The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones
Pull my penis out of my swimming trunks
The crowd cheered while he hopped across the stage with a carrot in his mouth
I need to try to stop the voices in my head
Playing an invisible trumpet like Paul Simon and Chevy Chase
Edd the Duck in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa
Dear Diary. I took the kids swimming this morning. 6-year-old was trying to pull down my swimming trunks in the pool. I had to keep telling him "No," and batting his hands away. He was persistent though, like a sexual predator.
A couple of weeks ago he actually did manage to pull my penis out of my swimming trunks but luckily no one saw.
6-year-old and 2-year-old decided to get all the floats from the shelves and throw them in the pool. The result was fifty different coloured dumbbell floats floating in the pool. The lifeguard came over and I thought, Oh no, here we go, I'm about to receive a bollocking. The lifeguard stopped by the edge of the pool, crouched down, and said, "Don't worry about the floats. The most important thing is your kids have fun. Just make sure you put them all back after."
It was me putting them all back after.
***
Denise organised a picnic this afternoon. There was Denise, two single men from Peru, and the new British girl Katie.
Gordon came too. He said he was initially reluctant to go as he thought he was too old. He only came because I was going.
Gordon quickly got drunk on a bottle of wine and started flirting with Katie. She listened to his ramblings with polite interest. Gordon's problem is that he loves talking about himself. If he learned to show an interest in other people maybe he still wouldn't be single after ten years.
We had a group conversation about humour and comedy. I'm inexperienced with group conversations. One person spoke and the other people listened. Participating was more difficult than having a one-to-one conversation. The sun was in my eyes and I started to get ill-tempered.
Denise is leaving Girona in ten days. I wanted to ask her if I could take over her social group but it didn't seem the right time.
***
In the evening, I took the kids back to Comiccon. It's even better on Sunday evening. Fewer people. The atmosphere is more relaxed.
We watched a rock paper scissors competition happening on the stage. The winner won 200 euros.
Then we went to the food trucks outside to get food. I bought 6-year-old a hot dog and 2-year-old chips. The hot dog fell on the floor so I ate it instead. I could see teenage girls dancing on the stage inside so we went to watch. It was a music group called Aidoru Ja Nai. They were the final act of Girocomic. They consisted of three teenage girls wearing what looked like sexy maid costumes and doing synchronised dancing to intense Japanese pop music. They were singing in Japanese and had big smiles. 6-year-old watched from the pushchair while eating chips while 2-year-old stood next to him and watched too. I was watching as well, trying not to stare at the attractive one in the middle. I like it Comic-Con. Where else can a middle-aged man like me perve on women dancing in skimpy outfits? Apart from a strip club.
I feel like we've had a good weekend. Leroy Merlin, Comic-Con, swimming, picnic, and Comic-Con a second time.
Dear Diary. The kids woke me up at 6:40 am. I let them watch TV while I made them pancakes and an omelette. Girlfriend got up and came into the kitchen when I was making 6-year-old his second omelette. The first thing she said wasn't "Good morning" like a normal person but "Don't give 6-year-old another egg. He's already eaten one. Eggs are high in cholesterol." She added, "The kids have watched enough TV, I'm going to turn the TV off." Then she rudely pushed past me to get to the sink to watch her hands, without even saying "Excuse me."
I felt like kicking her. She's like this every day. She's rude and bossy, as well as untidy and disorganised. How can Girlfriend be my partner yet also my least favorite person? I need to keep working out at the gym so I can get a muscular body to attract a better woman to be my girlfriend.
6-year-old's eye bags are bigger than normal today. The doctor reckons he has sleep apnea due to enlarged adenoids. He briefly stops breathing during the night because the adenoids block his airway. It's torture watching your child suffer knowing there's an easy solution: simply getting his adenoids taken out. But 6-year-old's been on the waiting list for a specialist appointment for a year now. Maybe we should have just paid to do it privately.
Girlfriend and I have been renovating the kids' bedroom. It's taken us six months because that's how lazy Girlfriend and I are. This morning I took 6-year-old to the local hardware store to get the final touch for his bedroom: a desk. All we needed to buy was a big plank of wood. But the special timber-cutting service was closed due to Spain's national holiday. 6-year-old bought a Pixar-style lamp instead. I bought artificial grass for the balcony because our balcony is made of old dirty concrete so at least now, I can cover it with something, even if it's plastic grass.
By the way, the hardware store was called Leroy Merlin and it is AMAZING. It's a huge hardware shop like B&Q. The ceiling was as high as a cathedral. Dozens of light fittings cast an angelic glow onto endless sleek silver taps, each different, each beautiful. Pristine show bathrooms, the toilets white and immaculate; they have never been shat in. Modern display kitchens. Everything was clean and spotless. A display of door handles where you grab each one and turn it. I was amazed.
Driving from Leroy Merlin to Girona was like going from heaven to an Addis Ababa slum. Ugly graffiti tags defiling the buildings. Litter. Cracked pavements. Tall dirty concrete buildings designed to cram as many people into small spaces as possible. High traffic. The roads are designed in a grid system, so cars keep going round and round. Girlfriend told me we live in one of the best areas of Girona, but I can see now we actually live in one of the poor areas. The wealthy people live in El Barri Vell or in a house in the hills. We only live here because it's cheap.
***
In the evening I took the kids to Girocomic, Girona's annual comic convention. The past three years I've gone dressed as a ghostbuster but this year I didn't bother. It's hard enough looking after two small kids without lugging around a proton pack on your back. Besides, I never win anything in the cosplay competition anyway.
6-year-old went dressed as Bunny from the comics Bunny vs Monkey. (He reads these comics every day.) I dressed 2-year-old in a shop-bought Spiderman costume we got for 6-year-old a few years ago.
6-year-old entered the cosplay competition. He didn't win anything, perhaps because his costume only took ten minutes to make, whereas other people took months to make their costumes. However, he did go on stage in his costume in front of hundreds of people. The crowd cheered while 6-year-old hopped across the stage with a carrot in his mouth.
The best thing about Comiccon are the women in skimpy costumes. Sadly there weren't many this year. This year there were fewer people dressed in cosplay in general. 40 people entered the cosplay competition whereas last year there were over 60.
On the way home we found some trash people had thrown away. One shoe. 2-year-old took of his own shoes and put it on. A giant photo of New York. 6-year-old said he wanted it for his bedroom. I tried to carry it home but it was too big so I left it propped up next to the entrance of an underground garage.
We bought pizza and ate in on the way home. 6-year-old sat in the pushchair, with the pizza box on his lap and a packet of chips, like a patron sitting in a little portable restaurant. I had to push the pushchair with one hand and carry 2-year-old in the other arm. I was thankful I hadn't dressed as a ghostbuster this year because carrying 2-year-old and pushing 6-year-old while doing it dressed in cosplay would have almost been a Herculean feat.
Dear Diary. I met Gordon for lunch at a Japanese poke bowl restaurant called Kubu. He only ever wears concert t-shirts. Today he was wearing a Madness T-shirt where the members of Madness were lounging around a 1960s Volkswagen bus.
Gordon wanted to talk about his oldest son, Peter.
"Peter told me recently that he hears voices," said Gordon, "He said to me, 'I need to try to stop the voices in my head'."
Jesus Christ. I was trying to enjoy a poke bowl and now we're talking about schizophrenia.
"His school wanted to do an outside assessment but his mother refused. And I didn't know about it because I'd lost custody of Peter by that point."
Anyway, we talked some more about Peter and then I told him about my desire to take over the Costa Brava Buddys social group once Denise leaves Girona.
"Go for it," he said.
"I think I could do it," I said. "I know what social activities people want to do. They don't want to play pool with two old men, for example." (Refering to the pool nights Gordon and I tried to organise.)
If I take over Denise's social group, it will be the natural next step in this year's story arc. Me as the social king of Girona will be the peak of the arc, and then will come the decline, where the social group hates me, and I'll be chased out of Girona by expats with pitchforks.
Dear Diary. Today's Sunday. Went to a Bodypump class at the gym. I like these classes as they’re full of attractive women. For example, there’s a woman called Carol who’s so beautiful that angels sing whenever she walks past. It’s my hope that one day I’ll have a girlfriend like Carol, which is why I go to the gym: so attractive women will think I’m hot and then I can choose from among them, like a chieftain choosing among his concubines.
Usually the squats give me lower back pain but today I got the form right and I felt like Mr. Motivator. For the first time squats weren’t a painful chore but actually fun. It helps I’ve been stretching my back this week. I used to have the back of a 70-year-old but thanks to stretching, I’ve now got the supple and flexible back of a Russian teenage gymnast. These aren’t quick 2-minute stretches mind you: on the first day I stretched for 2 hours over the course of the day. It felt like the White Queen of Narnia was inhabiting my lower back and now I’ve exorcised that bitch.
***
We went to Gordon's apartment for lunch. The din of a Dire Straits concert was blaring from the TV. (He didn't turn it off, and it was playing for the entire three hours we were there.)
While he was cooking lunch, I had a look around the apartment. Under the TV was a complete box set of the drama series Sharpe, starring Sean Bean. On the table stood the card from Gordon's party in May. Inside was my writing: "It's great to have met you. Happy 25th anniversary." Next to the greetings card was his table name place card, with the word "Gordon" in gold calligraphy.
Next to his bedroom was a creepy hand-drawn sign for the toilets that said "Little girls room".
But it was in Gordon's bedroom I found the most horrifying thing of all: a shrine to Edd the Duck. It consisted of:
And in the centre of the collection sat Edd the Duck himself, with his characteristic green spiky hair. He was slumped against the wall.
No mention of Andy Crane and Andi Peters though.
He had a guest book in the hallway. I flicked through it. Only the first two pages were filled in. They said things like, "Hope you will be very happy hear", "The best host and the best cooker", and intriguingly, "I love you" followed by two hand-drawn hearts. The last was written by someone called Rahima who I haven't met yet.
We had lunch: lamb, gravy, peas, roast potatoes. parsnips and Yorkshire puddings. Gordon cooks a surprisingly good sunday roast.
Gordon runs a social Meetup group every Tuesday. I've never been because I assume it's full of old people. I feel like I should visit at least once.
Dear Diary. Woke up during the night and couldn't get back to sleep. So I got out of bed and moved to the sofa in the living room. The glowing yellow numbers of the digital clock read 4 am. Outside, the sky was dark. But I felt wide awake. My mind and body were ready and eager to start the day. "Come on Paul, let's get going," said my brain. "You can get a couple of hours work done."
"No, brain, it's nighttime," I said. "This isn't the time for doing stuff. This is the time for sleeping. If you really can't sleep, then the most you can do now is read a book." So I read a book, How To Make Friends and Influence People. The gist of it is: don't be an asshole. I finally fell asleep at around 6:30 am. I woke up an hour later and everyone in the apartment was still asleep. I thought, maybe now I can get some work done. But first I had to empty my bladder. But as I crept to the toilet, both kids emerged from their bedroom, shouting, "Daddy, Daddy!" So much for doing any work this morning.
Later today I spoke to my brother. He says his baby daughter threw something for the first time today: a plastic ring. The baby lobbed it about 20 cm. Also, my brother's trying to buy a house for the first time and he's appalled by the process. He's found a house he likes but the seller is in a chain. The seller won't move out until the next person in the chain moves out of their house, and so on and so on. The chain is about ten people long. It will probably exist for years. My brother then found another house but the owner was asking for more money than the house is worth. When my brother offered a more modest sum, the owner said he's just going to keep renting the house out and watch the house's value keep going up and up.
In the evening I took 2-year-old to the local playground where I drew scary pictures on the walls with chalk.
6-year-old's finished his course of constipation medication. He's been taking it for a month. It's a special powder you mix in water; drinking it makes your stools looser. Now he's no longer taking the medication, his constipation has come back. Today he only did a tiny poo. I'll have to take him to the doctor again.
Dear Diary. I have a slight tear in my toenail. It's probably not a big deal but it keeps getting caught on the inside of my shoe, causing me pain. Girlfriend has a friend who’s a foot doctor. So I sent him a photo of my toenail via WhatsApp and said “I have a broken toenail, should I come see you?”
“You’ll need to come see me,” the doctor replied.
So today at 9:45 am I left the house on my electric scooter and rode it to where the doctor works. Girlfriend had given me the directions but I hadn't been listening because I already knew where it was. It was a big hospital on the edge of town.
I locked up my scooter outside the hospital. I went inside.
“I’m here to see Dr Juan Figueres,” I said to the receptionist.
"Who?"
I showed her his webpage on my phone. It said DR JUAN FIGUERES and had a profile photo of his bald bespectacled head.
She looked at my phone and laughed. “That’s at Clinica Bofill.”
“Is this not Clinica Bofill?” I said.
“This is Clinica Girona.” She gave me a look of incredulity.
I knew she was wrong so I walked around until I found a different receptionist.
“Is there a doctor here called Dr Juan Figures?” I asked her.
“What’s his speciality?”
“Feet.”
“There are no foot doctors here,” she said.
Maybe he wasn't here after all. Girlfriend was to blame for this.
I thought about calling the doctor to find out where he was. But what if he was in the middle of some important foot examination? I couldn’t just call him and say, “Where are you?”
I knew Clinica Bofill was back near my apartment, in the centre of town. So I rode my scooter over there. I've been stretching my back this week my back now feels young and supple. I enjoyed my new mobility by swinging my hips from side to side while riding the scooter, imagining I was Tony Hawk riding a skateboard.
I reached Clinical Bofill. I locked the scooter up and went inside. I showed the receptionist my phone. “I’m here to see Dr Juan Figueres.”
She squinted at my phone. “You’re in the wrong place. This is Clinica Bofill Girona Centre. You want Clinica Bofill Migdia.”
I swear all this is true.
I typed "Clinica Bofill Girona Centre" into my phone and there it was: on the other side of town, where I’d just come from. I had passed it twice without even noticing it. It was next to the hospital I'd just been to, Clinica Girona.
For the second time that day, I double-backed. Ten minutes later I was at the correct place. I locked the scooter to a bike rack, taking care not to let the wheels of my scooter run over a ladybird that was crawling on the ground. If I'm an idiot at least I can be kind.
I went inside.
“I'm here to see Dr Juan Figures,” I said to the receptionist.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but he's a friend of my girlfriend, and he said it'd be fine if I just showed up."
"Okay, please take a seat in the waiting room."
I sat in the waiting room. I have a cold and my nose kept filling up with mucus. I blew my nose with a tissue but five minutes later, the mucus had come back. I blew my nose again. I have two tissues in my pocket and when one gets too covered in snot, I switch to another one. When the second tissue is too covered in snot, I switch back to the first because by that point it's dry enough to use again.
Tinkling piano music played from hidden speakers. I could hear an elderly couple talking to the doctor from behind the door. It sounded like they were having a nice chat. The wait was interminable.
Finally the elderly couple came out. I had been sitting in the waiting room for half an hour. The doctor called me in.
"Hi Paul, how's it going?" he said.
"I got went to the wrong place. Then I went to another wrong place."
He did something to my toenail that took about two minutes. I don't even know what it was.
"Well, that's it. All done," said the doctor.
"That's it?" I said.
"That's it."
***
In the afternoon, I went to the library for three hours. I did some work. My keyboard went clickety-clack. The library makes me productive. I could feel the productivity flowing through me; I pulled out bad sentences like yanking out weeds.
Gordon sent me a message saying he was having a glass of wine at a cafe in a nearby park, so after the library, I went to go see him. He was sitting at a table with a man called Irish Dave. Irish Dave is balding and middle-aged. He looks a bit like Antony Worrall Thompson. (Only Gordon calls him "Irish Dave", his real name is David.) I met Irish Dave already, back in May, at Gordon's party celebrating 25 years of living abroad. At the party, Irish Dave was with his blue-haired wife Valetia but there was no sign of her today.
"She's back in England," Irish Dave explained. "Her dad's got a terminal illness. She's been back to England a lot to be with him. She'll back this weekend though."
"Oh right. Sorry to hear that," I said.
Gordon interjected: "It's been a bad year. Irish Dave has pulled his back recently. He's had time off work."
Gordon then went on to explain other misfortunes afflicting his other friends, like how his friend Chris fell ill a month ago with suspected Covid and now has dental problems. And how Chris's wife Vanessa had her house broken into. Plus Vanessa's dad's died.
It's all misery, misery, misery. It made me feel cheerful as their problems made my own problems seem dull in comparison. I wanted to stay longer to hear more but had to leave after five minutes; I had to rush home to look after the kids because Girlfriend had a parent meeting at 6-year-old's Scouts. Anyway, Gordon's invited me to his house for lunch this Sunday, so maybe I can learn more then.
***
I had this conversation with 6-year-old tonight:
Dear Diary. My dad's stealing is getting worse. My brother says my dad came home today with a roll of bin bags he stole from the army. My dad said, "I saw these and I went, 'Right, I'm 'avin' them.'" He doesn't even need to steal bin bags, just like he didn't need to steal a Celestron Astromaster 130 telescope from his school.
Dear Diary. Today I went to a wedding. One of Girlfriend's best friends was getting married. Girlfriend only has two best friends so this wedding was a big deal.
The bride is called Ester Bertran. Ester is somewhat of a celebrity here in Catalonia. She presents a daily segment on an afternoon TV show called Tot Es Mou. It's on the main Catalan TV channel, TV3. So I was hoping the wedding would be a red carpet event, perhaps televised from a helicopter and with special appearances from Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes (or whoever their Catalan equivalents are).
I don't normally get invited to weddings because I have no friends but since I was the boyfriend of one of the bride's best friends, they had to invite me.
The wedding was at a place called La Joia in the nearby town of Llambilles. It was a no-kids wedding so we left 2-year-old with his grandmother and 6-year-old with a family friend.
We arrived at the wedding. It was at a big country house surrounded by a lush green lawn. Strings of fairy lights hung overhead. People milling around wearing fancy clothes. I wore trainers, a cheap pair of trousers, and an unironed shirt from Primark. The trousers worried me the most. They were a light grey colour, nothing at all like the dark denim jeans I usually wear. If you accidentally wee yourself then everyone's going to see the patch of urine. I made a mental note to shake out my willy fully every time I went to the toilet.
Glasses of orange juice sat on a white-clothed table. I got two glasses because I have ear infections and orange juice is good for your health. I drank one glass. It tasted nice. There were bubbles in it.
“Paul, you know there’s alcohol in that right?” said Girlfriend. "It's cava mixed with orange juice."
The ceremony was about to begin. There were a hundred white seats. We sat down. Three women wearing matching dresses sang love songs. They reminded me of the muses from Disney's Hercules. I think I was the only foreigner at the wedding, everyone else was Catalan. I felt like an outsider. I felt like a researcher doing an ethnographical study of Catalans.
The best man gave a speech. The best man was the groom's brother. They're identical twins. They look identical except the best man has short hair and the groom has long curly hair like Bob Ross.
Then the bride's sisters gave a speech. The older sister looked just like the bride, just more wrinkles, slightly bigger teeth, different clothes, and a bandana on her head. The sisters talked like each other too: fast and full of enthusiasm. So far the wedding was like a science fair exhibit showing the effects of genes on phenotypic traits.
I couldn't understand most of what people were saying. My middle ears were blocked with mucus, making me deaf. Flies were buzzing around me and landing on my face, hands, and bare arms. I don’t know if the flies were landing on anyone else or just me. Sitting across the aisle from me was a 40-something milf wearing a thin flimsy dress. Her dress was backless, and she wore no bra, so I could see her entire beautiful back. Her skin was olive-coloured.
Then the little two-year-old daughter of the bride and groom came down the aisle in a miniature white Cadillac, which was remote-controlled by a man walking behind her. The girl looked scared. The Cadillac drove to the end of the aisle and stopped. The bride picked up her daughter. Then there were the "I do"s and the ceremony was over.
I saw my reflection in a window. I looked how a 37-year-old man should look: stiff lower back, hair cut to a sensible length, short beard, and shirt tucked into his trousers. I was impressed. Also my chest is bigger than my waist now thanks to going to the gym. All in all, I might be a solid 6/10.
After that was the lunch. Waiters went around with food on silver platters: anchovy on toast, croquettes, lobster skewers, salmon canard, and mini chicken burgers. Girlfriend and I sat with her group of friends from school. Normally I don't remember their names but this year I'm making a real effort to remember names and details about people. I write it all down on my phone. I took out my phone and typed in the web address of my People database but one of my fears came to pass: the remote country house had no internet signal and I couldn't access my database. I was tapping the refresh button but the webpage was still blank. In the end, I had to relearn everyone's names again.
There was an open bar but as I was driving later, I abstained from alcohol and drank only water. Girlfriend's friends were mostly the same. They were in their early 40s and they don't drink hard anymore. Instead, we stood around talking. It was hard for me to participate in conversations though with two blocked ears. In a strange way though it was also relaxing. Being deaf took the pressure off socialising, so I was free just to stand there and say nothing. A couple of times I even went to the car and read a book.
There was only one black person at the wedding. She was a nubile young woman with a pretty face. In my imagination, at the end of the night, we would steal down to the beach, she would hike her dress up and I would fuck her against a rock. It seemed a complete injustice that this didn't happen in real life.
Weddings are nothing like you see in films and TV. In films and TV, weddings are magical, everyone's dressed in their finest, and Hugh Grant gives a poignant speech about love. There's always some kind of drama. Questioning of love. Feelings of angst. Whereas now we're in our 40s there's no drama left in our lives. Real-life weddings are mostly boring. We just standing around. One man was wearing a baseball cap and another man was dressed in a denim suit.
I wouldn't mind going to another wedding though. If you're reading this and you want to invite me to your wedding, I'm in.
Dear Diary. I organised a dinner tonight at an Asian restaurant. And it was a success!! I invited everyone on the Costa Brava Buddys Whatsapp group. Seven people showed up. I already knew Gordon, Bea, and Alessandro. But I'd never met Veronica, Laura, and Roy before.
Reader, I don't know if you're interested in these people. In case you are, here's a short description of them:
I explained to everyone I have an ear infection in both ears. Alessandro said he found a cockroach in his cupboard a month ago. To solve the problem, he simply shut the door and hasn't opened it since then.
Alessandro also said he has a neighbour who smokes. Alessandro doesn't like the smell of smoke and doesn't know what to do.
"Start smoking," I said. "Then you'll learn to love the smell of smoke. And then it won't be a problem."
I didn't make much of an effort to remember what people told me. The information entered and left my brain like water.
Gordon was wearing a Kylie Minogue concert t-shirt. It was the same T-shirt he wore to the hike in July. I hope he washed it since then. Actually, his T-shirt looked in good condition. Maybe he could sell it on eBay for a hundred euros.
After dinner, we walked home together, since we live in the same general area. Alessandro was impressed with my electric scooter. I let him ride it up and down the street.
"Can you take your scooter to your friends' houses and charge it there?" he asked.
"I could, except I don't have any friends," I said.
Alessandro laughed. "I love it. Depressed Paul is the best Paul," he said.
"I charge it at home while crying from loneliness," I joked.
When I got home, I felt like playing an invisible trumpet like Paul Simon and Chevy Chase on You Can Call Me Al. My dinner was a success, it actually worked. People turned up and everyone had a nice time.
It made quite a difference to my 19th birthday party to which no one came, after which I got so drunk I could no longer feel emotion. On the way home I tried to steal a concrete plant pot but I gave up because the plant pot was too heavy.
I didn't get a plant pot tonight either, but I did get something better: the gift of friendship.
Dear Diary. My ears are getting worse. I have pain in both ears now. The pain in my left ear hurts the most. It feels like Mike Tyson's given me a dreaded double ear punch.
I haven't seen a doctor yet. Girlfriend says I should see a doctor tomorrow.
***Girlfriend was watching the news on TV just now when suddenly she jumped up and grabbed the remote. "Listen to this, it's really important!" she said excitedly.
She turned up the volume of the TV.
"What is it?" I said. I looked at the TV. It was something about football.
"Girona are playing in the Champions," she said.
"What is the Champions?" I said.
"Oh my god. Talking to you is like talking to a lettuce. You don't know anything about football. The Champions is where the best team in Europe play against other. It's the best cup."
"I thought the World Cup was the best cup? Wait, was the World Cup this year? No wait. That was the Euro Cup. So how many cups are there?"
"There's lots of cups. There's the Champions cup, the World Cup, and the Euro Cup. Then there's the American cup, and the African cup, and the Asian cup."
Christ, isn't that enough cups? It's the same with Mario Kart. When I was a kid playing the N64, Mario Kart only had four cups, which was enough. Then Mario Kart Wii came along which had eight cups, just to show off. And now Mario Kart 8 Deluxe has come out which has 12 cups plus 12 more cups in downloadable content, making 24 cups total. Where does Mario keep all the cups he wins? Does he have a giant cup cupboard under his stairs?