Pillow fight

Hello? Anyone there?


Late ambles nonchalantly into his blog, switches on the lights, flicks dust off the keyboard, finds a half-eaten Mars bar. Scrapes off the worst of the mould and declares it lunch.


Okay. Shall we get the excuses over and done with?


Late clears his throat theatrically, then takes up an attitude of abject contrition.


Jesus, guys, I'm so sorry I haven't written anything for three months. I got trampled by an elephant, then my ears fell off and I contracted scrofula and was kidnapped by the mujahideen and forced to represent them at the Axis Of Evil Ballroom Dancing Championship in Tehran. I came a poor fourth (but I think that the North Koreans had performance-enhancing sequins).


Late notices a degree of scepticism in his reader(s).


Alright. Maybe that's not exactly true (although there was a moment when I thought I had scrofula, but it just turned out that I'd fallen asleep face-down in some muesli after a particularly heavy night).


To be honest, the past few months have been rather blissful - and we all know what a blog-killer happiness is. I did have a wobbly moment back in June when I turned 36 ("I can't be 36!" raged my inner voice, "That's nearly.... choke... F-O-R-T-Y! Where in the name of sweet suffering fuck has my youth gone?"), but a very long, very dirty weekend in a Brighton hotel with la belle Lucy quickly reassured me that I still have the stamina of a 35-year-old.


Speaking of birthdays, my father turned 70 yesterday (check out that segue, folks). Lucy was up in Preston visiting her sister and thus it was that I alone was summoned to the Bland familial home for one of my mother's 5-course extravaganzas (well, she didn't get to be a size 22 by eating celery. Thank god I've got a fast metabolism, else I'd surely have featured on a Trisha special ere now, being winched out of my flat by a crane). Uncle Quentin and Aunt Helen were also present, along with Mr and Mrs Jasper Bland , creating a special form of torture. Ordeal-by-pavlova, if you will. For example, Aunt Helen would witter on about how Jasper's doing this, Jasper's doing that, Jasper's going to be made Vice-President of the goddamn World. Jasper would look smug and feign embarrassment. Then the Question would come my way.


Uncle Quentin:  And what are your plans, Late?


Me:  My plans?


Uncle Quentin:  Yes, what are you doing next?


Me:  Um... Christmas.


Uncle Quentin:  ...?


Me:  Yes. Christmas. Then Christmas. Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, death.


A pause.


Father:  So, Quentin, how's the golf handicap?


Eventually they stopped asking me questions so I could concentrate on getting as drunk as possible. Which was pretty bloody drunk by the time the creme brulee was served. At which point my father (also a little tipsy) decided that it was the right time to talk about death. Pudding, mortality - I see the connection.


Father:  Of course, nowadays 70 doesn't mean 70 anymore - it's more like 60.


(Quentin, Helen and Jasper nod sagely. I snort in derision and pour myself more Rioja. My mother is too busy eating Helen's portion of creme brulee to take much notice. Nell is in the bathroom, probably reintroducing her lamb tagine to the porcelain if past form is anything to go by).


Father:  I'll still be going strong for years yet.


Quentin:  Hear hear!


Father:  (gettin maudlin) But if, God forbid, I should ever start losing my faculties, I've asked Jasper here to do the decent thing and put me out of my misery.


(Jasper looks misty-eyed. I put down my wineglass).


Me:  I'm sorry. What?


Father:  If the old mind goes, I want Jasper to put the pillow over my face.


Me:  You want Jasper to euthanize you?


Father:  Yes.


Me:  Why Jasper? Why not me?


Father:  Jasper's the only one in this family that has the killer instinct. I don't mean to offend you, Jasper m'boy.


Jasper:  Coming from you, Uncle, that's a compliment.


Me:  Just hang on one fucking minute. He's only you're nephew. I'm your son. If anyone's going to put the pillow over your face, it's going to be me.


Father:  Don't be silly. It's not in your nature.


Which is why yesterday lunchtime I found myself standing on a chair, brandishing a fish knife and screaming "I'll fucking kill you right now, old man!" at my 70-year-old father.


I really should avoid going home. It's not good for my health. Or, seemingly, for anyone else's.


 


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Rioja Reserva Imperial 1998 (Spain). Smells of mulberries and sloes, richer than your gran's best fruitcake. May make you want to eviscerate your father with the silver cutlery. £14.99


 


 


 
15.8.05 11:39


Rant

We've got a happy little family unit here at the Bottle Shop. Marxist Jim is the alarmingly belligerent grandaddy; I'm the benevolent pater familias; Lucy is... well, I'm not really sure what Lucy is, the benevolent pater familias' loopy girlfriend, perhaps; Vinnie is the funny little cousin from the colonies. And Dylan is the child that got kicked in the head by a horse. He is the Idiot Boy. I have begun to dread him opening his mouth because, apart from the fact that his voice is still breaking at the age of 20, it has become abundantly clear that nothing of any sense will ever come out of his flapping gob.


The vagaries of wine retail mean that there are very often longueurs where nothing much happens. Prior to Dylan's arrival in the shop, these periods (where boredom hangs in the air like a bad fart) would be profitably spent by building a fort out of wine boxes, say, or by inventing new games. It was during one such hiatus that the Poo Game was developed.


Lucy:  Okay, you've got to replace any word in the title of a Bond film with the word "poo".


Vinnie:  "A Poo To A Kill"? "Live And Let Poo"? "Poofinger"?


Me:  "Octo-poo-ssy"?


Hours of fun, I'm sure you'll agree. But since Dylan made the leap from weekend-worker to full-time member of staff, we have been subjected to what he calls his "conversational gambits" whenever a lull in trading occurs. These attempts at engaging his co-workers in debate are so thoroughly cack-handed that it takes all my willpower not to batter Idiot Boy to death with a bottle of Vouvray Demi-Sec. And for some reason, I seem to bear the brunt of his idiocy (probably because he is scared of Lucy and Vinnie spends all of his time plugged into his iPod). This morning I've already had him squeaking his abject nonsense in my direction.


Idiot Boy:  Late...


Me:  Yes, Dylan?


Idiot Boy:  If you were the father of a family, with one wife and two children, one aged eleven and one aged eight, and you had to have just one meal with all of your family every day for the rest of your life, which meal would it be and why? Would it be breakfast, lunch or dinner?


Me:  Do you honestly want to know, Dylan? Do you really want to know what meal I'd have with my imaginary family in some crazy fucking world where only one meal is permitted?


Idiot Boy:  Yes, Late.


Me:  Dinner, then.


Idiot Boy:  Ah, but why?


Me:  I don't know. Does it matter?


And thus I get drawn into pointless conversations that simultaneously ignite feelings of despair and homicidal rage that rack me to the very core of my being.


It's not only the conversational gambits that have won Dylan the title "Idiot Boy", however. He is also deeply, unremittingly ignorant. As well as his assumption that anyone non-white must have been born in sunnier climes, Dylan has treated us to the following pearls of wisdom:


During a conversation about food - "Gammon's a fish - right?"


When the back-room radiator was broken - "There's nothing wrong with that radiator, it's just not radiating any heat."


Talking about farmyard animals - "So what do you call a baby calf?"


On geography - "Glasgow is the capital of Wales."


On Northerners - "Up North, they all use brown beer bottles for rolling pins." (Upon being asked what he considered "up North", he replied "Watford").


The only possible response to such interminable idiocy is prolonged and scathing sarcasm. Unfortunately, Dylan does not understand sarcasm either.  He just looks blankly at you, flaps a little, then keeps talking. And then there's his fucking Crazy-Frog-trilling mobile, don't even get me started on that...


I fear that the next time you will hear of Late Bland, Esq. will be on a London Tonight bulletin, following his arrest for the brutal slaying (by crucifixion) of his flapping muppet of a co-worker. If this is the case, I will use this blog entry as evidence in my trial. Surely no judge in the land would convict me.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Vouvray Demi-Sec 2002 (France). A pleasant blend of richness and acidity for lovers of medium-dry wines, and with a good hefty bottle for those contemplating homicide. £6.99
16.8.05 11:35


Just call me Stanley

It's raining, and Dr Livingstone is back in the Bottle Shop.


We get a fair few eccentrics shuffling around the arcade. Often they are just your average shouter-and-gibberer, your bog-standard wild-eyed mutterer who smells of old biscuits and wee. Seedy Carl was one such derelict (albeit one with a particularly pungent aroma and an overriding obsession with fine wine). But every now and then somebody genuinely bizarre graces us with their presence. Dr Livingstone very definitely falls into this latter category.


He first wandered into the shop on a rainy Tuesday about a month ago. Just your everyday middle-aged, average looking punter, except in two (and I think you'll agree, quite major) respects - not only was he sporting the largest, most luxuriant handlebar moustache that I have seen outside of a Victorian lithograph, but he also had an over-sized pith helmet perched on his head.


I couldn't help myself.


Me:  Doctor Livingstone, I presume?


He looked at me blankly. I pointed at the helmet.


Me:  Doctor Livingstone... you know, the helmet?


He reached up slowly and gently touched the helmet, as if surprised to find it there, then let his arm drop back by his side. An uncomfortable silence descended, during which he stood very still and focused on a point somewhere above my left shoulder.


Me:  So... um... can I help you with anything?


Dr Livingstone:  It's raining.


Me:  I'm sorry?


Mutely, he pointed outside where it was, indeed, raining.


Me:  Do you want to buy some wine?


He pondered this, then shook his head. The pith helmet wobbled comically, and slipped down over one ear. Absently, he straightened it.


Me:  Are you sheltering from the rain?


The pith helmet inched down over his eyes as he nodded.


I considered the pros and cons of throwing him out of the shop. Pros - if I ejected him, I wouldn't have to field any questions from Marxist Jim of the "What the f**k is a guy in a f**king pith helmet doing cluttering up my shop?" variety. Cons - if he has a pith helmet, he may well also have the machete to go with it, and I happen to be very attached to all my limbs and assorted extremeties.


Me:  Well, okay, you can stay. But if a big, angry-looking bloke comes in can you at least pretend to be browsing?


He nodded again, readjusted his headgear, then proceeded to stand stock-still in the corner of the shop for the best part of four hours. I had almost forgotten he was there, when suddenly the rain stopped and the sun came out, galvanizing him into action - he straightened up, tipped his helmet to me and strode briskly out of the door, leaving your beloved narrator more than a little dumbfounded.


 


And now Dr Livingstone is back, standing by the New World wines like a refugee from Boy's Own Adventures while the rain beats against the shop windows. We really do attract a better class of nutter here at the Bottle Shop. Strangely, Marxist Jim is being quite reasonable about the whole thing.


Marxist Jim:  What is that f**ker doing? He's been staring at that f**king bottle of Sonoma Creek for the past half an hour.


Me:  He's... uh... browsing.


Marxist Jim:  Late, browsing by definition involves looking at more than one f**king bottle. Are you going to tell me what the f**k is going on with that c**t, or am I going to have to hold you upside down by the f**king ankles?


Me:  He's sheltering from the rain.


Marxist Jim:  But it's been raining all f**king morning.


Me:  Mm. Yeah.


Marxist Jim:  What, am I operating some sort of f**king drop-in centre for aqua-f**king-phobic Victorian explorers now?


Me:  It would seem so, yes.


Marxist Jim glared at me, then cast a suspicious glance across the shop to where Dr Livingston stood staring into space. Then he shrugged.


Marxist Jim:  F**k it, he seems harmless enough. But if he breaks anything, it's coming out of your wages.


That was earlier today. Dr Livingstone still hasn't moved and I'm considering using him as an umbrella stand. I sincerely hope it stops raining before closing time, otherwise he's going to find himself locked in the shop. And the last thing I want to see when I open up tomorrow is a moustachioed madman standing in a pool of his own piss.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Yalumba 'Y' Series Viognier 2004 (Australia). A dry, crisply peachy wine with a headily perfumed nose. The sort of wine the real Livingstone might have quaffed after discovering the source of the Nile. £6.99
24.8.05 13:51


Horseplay

I sometimes suspect that Lucy may have a tendency towards manic depression ("You reckon?" roar the assembled masses). Bone-rattling hyperactivity is followed by periods of deep gloom, which then burn away like clouds in a summer sky and suddenly she's bouncing on the bed again. It's all I can do to keep up.


She's been residing in the Slough of Despond for a couple of days now. I of course refer to the Slough from 'Pilgrim's Progress', rather than the Slough that lies off junction 15 on the M25. Although the two do share striking similarities, it has to be said. The reason for her melancholy? She's decided she doesn't like her boobs. Yes, Lucy thinks her breasts, those ripely rounded melons, those gravity-defying miracles of nature, are "too big".


Lucy:  I mean, look at them (she grabs a boob in each hand and jiggles them in my face).


Me:  Um, it's quite hard not to.


Lucy:  But what are they for?


Me:  Err... milk?


Which was the wrong answer, as it turned out. Now I happen to think that Lucy's boobies categorically prove the theory of intelligent design. Yes, this does require one to believe in a God who is not dissimilar to Benny Hill, but I'm pretty sure the Catholic Church can cope with that - for doth it not say in the Bible, "and lo, then Mary's top did fall off, and also Martha's. And Jesus did chase them all over Gesthemane to the sound of frantic comedy music until he did fall into a pond"? Well, no, it doth not. But it would certainly have livened up Sunday service if it had . Anyway, I digress. I think Lucy has marvellous mammaries. But just try telling her that over the past few days. There has even been talk about getting a breast reduction, at which point I began to panic slightly.


So the fact that she is currently clattering about the shop, banging two halves of a coconut together and pretending to be a horse, is a profound relief to me.


I have already mentioned in previous posts that my beloved is not really one for sleeping. For her, lie-ins are things that happen to other people. I have grown quite adept at slumbering through whatever it is she gets up to in the wee hours. For example, I was sleeping like a baby at 4 o'clock this morning when Lucy decided she was going to make coconut ice. And I admit, it was nice to wake up to a plateful of tooth-achingly sweet comestibles.

  Breakfast, today.


Less enjoyable is the noise she's currently making with the two halves of the coconut. Lucy is now claiming that her uncle used to be a foley artist.


Lucy:  He taught me everything he knows about making sounds. Check it out. A horse walking.


Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop.


Lucy:  The trot.


Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.


Lucy:  The canter.


Clippety-clop, clippety-clop, clippety-clop, clippety-clop.


Lucy:  And the gallop.


Clippetyclopclippetyclopclippetyclopclippetyclop.


And so on. The shop currently sounds like the inside of Princess Anne's head. It is only because I am so glad to see Lucy happy again that I am refraining from asking her to make the noise of a horse being shot through the head a la "Bolt" by Dick Francis (what do you mean, you've never read it?).


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Albarino Martin Codax 2004 (Spain). A delicate-yet-strong, perky and graceful white - just like a Lipizzaner Stallion only without the pervading air of creepiness. Clip-bloody-clop. £8.49
31.8.05 11:26