Episode Three
Wednesday
Oh shit. That's just fucking marvellous. I took a sickie at work in the hope that I could get some peace and bloody quiet, do The Times crossword in my pajamas, while drinking tea and eating a crumpet with some jam, but my fucking delinquent, druggy flatmate, Paul decided to spend the day at home too. Great.
Now, instead of watching the, ‘Cash in the Attic’ marathon I'd recorded for this very reason, I'll have to listen to that annoying fuckwit, while he rambles on about masturbation, his druggy, slapper girlfriend Shaz and his fucking bad back. And no, I don't think you should be getting hand-outs from the government to support your fucking drug habit, just because your back hurts a bit. Boo fucking hoo you malingering, lazy fuckwit. Get a job.
Shit. He's just sat down on the sofa. I might as well turn off, ‘Cash in the Attic’ right now, because he isn't going to let me listen to it. I'll give him five seconds, before he starts talking bollocks. 5,4,3,2....
"Fucking shit, innit." There you go. As easy to read as a simple street sign. Un-fucking-believable. I should probably give work a call and tell them I'm not coming in.
"Right, yeah." I don't know what he's going on about. He can barely read, let alone hold an actual conversation.
"What you doing here anyways?" Do you hear that drivel? Anyways is plural you fucking ape.
"Sick."
"You don't look sick."
"Gastroenteritis." That's it, confuse the stupid half-wit. He's probably never even heard of Gastroenteritis.
"Oh, yeah, nasty shit." Like he knows.
Look at him, sat there in his boxer shorts and dirty t-shirt. What a disgrace. I wish I lived with someone with at least half a brain, instead of this moronic twat. It was fine when Big Norm lived here, but he had to get married and move out didn't he, leaving the fucking Landlord to move in this repellent half-bred fuckwit. This dole queue statistic, who spends all his money (given to him by good, honest, hard-working tax payers like me) on Tenants Extra Strength lager, drugs and porn. What a fucking life.
"Beer?" says the nob-jockey. It's half-past nine the morning. Who drinks this early? Still, nothing on TV now, and it's the only way I'm going to get through this day. Plus, I practically paid for it anyway.
"Sure, why not."
Monkey boy returns a minute later with two cans of Tenants Extra.
"That'll put hairs on your chest, yeah." I doubt it, I only shave once every two weeks at most.
FOUR HOURS LATER
"I just don't get it, Paul, what does she see in him?"
"It's hard to say, Dave, yeah. It could be any number of things."
"The man's a thug. I don't think he has a single A-Level. It wouldn't surprise me if he didn't have a single GCSE either."
"He could have an enormous penis though, Dave."
"But is that all she sees in him? A giant penis with earrings."
"It sounds like your best shot of her anyways."
"Yeah, I can just stay here and drink Tenants Super Strength lager with my old mate, Paul."
What was I saying? I hate Paul. God, I'm so drunk. It has been four hours since we started drinking. Fuck, I forgot to call work. Oh bugger them. They can suck on my softened by lager penis.
"We could go to your work and throw milk and eggs at the building, yeah. That would show them," says the ape boy.
That's a terrible idea. One of the worst ideas I've ever heard. What sort of people throw milk and eggs at an inanimate object?
ONE HOUR LATER
"And you're sure this is OK, Paul?"
"Dave, I do this sort of thing all the time, yeah. We throw the eggs and milk at the building, and then do a runner, yeah."
"Gotcha.Eggs, milk, building, runner. We're not going to get arrested are we?"
"Not if you run fast enough."
Can I even run? I can't remember the last time I actually ran. School probably. No problem, I'm probably a lot faster than I think. OK, here goes, we're outside the office. I have two pints of milk and a dozen eggs. I'm ready. Shit, Paul's running towards reception and fuck, he just launched both milks and half of his eggs at the front-door! That's quite a mess someone has to clean up. I don't envy that job.
Shit, I suppose I'd better throw mine, otherwise I'm going to be left behind. Then I'll get arrested and then tossed in jail with a fudge-packer, who'll probably want to bugger me senseless for the next five years.
"Dave?" Fuck, it's Doug and he's standing right behind me.
"Oh, alright, Doug."
"What's going on? Why are you?" Doug starts, but then he sees Paul throw his last few eggs at the company sign. Doug looks at me. Oh, fuck, this is a disaster. Now Doug thinks that I'm an egg thrower and I'm not. I'm not an egg thrower Doug, honestly, despite the fact that I'm holding a dozen eggs and two pints of milk.
"I can explain," I say, but the next minute and Paul is flying past me.
"Get a fucking move on Dave and throw your eggs, yeah."
"Oh dear," says Doug.
"Fuck."
"It looks that way," says Doug. "I think you'd better come with me."
Fucking stupid Wednesday. I was supposed to be at home watching, ‘Cash in the bloody Attic’ and now I'm an egg thrower. Actually a failed egg thrower.
Tune in again next week for the fourth and penultimate episode of David Burrows Office Man.
Blog soon x
