risked life and limb in some ill-conceived, overblown romantic gesture. £4.99
16.2.05 13:11


Casanunder

And continuing our ongoing theme of romance, it appears that my thespian doppelganger is playing Casanova in a new BBC drama.


I feel slightly hurt that they didn't ask me first.


 


David Tennant and Late Bland - separated at birth?


It really is an uncanny likeness, you know. Except for the hair. And the clothes, obviously. And the successful career. And you won't see me on any billboards. But apart from that, we could be twins.


 
16.2.05 15:44