Excuse me, can I just have two minutes of your time Sir?

Now as you may or may not know, I got married during the close season (that’s the bit in-between last season and this season). As a result of this I’ve made a pledge to my fellow writers/sellers/ne’er do wells at Mudhuts Towers. I’ve made the same promise to my close friends and family, and it’s this. It’s that I will spend less time getting bent out of shape about the activities of others. No more will I get hypertensive and tachycardic at fucking idiots whose mere existence is seemingly set to serve one purpose and one purpose alone. That being to make my life in-fucking-tolerable!

You can drop your chewing gum on the pavement, I care not a jot. Be my guest and slurp your coffee and chomp your food like a scruffy dick, not a problem. You can even let me hold the door open in the local chemist whilst putting the pram with my daughter in it to one side to allow you in with your pram. Then, as I expect a return of the compliment or even a simple thanks, you can just walk through, letting the door shut on me and my daughter as you saunter away, unaware of my kindness let alone my existence.

You know what? I’m okay with it all, I am unfazed by anything that life has to throw at me. Why would I be? I’m a newly wed and the new season is here, what more could I want?

However, whilst walking through town the other day this do-gooder felt the need to ask me a question. Now it wasn’t something offensive, or for that matter was it something that I hadn’t been asked before. In fact I’ve grown all too accustomed to being asked the same bastard question over and over.

“Excuse me, can I just have two minutes of your time please Sir?”

“No you fucking well can’t as it happens!” I retorted in my mind, as I deftly manoeuvred myself away with all the grace of a young Rudolf Nureyev to get to Wigan Wallgate and on my train.

The only two minutes you’ll be getting sunny jim will be the two minutes needed to put my fucking size 12’s on your head in Wigan baths and end your constant questioning. What is it with these people that they feel the need to assault me every time I try to get from A to B across my own town?

You see my friends I’m not a mean spirited man. Moi? Non! I’m all for charity but not when I get hassled to involve myself in it every fucking day. Not only that, but the whoppers who are trying to acquire my business are reason enough not to give to charity again. If it’s not some idiot being whacky in a fucking rubber suit, then it’s some scruffy student with fuck all better to do. Only maybe getting a job would be a good idea eh you work shy fop? But why would you bother to do that when you can get me to pay taxes to fund your fucking fees, whilst you sit up the student bar supping bitter that I have paid for whilst you slag me off for not signing up to the charity you’re representing in a piss poor manner!!
Standing there with your “MIND” t-shirt on with no fucking knowledge about what you’re talking about. I would fucking love to say “here pal, MIND this” as I throw your tub of natural yoghurt and cucumber in your scabby, bum fluffed bearded fucking face. THAT I’M FUCKING PAYING FOR!

And it doesn’t stop there. No my friends, that’s only the beginning, the real fun starts when you get to work. It’s “I’m collecting for this. . . .” or “I’m doing a sponsored shitathon for the fluoridisation of Zimbabwean political prisoners of conscience fucking teeth”. It never, ever, ends. . . and how enthused we all are that we can do our bit, whether we want to or not. Like I said I have nothing against charity. . . . . . . .

On the theme of work I must mention the fucking collection. Some bastards will collect for anything. You’ve hurt your leg playing football? Let’s start a collection. You’ve just become a parent? Let’s start a collection. You’ve trapped your cock in your zip? Let’s start a fucking collection! I’ve recently stopped collecting my wages and have asked for them to be divided equally between my colleagues, so they can pay for presents for the sufferers of broken nails and for a fresh water well in Leigh.

I shouldn’t complain though. The collection they got together at work for my wedding gift netted me £200 and I’m sat wearing most of it whilst I’m typing this. Well they do say charity begins at home.


Dirrrrty “the honeymoon’s over” Old Man