You know, there’re always stupid prats in life who say “life is a lottery and you’re a winner if you’re born in Britain”. That’s what my therapist told me just the other day, trying to talk like I’d had more than my fair share. Bollocks to that. All I have to do is look in the mirror to see I’ve got far more than my fair share.
God knows how people put up with it?... I mean, I made that mistake the other morning; I gave myself a full gander over after a shave. (shudders) Didn’t like what I saw, and who would? I’m no nutter, I know I’m a fat old baldy with the charm of a blunt pencil. Here, take a closer look. See these big blue patches under my eyes, that’s forty years worth of Ale and Bensons right there. Oh, by the way, do you mind? (lights Benson)
Anyway, all that’s just cause and effect, I’m no fool. There’s the double chin for all the pasties, and this funny red patch on my forehead; that’s been there ever since I thrashed old Clive at pool... ha ha ha... Not a bad pool player, but hell of a sore loser and a sick old git now I can tell you. (relaxes into the chair and chugs beer)
Ok, so you must be thinking the lottery of life hasn’t been all bad to me. Yeah, of course you’d be right I suppose, I’m the first to admit that. I’ve got more in the way of flab, there’s no denying that, but I’ve also got a hell of lot more zeros in my back pocket, you know what I mean. Yeah. (he winks and chugs beer)
Well, it’s easy to think money means an easy life; sure I can go out and have a slap up Tandoori, leave a big tip so they don't forget, and get a taxi home; I can even buy the wife a new wig if she’d ever let me; and I’ve had my fill of the bloody Costa del Sol. It’s true, really that does all come down to luck and nothing else, ‘coz I never worked that hard, just had a good run of it; you know, a friendly accountant, buy him a few drinks now and then, and the best of British men and women playing housey. They’ll always need shelves putting up, and the living room will always need a new lick of paint from time to time. And don’t forget gardening, that’ll never die out, not in Britain, never, and not while Bez’s wife's got anything to say about it anyway... (chuckles) So there’ll always be fences and conservatories and patios that need seeing to.... So the point is, I’m doing alright...
Hmmm... (scratches forehead), where was I?... (chugs beer)
So anyway, that therapist bloke was trying to make some clever point or other, but he had it all wrong. “John,” he said, “you came to me because you have a problem.” “Bollocks”, I said, “I came to you to please the wife, I don’t have a problem, just a belly the size of North Yorkshire that can’t say no to a Guinness.” “But John,” he said, “what about all those trips you were telling me about?” “Oh, those trips,” I said, knowing full well what he meant and smiling for it just to think, wondering if he was jealous, you know. (winks).
And maybe he’d be interested, who knows? We could have come to an understanding, just like my accountant. But no.. silly git just looked at me like I was Roy Chubby Brown himself when I said I only came to him to please the wife, and god knows why I bothered, she doesn’t do ‘owt to please me.
Oh, you look like you don’t quite know what I’m talking about, Ok, I get it... Jesus John get a grip... I should really just get busy or get me coat...
(chugs beers and jiggles head from side to side like a boxer to regain composure)
OK, that’s it John....
So what I’m saying is; It’s all very well saying you’ve won the lottery of life and all that bollocks, but when you’re sitting at home with a can of Best, a fag in your mouth and your fingers fiddling in a packet of Walkers, and the most you’ve got in the way of entertainment are those rare occasions when his majesty Roy chubby Brown himself occasionally happens to stop by at the Apollo, you’re basically screwed. Because the rest of the 364 days of the year you’ve got to settle for Emmerdale or Corrie or whatever, and even the lads are always busy watching Emmerdale or Corrie or whatever, locked up with their missus’s. If you’re lucky on Saturdays it’s a bit of Strictly Come Dancing and a tickle with the missus after you’ve ladled her with Baileys and Buriani. Now there’s nothing wrong with that don’t get me wrong, apart from the burps... And I do love my old dear, but she’s just like me; she’s an old plumper whose had one too many chugs. That’s why we’re together for Christ’s sake... (puts out Benson and takes big chug)
(coughs) So what am I saying, hmmmm..... (coughs again, heavily) I think I said it like this to the therapist bloke, though he didn’t take me too seriously. You know he’s the kind who wears those little tweed jumpers and those funny little glasses teachers used to wear without the ear bits; I think you call them a “pincey ness” or something. Prat thinks he’s got nouse. Anyway, he wouldn’t see it from my side, so I don’t see the point of going back to him. He’s never going to understand why, and he’s never going to come out here to try it for himself, to see what I’m talking about, so he’ll never get it. You know what I’m talking about don’t you? What’s your name again? “Knock” isn’t it? Right? Yeah, well, nice knockers anyway... (begins to giggle uncontrollably).
(chugs beer, just managing to recover self) Well you’re a nice bird, that’s what I meant. (laughs again and is hit hard in shoulder) OW!!
Look, OK, sorry, (coughs) I know you don’t understand me, and that’s OK, understanding’s overrated let me tell you.... but, well, what I’m saying is, I love Bangkok, I love all you girls and you can have all the money you want, all I've got... Here see... (Opens wallet to show wads of cash)
Shit I know I’m as ugly as a fucking bulldog. (downs the rest of his beer) Jesus, blabbing away like this’s all I can do to stop thinking about it. Ever since I got off the bloody plane this morning.... OK, that’s enough John.... Look, here you go, have another glass on me, just please let’s get on with it; run the bath, and get your tits out... Just shut me up will you love.