Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) (2 page)

Of course, I don’t mind at all if our relationship is dependent on your schedule. No doubt you have important things to do, important places to go and important people to meet. I’m quite happy to sit here and wait for you to come back when you’re ready to continue.

That makes me the ideal friend, I reckon…

I’m patient, understanding and won’t ignore you for weeks if I think you’re having too much fun without me.

I won’t borrow money, or return a DVD covered in peanut butter and dog hair that I borrowed six months ago for ‘just a couple of weeks, mate!’

I can’t buy you a drink in the bar, or give you a lift to work when the car breaks down, but I think the advantages outweigh the disadvantages for the most part.

Sit yourself back then and prepare for the roller-coaster ride that is my life. 

We’re going to have fun, you and I… and talk the night away.

6.28 pm

1369 Words

I’m putting in these time checks so I can keep track of how events proceed, and to create a few chapter breaks that’ll stop me rambling.

You’ll have to watch me, though.

If I do start waffling, poke me with the broken umbrella behind you.

Let’s get to know each other better then.

As there’s no way of me knowing your name, I’ll make one up. After all, you’re acting as my muse for this - and I need a name to put to my muse, don’t I?

I’ll keep it to myself if you don’t mind. It's more fun that way.

You know my name of course. It’s there on the front of the book.

Nick Spalding - like the tennis racquet.

Call me Nick, Nicholas or Nicky.

Just not
Nickle-Pickle
like my mother did until I was twelve. I hated it.

Perhaps a good way to start is telling you a bit about me:

I’m a man approaching his forties with the kind of dread usually reserved for prisoners on their way to the gallows. I’m constantly eyeing up the price of Grecian 2000 and nose hair-clippers.

The word
prostate
has taken on new and dark significance in my head and I have the doctor on speed dial, just in case.

You already know I’m a writer, but it might interest you to know I travel quite a lot because of it.

I went to New York for the first time recently, where I saw the memorial where the TwinTowers used to be and had a little cry to myself.

I live in the south of England, where the weather isn’t quite as bad, but the mortgage prices are high enough to give you a nose bleed.

We
still
complain about how bad the weather is, of course - we’re British, after all - though it hardly ever gets cold enough to freeze water in car radiators or unfortunate dogs to metal lamp-posts.

I watch an average amount of television, turning the sound down when the ads come on.

I’ve been married. It didn’t really agree with me much.

It didn’t agree with her either, but we managed to produce a healthy son between us, so things ran smoothly enough to accomplish that at least.

I don’t vote and still listen to music I should be ten years too old to enjoy.

I ignore health warnings about the food I eat and try to ignore the ones on cigarette packets.

I’m afraid of needles.

And for some reason - sponges.

I’m not a particularly sentimental man and never enjoy romantic comedies.

I spend too much time worrying about things that are beyond my control, but try not to let it depress me too much.

I once dressed up as a woman for a fancy dress party and thought the knickers felt quite comfortable.

That’s enough for now, I think. 

All a bit random I admit, but enough for you to get a rough idea of what your new buddy Nick is like.

Nothing too bad in there, eh? 

I don’t come across as a lunatic, as far as I can tell.

You’re going to learn a lot more about me as we go on, but that gives you a flavour… even if it is just vanilla.

We’ll add the tasty chocolate sprinkles as we go.

7.03 pm

1929 Words

Hey! Look at that.

An hour of writing done and that’s the introductions over with.

I’m hoping the time checks won’t be quite this frequent through the whole book, as it’ll mean the chapters are very short and Life… With No Breaks will be more novella than novel. I’ll have to fall back on some of the rude limericks I’ve heard in the past, just to pad the damn thing out.

Call that first bit the prologue, if you like.

Now it’s done and your appetite has been whetted, we’d better get to the good stuff quickly, before your interest wanes and that Discovery documentary you’ve got running on mute in the corner of the room starts to divert your attention away from our burgeoning relationship.

There’s nothing worse than reading a book and having your mind wander.

Sign of a bad writer… and a worse book.

So let’s keep your mind focused on me and ignoring what new facts Discovery have unearthed about Hitler.

…actually, I love a bit of Discovery Channel.

I’ll watch almost anything they screen if I’m in the mood.

I find the shark documentaries particularly fun to watch, even if it’s just for the gory bits.

Don’t you think that’s the reason why we watch shows like that, when you get right down to it?

We may pretend to ourselves - and others - that we’re fascinated with the mating rituals of Basking sharks, but we’re actually hoping for grainy amateur footage of some poor bastard being mauled by an irate twenty footer… basking or otherwise.

It’s in all of us to one degree or another: the desire to see something awful - or at least strange and unexpected - happen to other people, played out in front of our eyes from behind that safest of barriers: the television screen.

You only have to look at the popularity of reality shows like Survivor and I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, to see that as far as humans are concerned, there’s nothing like witnessing other people’s misfortunes - and being glad
we’re not them
. 

It's great fun watching some has-been actor eating a wriggling cockroach, or looking on as a glamour model with the brains of an ice cube is forced into a metal box full of scorpions. It really gets the juices flowing.

And what about the Oprah Winfreys and Jerry Springers of this world?

Those shows are all about watching people air their dirty laundry in public.

We lap it up!

There’s nothing like spying into somebody else’s life for a good night’s entertainment. Especially if they’re cocking things up left right and centre – and paying the price for their blunders in a highly amusing fashion.

Extending that thought, what we’re engaging in here is along the same lines.

You’re reading a book written by a complete stranger, in a single session, all of it unscripted, unedited and - hopefully - honest.

Oh, I may check for spelling mistakes and narrative balls-ups when I’m done, but other than that, it’s straight from my keyboard into your brain.

By now - some nine pages and ninety minutes in - I’m hoping I’ve
grabbed
you.

With any luck you’ve got a definite interest in finding out what happens next and you'll hang out with me for a while, reading whatever comes spilling out of my head.

I want you to keep reading, and if that means delving into my murky past, then so be it!

Let’s see then. Shall we start with a nice embarrassing episode in the life of Spalding?

Something to set us on with a laugh and a smile?

There are quite a few to choose from…

I know. How about this:

I’m twenty two years old, at university and haven’t a care in the world.

My grades are good, my friends don’t call me Nickle Pickle behind my back and my bank balance is only slightly in the red.

I live in a pokey one bedroom apartment, wash my clothes when I remember to and eat nothing but beans on toast.

I’m never up early enough to hear the postman, but sometimes I’m out late enough to see him as I stumble home.

The horror of things like mortgages, taxes and interest free loans are but distant ships on the horizon of life.

Probably the most important decision in my life right now is whether to drink beer or spirits.

Naturally, I’m loving every minute of it.

I’m in that wonderful period between being a kid and a real adult, where I run my life the way I want - largely at the expense of the British government. This was a time when they still thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to saddle the workers of tomorrow with more debt than a small African country. 

What I really want right now is the blonde I keep seeing in the student bar every weekend. 

She normally stands near the pool table - the one with the unidentifiable stain on it that bares a striking resemblance to Abraham Lincoln - holding half a lager and chatting with her friends.

Her name is Callie.

I have no idea what this is short for, but it sounds enchanting to my ears regardless. I think she looks a little bit like Grace Kelly. But with bigger tits.

I have very little information about her, except she’s a year above me on the same degree course. I’ve also been informed by a friend that she once did a striptease in the student common room at Christmas, but as this friend also maintains his brother - who works in a fish and chip shop - once felt up Naomi Campbell at a cocktail party in London, I’m taking this information with a gigantic pinch of salt.

Not being much of a ladies man, it’s taken me several weeks to even think about plucking up the courage to speak to Callie.

And here she is.

At the same party as me
.

Gods be praised and we all sing hallelujah!

This makes things much easier. The daunting environment of the student bar has been replaced by the comfortable atmosphere of my friend Steve’s house… well, he’s more a nodding acquaintance than a friend - it’s one of those friend of a friend invites we all know and love.

Parties lend themselves more to relaxed conversation and I’m pretty sure I can spark one up with Callie without sounding like a hormonal sixteen year old.

It’s the perfect opportunity.

The stage is set and the show must go on.

Sadly, I’m drunk.

Very,
very
drunk.

I’ve been drinking since roughly three o’clock that afternoon, in the time honoured tradition of loafing under-graduates everywhere and it’s deep into evening by the time I realise Callie the Wonder Girl is in my general vicinity.

But never mind. Alcohol instils confidence!

It should be absolutely
no
problem to venture up to the young lady and charm the pants off her.

I have no doubt that sex of an epic nature is not too far off in the grand scheme of things - providing I can get past that annoying introductory phase we have to negotiate before carnal gymnastics can ensue.

Some back story before we continue, I think:

I was not at this time what you could call
sexually experienced
. My career as a lover amounted to two women and my right hand.

Neither was I experienced in the ways of alcohol consumption - something that would prove an important factor in the scene about to unfold.

An experienced drinker can be very drunk, but still have the where-with-all to hide his level of intoxication and perform as a functioning adult.

I wasn’t experienced and therefore had
no
chance.

At about ten o’ clock I realise Callie is at the party and what’s more, she doesn’t appear to be accompanied by a boyfriend.

There’s a few guys gathered around her, like bees around the proverbial honey pot, but the alcohol is assuring me they’ll be swept away once Spalding The Great enters the fray.

Bearing this in mind, I’ve worked out an opening gambit:

‘Hi. It’s Callie, right? You’re in the third year of my course. Can you give me a heads up what we’re doing next semester?’

Brilliant, eh?

Cool, easy-going and smooth.

Also shows a dedication to my studies, which makes me look like an intelligent guy. One who will help her produce strong and charismatic offspring.

Sadly, I never get the chance to use it.

Concentration is not one of the inexperienced drinking man’s strong points, especially when he’s passed the ten-pint mark.

Every time I think about using my wonderful ice breaker, my attention is diverted away like a magpie seeing something shiny at the side of the road. It’s either the promise of more alcohol, or a favourite song on the stereo that takes me away from the girl of my dreams.

Time slips by.

Ten o’clock rapidly sinks into eleven… and crawls towards midnight.

I’m not drunk by this time.

Oh, no, no, no.

I am
shitfaced
.

Referring back to what I said about alcoholic experience and control over oneself, I didn’t just mean control over the mind and emotions - I meant control over the body as well.

After ten pints, the section of your brain that spends its days making sure your bodily functions operate efficiently has buggered off for a nice soothing head massage, leaving you to fend for yourself.

The drunken man isn’t good at fighting the effect alcohol has on his complicated organic processes and tends to surrender quicker than a Frenchman in 1940.

Unpleasant things happen next.

I see the expression you’re making now. You know what’s coming, right? You think you’ve got things figured out!

You’re thinking your new pal Nick strolled up and was sick all over poor old Callie, aren’t you?

If only.

I didn’t vomit over her. It was much worse than that.