I’m on strike (again), so thought I’d take the opportunity to update. My shiteness at keeping the blog going seems to continue apace, so bear with me.

So, Friday was brilliantly exciting: I was standing at the bus stop around 8am, feeling unusually cheerful about going to work (it was the prospect of a Chinese buffet for lunch, naturally) when I got the reminder I’d set on my phone a long while ago, heralding the dawning of the day that the Hairy Biker’s would be signing copies of their new book. Now, for anyone who doesn’t already know, said Bikers were just about the only thing apart from Mythbusters that would get me out of bed at a certain point during last year. They cheered me up, took me to exotic, interesting places, and generally made me feel connected with the world again. No small feat for a bloody cookery programme. So I rang The Mam who agreed to come with me (something a bit sad about going alone, thinks I), and after work I make haste to The Inferno, sorry The Metrocentre. I get there about ten minutes early, and already the queue is all the way to the back of the store and up the stairs. Now, I’m not the world’s most adept at queuing, but when “manage”ment split us off from the downstairs queue to form a new one from the top of the stairs, I immediately began to imagine us being left to rot there for God knows how long, perhaps only to be found by post-apocalyptic explorers dredging for supplies after the Zombie Wars (a different story) have overrun the world outside. And when there was clearly not going to be any staff regulating said queue, and people were continuing to join the downstairs line, regardless of us poor saps dangling over the banisters and shouting “upstairs! Upstairs! I don’t care if you’ve got a disability!”, I finally lost my rag, flailed my arms in an impending tantrum and accidentally activated three talking Cybermen helmets that were stacked against us. So there’s me, having a red-faced hoot to myself, The Mam, displaying more bile towards an old lady with a walking stick than was strictly necessary, and above it all, “YOU WILL BE DELETED. WE WILL UPGRADE THE UNIVERSE. YOU ARE NOT COMPATIBLE.” I think they got the hint, because two staff members appeared to exercise a little crowd control.

Anyway, we made it down the stairs eventually, but remembering that the stairs are at the back of the shop, and that the two hirsute motorcyclists were at the front, we shuffled for almost an hour before reaching the back of the stand which sectioned them off from the masses. Suddenly (four people to go), I say to the by this point knackered Mam, “What the hell am I going to say to them?”

The Mam: “hello’s always good.”

Me: “Yes, but after that? I mean, I love them. Do you think Dave will show me his tattoo?”

The Mam: *frowns* “Why not have a picture taken with them?”

Which obviously, was not going to happen because I was wearing a top that make my entire torso look like one giant breast, and besides, I’d have to stand next to them and I’d panic. And what if it didn’t come out? (three people to go.) We’d be there for hours because my phone sometimes won’t play ball. Not to mention, on top of everything else, The Mam’s special ability to take around three minutes from each “cheese” to actual shutter activation, resulting in more fake smiles in our family album than at an entire lifetime of Big Brother reunion shows. No, that would not do. (Two people to go – oh shit, they’re going together, we’re next.) How come everyone else could have a bit craic with them and I was struggling to find things to say? Bollocks.

So anyway, the moment arrived and I nipped round to be confronted with two of the biggest men I have ever seen grinning at me. I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting, although hindsight tells me with an alarming lack of rationality that I was probably expecting them to be little tiny men about a foot high like on my telly. What I saw was two actual people. It was for this reason that I said hello, gave them my book confirmed my name and just stood stock still staring at the table cloth.

Cue SuperMam.

Clearly sensing my discomfort and abnormal shyness, she comes popping round the corner, shakes their hand and grins, forcing me to say “this is my Mam” so that they wouldn’t think that she was either a cue jumper, or even worse, a mentalist.

What followed was one of the most random things that my often-random mother has ever come out with: “It’s fantastic timing, you being here, just in time for Christine’s birthday.” Now, despite the fact that my birthday is normally on the 29^th of July, I think oh good, Mam’s handling it and continue to gurn like a fool whilst trying not to jump on Si. It’s only when I hear Dave ask how old I’ll be (he probably thinks I’m simple), and The Mam tell him that I’ll be 21, how lovely for me etc etc, that I snap out of it and say “Mam, I’m 26…” It is then I notice that she too, has been bedazzled by the magnificence of their presence and is, frankly, talking complete and utter bollocks. I’m so astounded, in fact, that when Si says “26? Never!” In a lovely, friendly way, I look him square in the eyes and say “Less your flattery, you, just get signing that book”.

We practically ran from the shop.

It was when I got to within safe giggling distance, and pulled open my book, that I saw how our moronity had been immortalised for all eternity.

To Christine,

Have a wonderful birthday

Love

Dave and Si

Xx

I noticed also that Si’s signature seemed somehow hurried.

Laters.

xx