I cleaned up the vomit of a child of a minor celebrity
A plaid-shirted man called Ben and his bald mate Terry
I grew up next to a children's prison
Dear Diary. I went to another social event today. Ironic that I go to all these social events and yet I'm the most anti-social person I know. This year I'm forcing myself to go to as social events as possible. "Going social", I call it.
This one was at a Vermouth bar downtown. I felt nervous but strangely excited. I've been reading a book called The Social Skills Guidebook to help me learn social skills, and I was eager to put my new-found knowledge into practice.
I arrived punctual, at 6:30 pm, at the start, so I didn't feel overwhelmed by too many people. But already a large group of people were standing in a cirle outside the bar. Saw them, thought "nope", and went inside the bar instead. Bought an alcohol-free beer because I didn't want alcohol to affect my social skills. The organiser of the event, a friendly Russian woman called Nastaya, gave me a pen and a name tag. I'd never had a name tag before. I was tempted to make up a cool-sounding name like Rock Samson but I just wrote Paul instead. Then I stuck the name tag to my chest. When I looked around I noticed no one else was wearing a name tag.
Dear Diary. I took 1-year-old to his music class today. It's on the top floor of the local community centre. The babies don't learn to play Mozart on the piano or anything like that. There's just a hippy woman who sings and plays guitar and meanwhile, the babies dance/clap/cry/attempt to escape.
1-year-old usually goes to the 5 pm class but today I took him to the 6 pm class, because I heard Jana goes to the later class, and I wanted to meet her. Jana is a minor celebrity here in Catalonia. (That's her full name — just that: Jana.) She's a 39-year-old singer in a Catalan band called El Pot Petit. El Pot Petit is 1-year-old's favourite band. It's the only music he'll let me listen to on Spotify. (That and, strangely, Metallica.)
Now, I like Jana too. If you've ever listened to La Gallina Tica - a song about a hen inexperienced at hatching eggs - then you'll have heard Jana fit thirteen syllables into a line that should only fit six or seven syllables, and you'll know she's a great singer. But I also like Jana for her physical appearance, in that she's cute and she's in my category of Children's Presenters I'd Like To Marry, along with Cat Deeley and Wacaday-era Michaela Strachan.
So I was excited about meeting her. She's a celebrity here in Spain. Or at least, here in Catalonia.
Just before 6 pm, I arrived at the top floor of the community centre. I was out of breath because I was carrying 1-year-old and his plastic tricycle. I took 1-year-old inside the room. I looked around. With disappointment, I saw there was no Jana, just the teacher and a couple of non-famous moms with their kids. No problem, I thought. I've arrived early, that's all. Jana will be here any minute.
But it was ten minutes into the class when I had to finally concede Jana wasn't coming to the class today. And it was then, while I was holding 1-year-old in my arms, dancing only half-heartedly to an acoustic guitar song about horses, when I saw her. It was Jana. She wasn't wearing her bright green dress covered in purple and orange stars. She didn't have her hair done in a girlish ponytail either. Instead, her hair was cut short to a sensible shoulder-length, and she was dressed in conservative jeans and a black blouse, making her look more like a middle-aged mom than the lead singer of Catalonia's most popular band for children. But I could tell it was Jana from her face. (And she still looked pretty cute.)
I knew it was rude to go over and introduce myself. So I kept a reasonable distance. There'd be time to talk to her after the class, I thought. I could tell her about how much 1-year-old loves her music. And how I like her music too.
Halfway through the class, something unexpected happened: Jana's two-year-old child suddenly vomited on the floor. It was a watery vomit with peas and little cubes of diced carrot in it. Jana ran of out the room carrying her child, who vomited again on the way out. For a moment everyone just sat there, looking at the puddle of vomit in the middle of the floor. Then I reached into my back pocket and calmly pulled out a crumpled sheet of kitchen paper. I went over to the little puddle of vomit and wiped it up. Then I wiped up the second puddle using another sheet of kitchen paper I found in my other pocket. This is the benefit of having pockets full of stuff. I threw both sheets in the bin.
Jana didn't come back to the class, sadly. I guess she decided her kid was too ill so she went home. But I can say that today, I cleaned up the vomit of the child of my celebrity crush. I feel a little bit like I've touched Jesus.
Dear Diary. Today was my brother's stag party. As best man, I was responsible for organising it.
We all met in Wetherspoons. In hindsight, any party that starts with Wetherspoons is doomed from the start.
Dear Diary. Today I flew to Birmingham for my brother's stag party. The first step was to take the bus to the airport. The bus was supposed to come at 3:30 pm. But at 3:40 pm the bus still wasn't there. I was using my phone, trying to find a different way to get there, when the bus finally appeared. I was so relieved that I closed my eyes, imagined the bus was gone, and opened my eyes again so I could experience the relief of seeing the bus again.
Dear Diary. I met Mariah for a drink today. She's the woman I met at a social group two weeks ago. Her name is actually spelt Marije but I'm going to spell it Mariah because no sane person would put the letters Marije in that order and call it a word.
I got to the cycling cafe where we had arranged to meet. I saw Mariah sitting at a table. She had a glass of beer. Her husband Arnau wasn't there.
"Sorry I'm late," I said. "I tried to leave but my kids were hanging onto my legs and saying, 'Dont leave Daddy, don't leave'."
She laughed.
"Where's Arnau?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, sorry Arnau's not here. He couldn't make it," she said.
Couldn't make it? Or was he sitting at home masturbating while thinking about his wife seducing a stranger in a bicycle cafe?
Dear Diary. I was thinking about getting T-shirts printed for my brother's stag party this weekend. So I went to the local print shop and asked the man there how much they cost.
"It's 7 to 8 euros," he said.
"That's not too bad," I said.
"That's per T-shirt."
I did some maths in my head and discovered I'd be paying about 50 euros for seven T-shirts.
"I'll have a think about it," I said and left.
50 euros just for some T-shirts with my brother's face on? I'll forget about those then.
Dear Diary. I submitted a film to a film competition tonight. The film is a heartfelt short documentary about my dead dad. The only problem is that my dad's not actually dead: he's still alive and working in Birmingham as a teacher. Hopefully the organisers of the film competition won't find that out.
I hope I win though because the first prize is a return ticket to South Korea. I wouldn't mind the second prize either, which is a bunch of expensive camera equipment.
I grew up next to a children's prison. The Mirror dubbed it "Britain's toughest jail for young offenders". The prison was behind the houses across the street from my house. It was right there, in view from the street: a children's prison.
Some of the country's worst young criminals were in that prison: murderers, rapists, and arsonists.
One day, a prisoner made an escape attempt. He climbed up the wall surrounding the prison. His only problem? He couldn't get down the other side. The wall was too high. Thinking wasn't his strong point, which is probably what got him into prison in the first place.
Dear Diary. Girlfriend's gone to Madrid for the weekend, leaving me alone with the kids, which is pretty irresponsible of her. It's not like I've ever gone away and left her to look after the kids by herself. Actually, thinking about it, I have done that. Five times in the past two years.
Well, anyway, fuck her, for leaving me alone with the kids.
Also: fuck. I've been left alone with the kids.
Dear Diary. I think my libido is coming back. I put my declining interest in sex down to age, but I stopped taking finasteride two months ago and now my sex drive is coming back, so I think it’s the finasteride. But I forgot that having a libido is problematic. When you are a man, it means 1) unless you are strikingly handsome, you can’t just go out and hook up with people like women can and 2) you get erections at unideal moments like in the middle of a gym class or when you’re naked in the men’s locker room. When this happens I count in the Fibonacci sequence in my head to distract myself and try to make my willy go down.