Friday, 10 February 2012

Chunks of Hope.

It's been a tough few weeks. My boiler completely died just as the snow arrives, Griff Rhys Jones annoyed me personally (the fucking never been funny, arrogant, completely unlikeable prick) and I was called a sectarian by someone on Twitter just because I don't like Ian Paisley. That's a bit like being called a racist for not liking Jim Davidson or a cunt for not liking Griff Rhys Jones. Sometimes I just think "Why does bad stuff only ever happen to me?" Like last week, I was out for the night with Bennett Arron. As if that wasn't bad enough, a total dick spilled an entire tray of booze all over me. You don't know low until you're cold, wet, stinking of sherry and listening to "of course, if I was a woman they'd have commissioned it" for the millionth time.

But that's at least partly why anyone would read this blog. My constant mishaps can only make other people feel better about themselves. I may have lost the use of my limbs, my house is on fire and my own children are currently kicking me to death but at least I'm not Michael Legge. That's the point of my blog. It's basically a public service and you're very welcome. Well, just a few weeks ago something happened to me that was so "Why does this only ever happen to me?" that it was the most "Why does this only ever happen to me?" moment of my life. It felt like destiny. It smelled awful.

I needed a haircut. Barbers cut hair so I went to one of them. It was 10am so I was pretty confident I wouldn't have to wait what with it being so early and, as I was about to find out, this barber is the worst barber since Sweeney Todd or that one that blew up the space shuttle. Firstly, he was young. I understand hairdressers being young but not barbers. No matter what age you are, your barber should always be older than you. Even if I live to be 100 I'd feel more comfortable and confident with an urn with a pair of scissors than a barber under the age of 25. It's just not natural. This guy, sadly, was about 20. He was young and cool and wicked. I would have hated him even if he was fictional but there he was right in front of me and preparing to cut my hair.

I sat down and as he began he decided to chat. It was frightening. He said "How are you?" What a prick. He knows exactly how I am. I'm letting a baby, whose only experience in haircraft is the Play-Doh Barbershop Activity Playset, fuck about with my skull while brandishing a really sharp object. I'm hardly fucking well, am I? "How are you?" What a total bastard. Of course I said "Fine, thanks" but then I did something that you must never ever do. I said "How are you?" back. WHY? Why did I do this? Why did I ask a young person how they are? Firstly, I don't care and secondly, I'm not going to understand when they tell me. Yes, I'm sure it really was "boss" being "fly" with the "bitches" at the "Then Jericho pop concert" but the fact is I just feel uncomfortable with youth culture despite the fact that I'm clearly good at keeping up with it. Or "bad" as they say nowadays. But I made my bed so I had to lie in it. I asked him how he was and now he was going to tell me. Sigh...

"I am wrecked, bruv. Seriously. I got the shakes".

Right. It's just that you're cutting my hair. With scissors. Near my ear. This was a terrible decision.

"I'm telling you. I was wasted last night, you know what I'm saying?"

No but I am dying to find out more.

"I was at the casino? Yeah? And I won £700? On the roulette?"

Well, that's good. By the way, why is everything you say a question? I mean, you're not really asking anything.

"It was not good, yeah? I drank the lot. The whole lot? I didn't get to bed until 7? I got two cabs home? That's how drunk I was. I don't know how I made it to work, you know what I'm saying?"

I do know what you're saying. I really, really do. You're saying that YOU'RE HOLDING A PAIR OF SCISSORS NEXT TO MY HEAD WHILE GIGGLING YOUR WAY OUT OF A HANGOVER. I mean, really, why? Why does this happen to me? Why does this ALWAYS happen to me? Why does this only happen to me?

It was then that he was sick on me.

I don't ask for much when I go to get my hair cut. In fact, getting my hair cut is pretty much all I want when I go to get my hair cut. I don't expect chatting or tea or details of how much was won at the casino last night but there is one thing that I really insist on: don't be sick on me. But he was sick on me. He was sick and I sat there while he went into another room and was sick again in a sink. There I was alone in a barber shop, looking at my reflection and the long streak of sick down my side. I thought, good. This is really good. It can't get worse than this. The only way is up. When that good Samaritan threw up on me what he was really doing, from the goodness of his own stomach, was saving me. Every bad occurance from this moment on will seem like a joyous event next to that one time that I sat alone in a barber's shop while covered in sick. Today's a new day, a brand new beginning. That young man has given me what I could never give myself; a second chance. To move upwards, to look positively, to learn new things. For starters, now I know why barbers make you wear a cape.

His boss arrived and took over my haircut. He was embarrassed and apologetic. Of course, he didn't know who he was messing with. I'm big on complaining and if a service is not up to scratch then I'm not paying and, let's face it, his employee had been sick on me. This might be the very worst part of the story. I, I INSISTED on i gave him a tip. You might think that ridiculous but look again. When a man shows you what's inside him and you now see that life can only get better, don't you think he deserves your thanks?

Yes. It's the feel good story of 2012.

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Al said...

And I thought my last visit to the barbers was bad, when the young barber insisted on telling me about this 'brilliant' new comedy he'd discovered...called "Mrs Brown's Boys"!

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