Jennifer Aniston

Clang!

by Enormous on October 19, 2009

So, in my dream last night, I had some free time; no one was ill; Enormous had a new bass player – with hair – and a keyboardist who played piano like Steve Nieve; nobody was depressed; nobody was poor.

As happens regularly in my dreams, Audrey could speak English. She said ‘Here are your  pyjamas, father. You forgot to put them on.’

‘I don’t wear such things, darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m an ex-punk rocker. You know that.’

‘But these are your special pyjamas,’ she insisted, ‘the ones you bought in the Bahamas. The ones with the big bananas on.’

‘Oh, those.’

‘Yes, your Bahamas banana pyjamas.’ I smiled at her sweet furry innocence.

There was suddenly a big noise from outside. Clang! Audrey jumped and looked at me with urgent concern in her eyes.

‘It’s all right, girl,’ I told her. ‘It’s just Jennifer Aniston delivering our money.’ She relaxed with a doggy groan. ‘What are you dreaming about?’ I asked her then.

‘I was dreaming about who would win in a fight between a monkey and an emu,’ she said.

‘Monkey, definitely.’ I mused.

When I eventually awoke, I felt even more joy due to the fact that I didn’t have a hangover. I was such a good boy again last night. I was so sober, I was seeing single. I hate hangovers. Being hung-under is eminently more preferable. It is always a tremendous relief when I wake up without one. They make mornings hell. I am always reminded of Wodehouse on the subject when he wrote: ‘The cat stamped into the room.’

Well, that’s all from me for now. Must dash. I am about to savour my Monday morning eleven o’clock orgasm.

Pip-pip!

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Early Spurt

by Enormous on October 9, 2009

Audrey and I went for a jog at the crack of dawn today for the first time in months and we bumped into a woman with whom I was acquainted years ago. She used to look like a mutant version of Jennifer Aniston. Huffing and puffing uphill this morning she just looked like a mutant.

She was jogging towards me along the footpath that leads over the sheep fields to the Memorial at Crich. I recognised her as she drew near and my heart sank. I used to dislike her intensely. She was the receptionist for a studio in Mansfield in which I used to work, and if I stated that we didn’t appreciate each other’s company, I would be, yet again – very much like one of my literary heroes, Bill Bryson – indulging in riotous understatement.  Needless to say, I knew to a moral certainty that I was not about to enjoy our encounter.

‘Davy?‘ she panted as she drew near.

‘Well, well. Hello, Kristin. How are you? I haven’t seen you in years.’

‘Fine. Fine. Just moved into a new house in Blackwell with Jeff – you remember Jeff?’

‘Of course. Good old Jeff. How is he, your Jeff?’ I had no idea who Jeff was.

‘Davy, you’re looking absolutely wonderful. I can’t believe it! Really athletic and toned. You must work out a lot.’

Old animosities were suddenly forgotten in the parade of years. Kristin was my new best friend.

‘Well, actually – ‘

‘You must come round to visit. Jeff would love to see you again.’

‘Yes, I – ‘

‘Come to one of our swingers parties. You’d be very welcome with a physique like that.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’d be very popular with all of my special lady friends – and one or two of my older male friends, too. You’ll make the hairs stand up on the backs of their little legs, you really will. Tuesdays. Eight o’clock.’

I tried to smile. I tried not to say anything. I was afraid that, as usual, in so doing, my mouth would slip and I would offend. But I did say something – and it wasn’t what I was expecting to hear come out of my mouth. It was this: ‘Yes, quite. That would be delightful.’

I think I’ll forget about jogging for the foreseeable future and confine my workouts to the gym in the village. It’s a good gym – small, but good.

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Misery Guts

by Enormous on November 12, 2008

The miserable old Pakistani man behind the counter in the corner shop was this morning in an even gloomier mood than usual. For some odd reason he always calls me Steve.

‘Mr Mishri, I keep telling you, my name’s not Ste – ‘

‘What’s that, Steve?’

‘Never mind.’

I asked him why he looked so despondent.

‘Business is so bad these days, Steve. The closer we get to Christmas, the fewer people come into the shop. It’s a self-fulfilling vicious spiral.’

I don’t quite know why but I have a vague suspicion that he actually enjoys being miserable. He seems to take great pleasure in constantly reminding his customers about how awful his life is; or perhaps, when he is not expertly mixing his metaphors, he is on some kind of personal quest to redefine despair and hopeless depression. ‘I think I’ll end up having to close the shop, Steve.’

‘I’ll alert the media,’ I told him as I was paying for my milk and frozen peas.

On my way out, the little bell above the door sounded its optimistic ting! and Mr Misery asked me a question: ‘Do you think we’ll ever find what we’re looking for, Steve?’

I was slightly taken aback. ‘I hope not,’ I told him, after a pause.

Just before Audrey and I reached the house, I started to indulge a fantasy in which I contrived to meet Jennifer Aniston in the Navigation Inn in Newark-on-Trent and asked her to marry me. She said yes, of course. My ex-wife came in while we were busy celebrating, and began to cry. She looked old.

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