Tuesday, 5 July 2011


When I was at school I would always have a packed lunch. A friend told me a while ago that she always thought that it was called a 'Pat Lunch'. Most people's pat lunch consisted of this... cheese and pickle/ham on white bread sandwiches, a Club, a packet of Quavers, possibly a piece of fruit and a Capri Sun. Mine consisted of a soggy wholemeal sandwich, two pieces of fruit and a rice cake. Once I was in my teens that lunch was hardly ever eaten.

It was the sogginess of the sandwiches which made them most unappealing. They always seemed to be really flat too. I felt guilty that I wasn't eating my lunch. Every night I'd come home with the soggy sandwiches in my bag and fear that my mum would find out that I wasn't eating them. Then I would do something really odd. I would put them in the top of my wardrobe. That's insane right? Why didn't I just throw them away at school? Did I not understand the concept of rotting food and the resulting smell? Soon I did, as my bedroom developed a stench that went beyond the normal teenage boy's smell of B.O, hormones and misery.

What now? Well, I did what any rational person would do and took the sandwiches from the wardrobe and threw them from my bedroom window and into the bushes in our front garden. These sandwiches were now green and furry so I would retch as I did this. Picture it. I look hot don't I? Now, it's important that you know that the sandwiches were still in the cling film they'd been wrapped in. So I wasn't really solving my problem. There was now just a pile of cling film and rotting sandwiches at the bottom of our garden that would surely be found by my parents. My parents would have also surely heard the rustling in the bushes. Perhaps it frightened them.

This is where, as I look back, I realise just how fucking mental I was - I repeated this process for I reckon about 2 years. I continued to not eat the sandwiches. I continued to not dispose of them at school. Instead, I placed them in the top of my wardrobe. Then, once the stench became unbearable I threw them into the bushes outside my window. These are the actions of someone who is surely 0.01% away from being a serial killer. Amazingly, my parents never found out. Or if they did they never confronted me about it. Perhaps they were seriously worried about my mental wellbeing. That explains why most of my holidays were based around a strict programme of Electroconvulsive Therapy.

People are stupid. I guess I just expressed my stupidity in an eccentric way. Which, I suppose, makes me quite cool. That's right bitches! My spin on this story is now that it makes me cool. Real cool. Someone at work was talking to one of the ushers the other day. This is how the conversation went...

Usher: You're from up north innit?

Actor: Yeah.

Usher: Yeah, my mates are from up north... Devon and Cornwall.

Everyone is stupid in their own way. I have a friend (Christ, I've got a lot of friends) who went to see a mortgage advisor the other day. The mortgage advisor kept on saying 'We can borrow you three times your income'. BORROW YOU! It is her JOB to talk about LENDING money all day every day and she doesn't know the right word! How did this happen? Surely, you would have thought, that someone might have told her. At least I managed to keep my stupidity secret for 15 years. This poor mortgage advisor is wearing her stupidity every day like a badge. Everyone who walks into her office sees it like a giant corn on the cob stuck in between her teeth.

Then again, there's probably a fair percentage of people who don't even notice her error. Because, they themselves are stupid. My point is that we are all stupid. Cripplingly, shamefully stupid buffoons who do not deserve oxygen let alone the vote. Even the world's greatest minds (Hawking, Dawkins, Vorderman) must have secrets that match my sandwich story for sheer idiocy. Maybe not. Goodbye!

1 comment:

  1. Between the ages of about 9 and 11, I made the smallest escape tunnel in the world in the wall under my bedroom window. Sporadically as the mood took me, I would lift the discreetly peeled back strip of wallpaper and with a spoon, screwdriver, ballpoint pen or whatever I had to hand, scrape away a little at the wall, first through plaster, then brick and finally one glorious day out thru the pebble dashing. I never told my parents and the 'tunnel' had only about a 2cm bore, but I lived in constant fear of its discovery like Stanley Baxter in a POW comedy.