ASBO City

How many more shops am i going to walk out of? At this rate i'll be getting an ASBO.

Shop near Son's school. Run out of parking vouchers don't I. Go in. This really awful Asian woman glares at me, says they don't do them anymore. Fine. Ok. Especially as I see that the old voucher parking spots are now Car Club spots. Someone did explain about them but i've completely forgotten what they said.

Two days later, with only 4 fags left, I go back in the shop. The old bag was there again. Behind her, the white display shelf only has a yellowing sticker for Marlborough.
"Don't you sell fags anymore?" I venture.
"No." she glares.
"Well, this is a pretty f...... * useless shop then, isn't it" I explain as I walk out.
I think it was the way it was said.

Now say what you like about Fatso. Say what you like about the useless fat idle indifferent Git, he will come up with the fags. And if he doesn't have my brand, he will mumble some explanation. Admittedly i don't really listen but at least the fat lump offers one.

And he doesnt have to. Stock my Superkings or explain i mean. He could hurt me in the only way he can. But no, he doesn't. He's loyal in that respect. A bit like some lazy fat labrador that no-one really goes near.

Incidentally there's white people working in Fatso's shop. I can't have that! No telly blasting out the Namaste channel, no talking shit with numerous dodgy-looking relatives. This is not good enough! I don't want that type in my local shop.

I have a theory that Fatso's book - How I was Pursued by Some Crazy Bloody Woman - has been well received. Rumours are it got a good review in The Times Literary Supplement. And that Max Clifford has been sniffing around. Also there is talk in the Launderette that Fatso is now close mates with Stephen Fry and Tony Parsons and He now divides his time between The Ivy, The Groucho Club and Hugh Hefner's mansion. (They'd need a bloody huge hot tub there, I tell you!).

And funny, the last time I saw him heaving out of a posh car, he didn't look angry with me anymore. Why?


* answers on a postcard please

Deep Conversations with Fatso

After my self-loathing trip to Westfield, I am staying local. I am Milly Molly Mandy going up the village shop. Yearn for Fatso's. I don't remotely know why.

While he is scanning my white sliced in stony silence, I comment that he has got to stop cracking all these jokes and let me get a word in edgeways, I mean I love a chat and everything but.....
He looks scared again.

The only crumbs I can treasure is the deep meaningful (and only) conversation I had with him last week. His watery puffed-up eyes had looked into mine and he said: Look, I do not know Danny Boyle, I have never worked with Danny Boyle, I didn't even know who Danny Boyle was till this bloody film came out. I have never been, nor am I likely to be, in any sort of film. I am not that useless fat policeman in this Slumdog thing that you seem to think I am . Neither have I been to Bombay or Mombay or whatever the Hell they call it now. Nor would I. My family are from Pakistan!

I tell him that was a great pitch and was he setting his sights on Oliver Stone or Tarrantino now. He seemed to sit down heavily. He wasn't used to all those long words. He wasn't used to words at all actually.

The phone goes. I tell him that could be Danny for him now with a new script. I think I saw tears.