Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) (5 page)

BOOK: Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir)
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I’ve settled for the fairly stress free option of buying him a bottle of whisky every year. He may not appreciate it, but he’s normally so pissed by the time I talk to him, it
sounds
like he does.

A small, guilty part of me thinks I’m turning him into a raging alcoholic. I’m convinced at some point he’s going to decide I’m trying to kill him in order to get my hands on an inheritance.

I might swap to cigars in the next couple of years. Give his liver a rest and his lungs a wake up call.

My mother, bless her, is grateful for whatever I buy and I love her for it. She keeps
everything
.

There’s a dusty box in her bedroom closet that contains Christmas cards written by me at the age of seven.

I had a look through them once. It disturbed me that my handwriting hasn't improved much.

 

Much like my father, I have a distinct inability to show gratitude when I receive an unwanted or ridiculous gift. I have a big problem with what I like to call the
post-unwrap pause
.

This is the time when you’ve successfully unwrapped the present enough to see what it is and registered the fact it’s the worst present in history. You then have to fake a look of gratitude at the wizened old carbuncle of a grandmother who bought it for you.

It’s very difficult.

I find myself making a rather high-pitched keening noise, accompanied by my face twisting horrendously into something approximating joy and surprise.

I’ll then come out with a comment along the lines of:

‘Oh! Thank you, Gran! I was just thinking the other day it’d be nice to write and listen to the radio at the same time.’

To me, I sound about as convincing as Hermann Goering’s defence lawyer at the Nuremberg trials, but she seems to take what I’m saying at face value, concludes the festive transaction with a kiss, and a short anecdote about how she was passing The Gadget Shop, saw the offending item in the window and immediately thought of me.

 

It’s a lot easier to open presents when the giver isn't in the room with you. You can safely express your feelings about the quality and suitability of your new possession by swearing at it, or burying it at the bottom of the garden beneath the miniature gnome.

Bearing this in mind, I’ve resolved to open my annual Christmas haul from now on in the toilet with the door locked.

 

 

 

 

 

10.42 pm

8907 Words

 

 

I tend to find shopping in general to be something of a trial, even if it's for me.

This is particularly true when I’m hunting around for a large, expensive item, like a car or holiday.

The more money you’re spending, the more stressful the job becomes, because you know it’s a big decision. You’ve saved for months and want to know you’re getting your money’s worth, don’t you?

I have virtually no problem with small stuff, like scanning the racks of HMV for a blu-ray, or picking out a new pair of jeans in the Gap.

Big items are a totally different matter.

 

Time for another anecdote:

I’m thirty two and thinking of buying a new car.

The Volvo I’ve been nursing around for eight years has finally reached the end of its days. I know this because every time I turn the steering wheel, it knocks like the knees of a nervous chorus girl.

When I switch the engine off, the whole car makes a dispirited groaning noise, before settling back on its worn suspension like an old man collapsing into his arm chair after a hard day’s shuffleboard with the lads down the working men’s club.

I buy all the right car magazines and pour through them, looking at pages and pages of automobiles.

I talk to my wife, telling her all about the type of car I’d like, showing her pictures I’ve ringed with a highlighter.

There’s something in the male psychology that responds to the internal combustion engine - even men like me, who have little or no appreciation of how the thing works.

My wife looks at the highlighted cars, listens calmly to me going on about the one I want and then tells me the type of car I’m actually going to
have
.

I want a sports car you see, one with fat tyres and an engine that sounds like a lion with a chicken bone stuck in its throat.

Something vaguely resembling a penis would be corking, too…

My wife just wants one in a nice burgundy colour, reliable and cheap to run.

There’s all the evidence you need for why men and women are very different creatures… and why women tend to win arguments like this.

With the options narrowed down to something burgundy and big enough to carry one man, one woman, one small child and the three tons of baby equipment that go with him, I set off for the local garages on a car hunting expedition.

It doesn’t go well.

I find nothing I like in the budget I have - certainly nothing in burgundy anyway. I return home dispirited and contemplate another few months of nursing the Volvo around trying to ignore the knocking.

The next day, I try again.

The wife comes this time, automatically making it twice as bad an experience.

This is not to say she does anything wrong, it’s just that:

Man + Woman in car for four hours with conflicting ideas = Hell on Earth.

Chuck the baby into the mixture and Hell on Earth can’t even begin to describe it.

This day is a failure as well and I starting to twitch every time I drive past a burgundy car.

Eventually - at nearly five o’clock - we’re preparing to go home.

I’ve smoked a pack of cigarettes, she’s got a face like thunder and Tom has dropped a load in his shorts, making the Volvo not only drive like shit, but smell like it too.

We’re headed in the direction of home, visiting one last garage on the way back. It’s small, independently run, with only a tiny entry in the Yellow Pages.

We roll past it… and I spot automotive
Heaven
.

The car might as well have been surrounded in a halo of bright, white light with angels sitting on the bonnet waving at me.

A buzzing neon sign should have been hovering above it, saying
Buy me, Spalding!

It’s the car I want. The car I
must
have!

 

We’ll leave me sat in the Volvo salivating for the moment to take a brief aside:

At that time in life – thirty two and a new father - I’m harbouring a desire for one of those cars corporate businessmen drive.

I’ve just started working at a marketing company and while I’m not massively swayed by the image thing, I feel something along the lines of a BMW or a Mercedes would give me the right kind of look that an important go-getting marketing superstar should have.

 

And there it sits!

Perfection - or as near to it as my bank balance will let me get.

It’s a BMW 5 Series, up for the asking price of £6000.

While it’s not burgundy, it is a deep shade of red. Close enough to please the wife’s aesthetic sensibilities.

The squeal of the Volvo’s brakes echo along the street as I turn sharply into the garage forecourt.

The sound of my wife’s protests ring in my ears, forming a two-part harmony with the rapid-fire knocking of the Volvo’s steering column. Tom begins crying in the back in great gasping wails.

The combined din creates a symphony of distress only a deaf person could love.

The Volvo bucks over a bump at the entrance and exhaust fumes billow out impressively. It’s like something out of a really action-packed episode of 24 – without the shouting, complicated electronic gadgets and man bag.

I park the car - which groans as I turn the ignition off - and jump out like I’m auditioning for a part in a Bruce Willis movie.

The grin of a six year old boy spreads across my face as I approach the BMW (alright, I sprint up to it like an idiot) and take in its automotive majesty.

The wife gets out of the car, leaving Tom to wallow in the stench of his latest creation and comes to stand beside me, knowing full well getting much sense out of me is going to be like pulling teeth.

‘You like it then?’ she says, arms crossed and stoic expression on her face.

‘Yeah. Yeah. I really do! It’s fantastic!’ says the six year old, trapped in my thirty two year old body.

‘It’s a bit pricey, isn’t it?’ she points out, a frown appearing.

‘We can afford it. We can!’ says mister six year old, his legs starting to tremble with excitement. ‘Look! It’s a BMW!’

‘Yes, I can see that. What with the car’s badge being two feet in front of me and everything.’

‘I’ve always wanted a BMW!’

‘Have you really? I’d never have guessed.’

My wife’s thinly veiled sarcasm is lost on me as I begin to look around the car, checking all the things I can remember are important at times like this:

Rust on the bodywork and wheel arches, condition of the tyres, signs of welding… and so on and so forth.

I almost look as if I know what I’m doing to the casual observer.

I don’t of course, but I can stroke my chin thoughtfully and tap bits of metal right up there with the best of them.

All practical considerations go right out the window when I look at the interior and spot the leather upholstery.

It looks extremely comfortable and it’s large enough in there for a family of illegal immigrants to live in.

There also appears to be an on-board computer, which I can see myself playing with endlessly.

The car doesn’t really look much like a penis and the tyres are only moderately fat, but I can already hear the growling engine note in my head. 

The Germans make very good cars, there’s no doubting that.

I came up with a Spalding Theory ™ on this a while back and here it is:

 

Horrendous War Crimes Equal Well Made Automobiles.

 

Think about it…

The Germans - instigators of two world wars and some of the worst cruelty ever inflicted by man, and the Japanese - who tortured POWs, made forced labour marches and butchered half of China in the 1930s.

Both countries produce attractive, well built motor cars:

BMW, Audi, Mercedes, Volkswagon, Honda, Mitsubishi, Subaru, Nissan.

This is opposed to the so called ‘good guys’ of world conflict, who do the exact opposite.

The Americans produce wallowing trifles on wheels that suck gas and can’t take a corner. The French make cars that are largely plastic, have trim that falls off in five minutes and break down nearly as quickly.

And as for the British motor industry… I think that was declared clinically dead in 1985. If you’ve ever driven an Austin Montego, I pity you and can recommend some excellent therapists.

I don’t know if any of this is relevant, but it’s something to ponder, eh?

 

Regardless of how the Germans behaved in the war, they make a damn fine BMW 5 Series. The Bavarian Motor Works company have really come up trumps on this one.

I want this car. I want it
now
!

‘We’d better find someone,’ says the wife, consigned to the fact her husband has regressed twenty four years and a BMW will soon be sitting on the driveway.

As if on cue, out saunters the salesman. He’s dressed in a suit bought for too much money off the rack, a pair of the shiniest shiny shoes you’ve ever seen and an orange tan from his two weeks contracting STDs in Ibiza.

He has a look in his eye.

The kind usually reserved for big game hunters when they spot the last elephant in the area minding its own business at the waterhole.

‘Hello there, sir. Can I help you?’

Well of course you can help me you idiot! You can make my dreams come true!

‘Yes. I think you can. I’m interested in this BMW.’ I’m trying to sound cool. I’m trying to sound aloof. I’m trying to sound like an adult. And I’m nearly succeeding. All that’s ruining the effect is that my voice has gone up a couple of octaves and I’m jigging back and forth on the spot like a morris dancer with haemorrhoids.

‘Yeah? Good choice, sir. It’s only been on the forecourt for a day. Already got someone interested in it, but I’m sure we can come to an arrangement, sir.’

He may be saying
sir
but he’s thinking
chump
.

He’s smiling like the Cheshire cat.

He’s metaphorically rubbing his hands together and laughing like a villain from a Batman comic.

To him, I look like a giant lemon holding a fistful of money.

I notice none of this.

We then proceed to have a very manly discussion.

We talk of previous owners and mileage. We expound at length on service history and reliability.

He tells me the car is
genuine
and
honest
, like he’s describing the characteristics of a man he met in a bar and not a lump of inanimate metal.

I nod my head sagely and remark on how the Germans always make good cars, despite their international human rights record.

My wife has by this time returned to the car, where she’s trying to entertain my rapidly tiring son.

The salesman suggests a test drive. I nod so hard it gives me a headache.

I persuade the wife to come along, so she can share in the glory of the leather upholstery and smooth ride.

The salesman gives me the keys and we all pile in.

I ignore the anxious looks he keeps throwing at my son on the back seat. He’s no doubt terrified that at any moment Tom is going to vomit all over the BMW’s expensive leather interior. I could’ve assured him that if it were ever going to happen, it would only be well after I’d bought the car and the family was two hundred miles up the M25 on a bank holiday weekend.

I start the engine and it purrs into life.

Driving out of the forecourt I feel like a king and proceed to drive the BMW around the local area, resisting the impulse to wave graciously at passers-by.

During all of this I don’t even think to ask any questions, or check the quality of the electrics, suspension, lights or gears. I’m totally mesmerised by the lovely LCD on-board computer display, the miles-per-gallon gauge and the power steering.

BOOK: Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir)
6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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