On sex with a slightly fat man

Yielding to the cycle of guilt, hunger, and McDonalds (oh the vortex!), the slightly fat man builds himself a vile home.

‘You see, at the heart of sex lies a contradiction. The show of abandon and the reality of forethought embodied and emphasized by the prophylactic’ I’m sittin’ w’ Claire in a McDonald’s on an Industrial estate. Claire has just made a complaint about my crying during sex, which she claims kills the mood like a dog in a cattery. ‘It [the sex act] is a symbol of the temporary, and if you don’t find that either deeply sinister or profoundly sad, then you are the one who needs professional help’. I’m watching her leave the carpark in a (Mc)flurry of spinning Nissan wheels and raised (index) fingers. I look to my right at a man with Down’s syndrome who has been watching all. ‘Do you know what I mean though?’ He doesn’t know what I mean. And let’s be honest nor do I.

I set about finding the best value product on the menu in terms of calories per pound sterling, with aplomb. Aplomb turns to reckless abandon. Reckless abandon turns to a smashed Casio scientific calculator. A smashed… to an arrest. Blah, blah, yada yada, you’ve heard it all before. ‘Fucccckkkkkk’ I scream, and dramatically. (Large coke)

Heading over to PC World; I’m out of control. The mood I’m in, I’ll end up like buying a £50.00 mouse/keyboard gaming combo or some shit. It is times like this that I am liable to have a major relapse into over dependence on World of Warcraft. Stop. Count to ten. Remember what we say at the meetings (which incongruously take place inside the on-line world). I’m in PC World and calming down. I’m pretending to be considering buying a MacBook Pro in order to check the internet. A man comes over asking too many questions. I keep him busy with an enquiry about mains power adapters. He perseveres. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’. ‘Alright, I don’t really want to buy one I just want to check the fucking internet, Listen mate, I worked here for ten years, I’ve spent shed loads in this place’. I leave £1500 poorer. ‘Most expensive fucking internet cafe ever’. ‘You really didn’t have to… I was just trying to help’. ‘Yeah right, help… my arse’.

The automatic doors part in a sort of parody of Moses and the Red Sea, and I decide to go into Pets World (as far as I’m concerned it is effectively a free zoo) to Chill Out. In a spectacularly unfortunate turn of events, I am again harassed by a shop worker. I walk out of the automatic doors, MacBook Pro in my left arm, Flemish Giant rabbit in my right arm. I look up at the sky and shake my fist. ‘What have I done to deserve this?! Have I not been a good man? Have I not insisted on tipping in inverse proportion to meal cost so that the poor souls at McDonald’s get something and the relatively lucky devils at Pizza Express get a fairer cut?’. And then, just as I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I shit myself.

Figure 1. Sergeant Harold.

A shatting myself of biblical proportions (hat tip Michael Buerk (via @MichaelBuerk)). I also wet myself. I lay on the floor soiled and humiliated. Even the (genuinely huge) rabbit looked embarrassed. I felt sorry for the rabbit for having me as an owner. Oh well, no use crying over pooing your pants in an industrial estate, with a massive rabbit watching.

Tonight, I’m getting home, logging straight into World of Warcraft and entering a giddy dream of lager and Doritos.

Best regards,