THE SECOND WORST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO ME - PART ONE

I got home, got a can from the fridge, switched the tele on, and crashed onto the sofa. It had been one of those days at work that seems longer and harder than it probably actually was. We had been swamped for the last week or so, and I was tired. My train ride home had been the venue for a game of "Who can annoy everyone else on this train the most?," by rival gangs of football supporters, a game in which, of course, no one ever wins. Everyone, participants and audience, just fall further into their own pit of despair for a variety of reasons. As a little preambular (and I may not be using that word correctly) aside, let's follow one of these guys on their way home.

 

His name is Roger. He hasn't been feeling much himself recently, due to his wife, Samantha, leaving him for a friend of hers from work. It only happened a couple of weeks ago, and he's still feeling very raw about it. He was really looking forward to today, and secretly doesn't care so much about the fact that *team name omitted* lost, as for him today was more about hanging out with the lads and managing to distract himself from everything for a while. It was a great day; everyone had been following the unspoken rule of male heartbreak in a group situation:- Don't talk about it and act like you normally would on any other day, but in private moments, let them know you're thinking of them and that you're there for a drink and an ear bend whenever it's needed, ok? Ok. Now, it's your round, you ponse. 

He'd met up with them at *pub name omitted* just after midday, to sink a couple before they made their way to the station. This train ride was the happiest moment of his last couple of weeks, as, with his mates around him, joking, chatting, anticipating the afternoon's match, it was the first time Roger hadn't felt lonely, and he caught himself having not been thinking about Sam, and thought that maybe everything might be alright after all. 

There is a sense of community and belonging among a football crowd that can make you act in a way you never would otherwise. You get carried away with the collective devotion and aggression. I'm sure that's why those mega-churches in America are so successful. It's less about what you actually feel and believe, and more about getting carried away in a moment, giving yourself in to the atmosphere around you. Being part of a crowd of like minded people, or people you share one single but very strong passion with can be totally intoxicating. Roger left his worries at the turnstile, and shouted, chanted, sang, cheered and despaired with everyone around him. 

This feeling carried on as they walked back to the station, drinking cans they'd got on the way, singing loudly at passers by, they had lost but were gonna let everyone know that they didn't care, and that *team name omitted* were still by far the greatest team the world had ever seen! They especially weren't gonna let that smug bunch of *team name omitted* fans on the train back forget it. 

Back at *pub name omitted* they let themselves be down about losing for one drink. Roger and his mates have a rule. If *team name omitted* lose, they're allowed to be "moody" about it for one drink. After that, they have to pick themselves back up, and enjoy the rest of their night. 

Roger got home at about 11.30. He hadn't been up for going to *bar/club name omitted* and as he sat down on his sofa after his long day, the house felt very empty. He had successfully managed to stave off loneliness for the day, and now it crashed in on him. He felt an overwhelming sadness...

 

I put "Take Me Out" on, as I wanted to watch something that would require no brain power. Television as wallpaper. Television as computer screensaver. The ones you used to get in the 1990's of exotic fish swimming or toasters with wings flying across the screen at different paces. The type of thing you realise you've been watching for about half an hour and can't remember when or why or how on Earth you started watching this thing and why you can't seem to stop either. Television as hypnosis. I sometimes wonder if Derren Brown has invented "Take Me Out" as part of some very elaborate experiment on me that my friends and family are a party to. Maybe that's arrogant of me though. Maybe it's an experiment that Derren Brown is doing on all of us. I don't think I can logically explain it's existence otherwise. Unless some tv producers just started watching old episodes of "Man O Man" and thought that what tv really needs these days is an updated version of that, but without the water and with Paddy McGuiness instead of Chris Tarrant.

What's Chris Tarrant up to these days? He's one of those people who seems to disappear from tv for a while, then come back with something huge and be everywhere. He's like the Daft Punk of tv presenters.

 

As a brief interlude, let's visit Chris Tarrant. Hi Chris. Oh, wait, he can't hear us. We're like the ghosts in "A Christmas Carol." Or "Scrooged." Or "A Muppet Christmas Carol."
Chris Tarrant is eating a bowl of pasta and watching the film "Die Hard 2" He has a glass of red wine. He has the house to himself, so is naked. Chris Tarrant is naked, sitting on his sofa with pasta and red wine. He's watching "Die Hard 2" on tele, rather than DVD, and it cuts to an advert break. Chris Tarrant sees a "Compare The Market" meerkat advert that he hasn't seen before. Chris Tarrant thinks it's funny, but then he is watching the worst Die Hard film, so what do you expect?
Chris Tarrant gets a text message from a friend. Chris Tarrant reads the text and then stares at his wallpaper, clearly affected by what he has just read. We cannot see what the text says. He goes to the bathroom. Even though he is alone, he still locks the bathroom door. He wouldn't normally do this. We hear Chris Tarrant let out a wail, then sob repeatedly, before it is time for us to leave. Sorry. We may never know why this has happened.

 

I finished my can and was about to get up to go to the fridge and get another, when suddenly Paddy McGuiness looked me in the eye, said, "Don't worry, pal, I'll get that for you," and climbed out of my television. He got two cans out of the fridge, gave one to me, sort of waggled the other in front of my face, saying, "Finder's fee," and sat on the other sofa. "I'm parched, " he said, cracking open the can and taking a few large gulps. The women on tele looked confused.

I assumed I was dreaming this, as on my journey to work that morning, I'd fallen asleep while doing a sudoku and had a dream similar to this, in which all the numbers came of the paper and went round the train telling everyone that I'm really rubbish at sudoku. Everyone was laughing at me. I'd realised I was dreaming, as when I started screaming, "Fuck off! All of you just fuck off!," everyone was staring at me a little concerned, and the numbers were all back on the paper.

"Are you real?," I asked Paddy McGuiness.

"I should hope so. Anyway, if I weren't, would I be able to do this.?"

He did that thing where you put your fingers over the knuckle of your thumb and pretend you're pulling your thumbtip off, when of course it's really just your other thumb all along. He could see I was unimpressed.

"Okay, what about this then?" He got up, stomped over to me, grabbed my arm and gave me a Chinese Burn. It really hurt.

"Don't ever doubt me again," he said, pointing a finger in my face, and went to sit back down.

 

The women on tele had gotten more confused by now. They were looking around them, expecting something to happen. A couple of them had started walking around the studio like they were searching for something. "They're probably wondering where I've gone," Paddy laughed, taking a packet of peanuts out of his jacket pocket, opening them and offering me some.

"No thanks."

"Oh, I see. Too good for peanuts, are you?"

"What? No, I just-"

"I bet you're ou're one of those bloody pistachio eaters, aren't you? I hate pistachios. I mean, what's the point of 'em? You end up throwing away about half of what you've flipping paid for. Where's the value there? Why can't they just sell you them already shelled, like normal nuts? Mind you, if they did, you'd know how little you're actually getting. People would realise they're being ripped off, and no one would buy pistachios any more. Well, apart from some toffs for some dinner parties, you know, to have with their caviar and foie gras. Foie gras? Foie Arse, more like. Do you like that stuff? I bet you do. People like you would eat a bit of bog roll someone had just used to wipe their backside with if someone started charging for it."

He went on like this for a while. I tried to ignore him, not rising to any of his goading, and I watched the women on the tele getting visibly more anxious and agitated at being trapped in a studio with no direction and no idea what to do with themselves.

Paddy started throwing peanuts at my head. "What are you even doing here?," I snapped at him.

"I thought you'd never ask! Ladies!" Paddy McGuiness snapped his fingers, and the women all stopped what they were doing and looked at him. "It's time to let the pearls see the swine!"

 

One by one, the women all climbed out of my television and formed a semi-circle around me. They looked fed up, probably because they were all squashed up very close to each other, as there really wasn't enough room in my living room for all this.

Paddy squeezed through two of them and asked them what they all thought of me then. They gave a variety of disappointed noises. He started to ask them one by one.

"So Kathleen, whadderyer reckon?"

"I wouldn't go out with him. He looks like a terrorist."

"Oh ho ho ho! That's not very nice, is it? What about you, Kirsty?"

"This place smells like rotten vegetables. When did you last clean up in here?"

"Wow! They are not liking you! Come on, Sandra, surely you've got something nice to say?"

"No. He looks like fucking Worzel Gummidge or something. Do you actually live here or are you squatting because you're homeless? When did you last wash? Do you even know what soap is? God, you're ugly."

This went on for quite a while.

 

I wanted to look out of the window, as I was getting quite agitated and I thought that looking out of the window might calm me down, but there were women in the way, so I ended up staring at a soup stain on my trousers instead. It was as if my eyes were cameras, zooming in slowly on the stain while the voices in the room slowly became the sound of tribal percussion. I wanted to dance, but I felt paralysed, so had to imagine myself dancing instead. I imagined that I danced out of the room, out of my front door and into the street. It was raining. I didn't care. I carried on dancing. Cars swerved as I danced my way into the middle of the road. I took off my clothes. The rain. The drumming. The release of energy. I felt at once tense and calm. Looking back I was having a sensory overload and it's a good job I felt paralysed as otherwise I would not have been able to stop my limbs from flailing wildly all over the place. I'd have probably hit someone. I wanted to dance. I was dancing. Was I dancing? I felt like I was going to be sick. I felt like my body was too big for my skin and I was about to burst, which is probably not long before I passed out.

 

The soup stain was a couple of weeks old. I had bought a cup of soup at a service station, minestrone in case you're wondering. It had come in one of those cups they normally use for cups of coffee, with one of those plastic lids with the tiny holes in that manage to keep whatever's inside scolding hot for ages, and no matter how many times you've used one, you will still on occasion burn yourself, because you will forget somehow that hot liquids tend to stay hot for quite a while. This is what had happened to me on that day. I screamed and soup flew back out of my mouth, all over the table. I hadn't noticed any had gotten on my leg until later that afternoon. I was at a funeral for my ex-wife's uncle, and everyone said that it was extremely inappropriate of me and that this was one step too far, especially after everything, and that I was cut off from Janet's family for good now.
When bad things happen I have a habit of wearing the same clothes I was wearing at the time, every day until I can forgive myself. It's probably what leads to things like the women in this room making negative comments about my appearance and my smell and my life.

 

I woke up on the floor. Paddy McGuinness was pointing at me.

"So, none of you want to go on a date with him, then?"

"No," they all shouted in chorus.

"Well that's a shame, because on this special edition Take Me Out, we're doing something a bit different. Paul here is going on a date with each of you over the next thirty days!"

"What?," I said, unimpressed.

"What?," they all said, even more unimpressed.

"That's right! Starting tomorrow night, Paul, you will be going on a date with each of these lovely ladies in turn." He squeezed his way back through to the fridge, got himself another can, and squeezed his way back to the sofa. "And I'm going to be staying here while you do to keep an eye on things."

"So I don't even get to go to Fernando's?"

"No."