A Perfect Day

Yesterday I had a perfect day, a taste of utopia, and I’m going to tell you all about it. Shall we?

It started with a groan; and some sodden underwear and that is the best way to start the day. I hastily put my grundies in the washing machine and scuttled to the shower to wash off the excesses of shame, self-loathing and mini-me’s. After I did this I ambled back to my room and put on my favourite cream suit. Whenever I wear the cream suit, good things happen to me.

Now wearing my cream suit I had a bowl of wheeto’s and psyched myself up for the day. “Come on Fionny, today’s the day the teddy bear’s had their picnic, and you’re a big teddy bear who will be eating from the picnic of success” I said to myself whilst vigorously rubbing my left knee. I put on my favourite feel-good song, Wait and Bleed by Slipknot, to get myself ready for the day. In case you’re wondering I don’t often put my fingers into my eye as I feel pain on a regular basis – like when I stubbed my toe running out of my neighbours back garden after a spot of ‘bird watching’.

I left and shortly arrived at the tube station, hastening onto the tube whilst everyone was still trying to get off and immediately copped an eyeful of some top totty. Oh baby, she had jugs like the Carpathian Mountains. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, and it wasn’t until her boyfriend said to me “Look mate, can you take your roving eyes elsewhere, you’re making my girlfriend feel uncomfortable” to which I responded in parseltongue, forcing another passenger to intervene and usher me off the tube, that I eventually tore my eyes away from the jugs. Oh Daddy like jugs doesn’t he? Yes he does.

On arrival at university I darted to the library and found a nice, secluded spot in a dark corner. It’s so pleasant sitting in the library for extended periods of time as you get to see the absolute conveyor belt of totty that mills through like sexy, vacuous cattle. Whenever some quim sits in my vicinity I enjoy growling softly under my breath and raising and lowering my eyebrows very quickly. Some people have labelled this type of behaviour ‘creepy’ but I think a real man should be able to make his intentions known without feeling bad about it.

Today I was checking out some holiday snaps on Facebook whilst in the library – I believe they were in the album entitled “Thailand ‘13” – and was admiring one particularly succulent piece of meat when said juicy piece of meat has only gone and plonked herself down opposite me! Seizing this opportunity like a crocodile seizes an unsuspecting, but very nutritious wildebeest, I went back to my personal favourite picture (she’s regally resplendent in a red bikini and must’ve been a bit cold which makes the picture all the more eye-catching) and spun my laptop screen into her eye line.

At first she didn’t actually notice my presence (I am unremarkable looking, despite the cream suit) but eventually the incessant clearing of my throat and frantic scratching of my face got her attention. On registering her own voluptuous self, juxtaposed next to my lolling, steak-like tongue she gave me the most inviting look I’ve received. It said: “You are a cretinous piece of shit and if you weren’t so pathetic, flaccid and skinny I’d call the police”. Then she got up and seductively sashayed away, shooting me another one of those looks over her shoulder, clearly inviting me to partake in God knows what activities with her, but unfortunately I had too much work to do so had to let her down.

At about 8 o’clock, after many hours of reading, and many, many unasked for erections, I got the tube home. I put my headphones in full blast and blared out all the lyrics to Blurred Lines by Robin Thick, Candy Shop by 50 Sense(less) and Smack My Bitch Up by Mozart (I think).

Once arriving home I watched four of the latest episodes of backroom casting couch. If you haven’t already seen it, I thoroughly recommend you do so. It’s the suspense and noble deceit of the thoughtful plotline that keeps me coming back. After that I wound myself down by rubbing both my knees. I start off slowly and quite sensually, until I speed it up gradually, eventually reaching a manic crescendo of knee rubbing and parseltongue.  Very relaxing.

It was now getting late, and time was knocking on the door of 11pm so I took my suit off, scrubbed my teeth and got into bed knowing no dream I had could compare to the day I had experienced. It had everything I could want. Image

Heavenly.

Bernard’s Watch(ing you), Episode 2

(You can find Part 1 here)

‘Hello motherfuckers’ said Bernard. All three of them turned to him. Tia Maria’s expression was unreadable but it conveyed at best bewilderment, and at worse burning resentment; Xi Wan was smiling manically like a squirrel on a gram of MDMA and Charlotte giggled nervously touching her luxurious straw-like hair as she did so. Oh my Christ oh lord, screamed Bernard internally, why did I just say that? I don’t even believe any of them has had intercourse with their mothers; he didn’t get a waft of Oedipus from any of them, so why had he addressed them in such a way?!

Bernard tittered awkwardly and pushed his shaggy mop out of his eyes. “I’m sorry about that” he began to say when the door to reception crashed open behind him. Karl strode in with the glitter of intelligence burning in his eyes. “Hello dear friends, so we are all going to this tedious tour of campus” Karl announced with a thespian flourish.

“We sure are Karl!” said Charlotte enthusiastically. She’s never that enthusiastic with me, Bernard thought desolately.

“Shall we set off then” Karl asked as he strode towards the door not waiting for a reply. He had craftily disguised it as a question but it wasn’t, it was a command. He set off along High Holborn at a rather unforgiving pace. Oh my, Bernard thought queasily, it should be me leading this band of merry-men.

The five of them arrived outside the Waterstone’s knowing they had suffered an absolute ordeal. Karl had yapped on non-stop about his take on the political institutions of Europe and how Britain was simply miles behind when it came to levels of democracy. When he took a break from his litany, the others had literally nothing to say to one another. Bernard had tried to extract a conversation from Tia Maria about his hopes and dreams but he had simply shrugged and said ‘I don’t know mate, the only hope I currently have is that this fucking hangover pisses off’. Bernard didn’t know how to respond to that but noted mentally that the thing happening to his body was a ‘hangover’. Bernard decide he should just laugh but he did so a shade too loudly, and Tia Maria just stared blankly at him. ‘Yeah same mate, I mean, what a bloody pain in the arse hey!’ Bernard had responded. Swearing had never come easy to Bernard and it was twice today that he had sworn for literally no conceivable reason. The words were like acid in his mouth; not the drug though, the corrosive substance. Bernard had overhead a stilted conversation between Xi Wan and Charlotte about male circumcision. I wonder how that came about Bernard thought to himself.

The tour had been similarly painful. Bernard was aware that he had nothing to say to these people. They were his only ‘friends’ so far, but there was only so many times you could ask someone “So, what course do you do?” and it not just become rude. Even now, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they all did, despite asking them individually, soberly, what they did at least 5 times. He thought Tia Maria did Geography, Xi Wan Accounting and Finance, Charlotte Government but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He didn’t dare ask again, he couldn’t take the raised eyebrows anymore. Of course, he remembered what Karl did. He broadcast it to all and sundry. He had to do Politics and Philosophy, Bernard thought, he’s a certain rival for a First.

He had overheard the others talking about some sort of ‘Welcome Party’ at a mysterious, exotic place they called the ‘Tuns’. I suppose I should go Bernard thought; it could be fun. I certainly won’t be drinking though, I don’t want to embarrass myself any further, he concluded.

It was around 12pm and Bernard was in hell. This exotic ‘Tuns’ place was exotic only in the sense that it was an urban rainforest of death, desolation and dickheads. The humidity of the place was breath-taking. Sweet was dropping down the walls, ponderously tumbling down the walls like wax and the foul stench of beer hung in the air. The lighting had a strange blue hue, like the innards of the main protagonist in the video for that musical classic ‘Blue (Da Be Dee)’. Bernard was confused; he had seen 3 boys with their shirts off swinging them over their veined heads with a look of ecstasy on their face. Bernard had slurred to Charlotte “why are they doing that” but it accidentally came out as “buy me some hats”; Bernard had been drinking again. When he had earlier told Tia Maria of his intention to not drink he had looked aghast. He had called him a pussycat minus the cat and thrust a can of Stella Artois into his hand. Then he had gathered the others and started chanting forcefully “down it, down it, down it”. The others joined in, a fervent enthusiasm burning in their eyes. Bernard felt compelled to ‘down it’; he felt like he had just wandered into an extract from Lord of the Flies – he didn’t want to end up like Piggy. After ‘downing’ the first can Bernard felt like a regal prince; a glorious lion amongst a flock of seagulls. So he went down to Sainsbury’s and bought six more.

Here he was, in a room as muggy as a reptile room. He was dancing in a peculiar way, watching Karl and Charlotte gyrate as he did so. His knees were crouched and his entire upper body was violently vibrating and shaking, as if he was having a stroke. His back was stooped forward and his right arm was placed across his chest as if he was going to be blessed by a priest in a purple velvet robe. He looked like a drunken, malfunctioning robot. It was an odd sight to behold. It was an odd, but endearing sight.

At around 2am ‘The Gang’ had decided to leave the ‘Tuns’ and stagger home. Tia Maria was missing; he had been sighted with a human of the female variety. Xi Wan informed Bernard of this and the interesting titbit that she had seen his hand resting on her bottom. I wonder where he is, Bernard thought. Is he sexing with her?

Bernard clambered into bed in his Bart Simpson pyjama’s safe in the knowledge that he had had on the whole a fun night. University is strange, Bernard thought to himself as he lovingly stroked his wiry pubic hair, but I think I’m going to enjoy. So far, so good.