A Relief When It's Over

There are two things that rank high upon my list of loathsomeness - forced jollity and enforced charity. So of course this means the most loathsome day on my calendar is the annual festival of discomfort that is Comic Relief. I've never been able to combine successfully the thoughts of charity and the concept of laughter. I assume that the majority of people who exist in situations where charity is required find nothing funny about their lot, and so someone far better off lomping around dressed as a chicken with an over-sized and scarlet conk does seem to be taking the pi$$ a little. It rather smacks of oneupmanship; showing that *you* have the time, money and inclination to act in an inappropriate fashion whereas those you are allegedly helping have not. I'm all for charitable giving - I have not grown curmudgeonly enough to dismiss anyone with genuine desires to aid the less-than-fortunate. It's just the in-your-faceness of it that grates with me. And I find very little of it actually comic; it's primarily a relief when it's all over.

For once, my workplace has embraced today's events with the suitable level of subduedness that these credit-crunched times perhaps call for. Wear a football shirt and pay a pound. I can live with that as it hardly matches last year's 'Wear a Silly Hat Day' for pointless and unfunny zaniness. So this morning I dove down into the dank depths of the more unheralded regions of my wardrobe and pulled out a totally forgotten Aston Villa shirt from the misty Dwight Yorke era (about a decade ago). I had to get the boys to shoe-horn it onto me, and the sponsor's name is stretched almost to unreadability across my manboobs, but what the heck, me no professional athlete.

Around 75% percent of the workforce fell in line with the footie shirt motif, and it slightly saddened me to see how little geographical considerations now affect the decision of choosing which team to support - unless Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal have all upped sticks and shifted their stadiums to the midlands and nobody has told me. In my fledgling footie fanaticism days the school playground was roughly divided fifty-fifty between Villa and Birmingham City (not counting the odder choices like West Brom, Wolves or in one very strange case, Plymouth Argyle). If anyone pledged allegiance to (the then huge-team of the moment) Liverpool, for example, they were rightfully dismissed as glory-hunters, shunned, beaten up and/or stoned to death.

As my own love of football has suffered a slow and general disintegration over the past decade or so, none of my children have shown the slightest hint of interest in the game - indeed neither Andrew nor Gabriel have any sporting inclinations whatsoever. Whilst Andrew seemed content today in his usual sensible attire, both Gabriel and Lukas expressed dismay this morning that I didn't keep a locker full of football shirts for them should the need ever arise that one be required. So neither could join their schoolmates in footie-kit-frolics. Lukas came down in his basketball shirt, but as I've related before he-so-small and shirt-so-big I didn't think it appropriate for him to attend school with his nipples and ribs on display, so I dispatched him upstairs for something more suitable, however...

...on my way to work I passed a school-aged person who'd chosen that day to attend his education wearing one of those sumo-style fat-suits, a bikini, and a grass skirt - so I was quite pleased not one of my three lads possess the self-confidence to be so - er - outrageous. As I went past him (I am assuming it was a he - I don't think a female would chose to dress as an overweight female as it would not necessarily be funny) he looked at me provocatively and began to repeatedly squeeze his left boob. This actually brought a slight smile to my face.

In line with my decisions of Tuesday I trod over this morning to one of my colleague's desks, a guy called Andy, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt. He eyed me with a mix of bemusement and suspicion, which dismayed me slightly, but then I realised that the only times I've really spoken to him in the three years since he joined us have been for work-related issues. Indeed all I know about him is that he has two steel plates in bolted into his skull holding his face together after he was elbowed there about a decade ago whilst playing Sunday League. He's given up going on planes as he's sick and tired of having to explain why he sets the metal detectors a-wailin' at airport security checkouts. Other than that, I think he has two daughters (as he has a photo of two sweet-faced little angels on his desk) but I've no idea how old they are or their names (or even if they *are* his daughters).

So I said hello and that I was wondering if anyone was going to the pub today as I felt like a beer or three at lunchtime and would like to join them. Andy blinked for a few seconds as his brain computerised this unheralded request - then I prepared myself for rejection as his face slightly reddened and he licked his lips. He said I'd picked a bad week as the usual 'pi$$-heads' (his words) were joining
a mighty thong of employees at lunchtime traipsing around the town rattling collection tins at passers-by all in aid of (naturally) Comic Relief. He said they hadn't asked me to join them as they (quite rightly) didn't consider I'd be interested, adding that he was sure everyone'd be back at the pub next week. I nodded my thanks and told him no worries and then headed slightly crestfallen back to my desk.

Since then I have been mainly thinking about Sarah and my inability (so far) and indecision to call her back. Despite all those concrete decisions I made on Tuesday It appears I remain a coward in at least one respect. I know I am jumping the gun but I need to get my head around everything she is likely to say to me.

Let's finish with a joke. It's not my favourite but that's too obscene, and most of my other favourites are too long, so here goes: Two goldfish in a tank; one says to the other, "how do you drive this thing?".