Happy fuckin' Christmas.

And happy Bramiversary.

Gee.

Cocks, etc.

I was in the staffroom on my lunch break innocently reading 'The Ticket' (yes, it was a Friday) and eating a purple snack bar while some colleagues sitting around me chatted away. Half-listening, I would occasionally grab snippets of their conversation.

—...lunch box...seventeen...O'Meara...scratchcard...

It wasn't very interesting. I was much more interested in the theatre listings. I fancied myself as a bit of an art snob sometimes. I didn't even like the theatre, but it was worth going just to tell people you went and see their reaction.

—I was in the Abbey last night.

—OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Yeah. My colleagues were all insufferable. Though in fairness, they probably thought I was an ignorant git myself. But that's how the cookie crumbles.

—So Jonathan, do you like cock?

My ears pricked up. Did she ACTUALLY just ask him that?

—Well Bernie, to be honest I'm not MAD into it. But I dabble on occasion.

—Really? That's nice. I always had a feeling. You know the way.

I lowered my newspaper a little and peered over my glasses with eyebrows raised. Jonathan was a young baldy bloke with a scruffy beard and trendy glasses. And he was talking about cock.

—Well, I mean, flange is all right I suppose, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Cock's more up my street in a way. Not that I have much of a street.

Bernie and Denise laughed very highpitched and very irritating laughs. I stared slightly more incredulously.

—To be honest, said Denise, I love the cock. Nothing better than a mouthful of cock when you come home in the evening.

—Yeah, I know what you mean, Denise, said Bernie. A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush!

This time all three of them laughed. They kept laughing even after I couldn't remember what Bernie had said in the first place. Jonathan had a bellowing English laugh which was really annoying.

After another minute I'd had enough.

—I mean, REALLY. You just think you can sit here and talk about cock and LAUGH without me saying anything? Well, you thought wrong. You are a shower of insufferable BASTARDS and you need to all grow up and GET A LIFE. What the FUCK is wrong with you. Fuck sake.

I threw my copy of 'The Ticket' on the table and stormed out of the staffroom, dropping the wrapper of my snack bar on the floor along the way. I stood outside in the courtyard and lit myself a green Marlboro, blowing smokerings as I smoked. A cooing pigeon landed near to me and I kicked it.

I hate pigeons.

Hari-kari.

I was walking down the side of Belgrave Square having just bought myself a greasy MacDonald's burger in the Swan Centre when I saw Siobhán walking along about ten yards in front of me.

—Siobhán! I said, but she didn't react. I picked up my pace a little to catch up with her.

—Siobhán! I said again. She seemed to have earphones in. What a surprise she'll get when she sees me I thought, and so I ran a little faster until I was right behind her.

—Siobhán, you leatherheaded fuck! I shouted, clattering her across the back of the head with my left hand (in which was held the halfeaten two-euro cheeseburger).

The next second seemed to go on forever. She turned around very slowly as if in shock, and then it hit me. It wasn't Siobhán after all. It was a very irate man that looked nothing like Siobhán.

—Jaysus! I said.

—What the fuck! said the man in a very angry voice.

—I, I, I'm sorry, I just...you know, well, I think...you see, it was, eh, well, I thought that, eh, Siobhán—

—Who the fuck is Siobhán? he said, getting more irate by the minute. His hair was the same colour as hers. That was something. An orangey blob of gooey MacDonald's cheese protruded from the top of his curly mop.

—You see, it was all very innocent really, I just THOUGHT, I mean I THOUGHT that I saw Siobhán but clearly I didn't and I must have just accidentally fallen on top of you instead there. So no harm done and all, yeah! I said, trying to convince myself as well as the irate man of this version of events but failing on both accounts. I was shaking like a leaf. My hands made their ways into my jacket pockets (the burger discarded on the ground in semi-shock) and my right hand grasped the Leatherman multitool which was concealed in my pocket.

—What the FUCK is wrong with you you plastic bastard? he said. His eyes were slightly red, and seemed almost ready to pop out of his head.

—I'm sorry Siobhán. I can't even say any more. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I said, grasping the multitool in my pocket and stabbing myself in the bowels with it through the lining of my jacket. I whimpered a little, but he didn't seem to notice.

—My name's not Siobhán, it's Brian you stupid fuck.

—I'm sorry Brian, I said vaguely. The pain was rather excruciating and my nether regions felt like they were about to burst. Bizarrely enough after a second the pain disappeared and it was replaced by the vaguely pleasant sensation of warmth you feel when you piss yourself. Suddenly I felt myself losing balance.

—I really am sorry, I am! That's why I hari-kari'd myself. It seemed like a good idea at the time but then again so did Hiroshima. O, this honour business is rotten. I don't want to die! All I wanted was to have a bit of fun and see the rugby match. O, O, O.

Brian looked very confused and I realized he must have thought that I was mad. I probably was. Suddenly a feeling of lightheadedness overcame me. In desperate panic I tore my bloody hands from my pockets and grabbed at Brian's voluminous bouffant to keep myself upright, smearing his face with pinkish blood in the process. This didn't really work and instead I sent him flying onto the road and straight under the wheels of a passing Panda bin lorry.

What a shame I thought as I lay in a gathering pool of blood next to my discarded cheeseburger.

What a shame indeed.