Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (21 page)

Then I remembered. Sarah had an infallible password system, which involved rearranging your address and date of birth. I was sure she’d have imposed this system on Brad and I was right. I
worked out his password and I was in.

This was it. I was a genuine hacker, like those spotty teenagers who get arrested for breaking into the Pentagon computers.

Someone called ‘Sandra Barker’ liked that. Strange girl.

I dialled it up a notch:

No responses to that one. Even Sandra Barker wasn’t that weird. Next I tried:

Again, there was no response. I wondered if I’d made my fraping too obvious too soon. I deleted the posts and tried a different tack:

The first response said, ‘Sorry to hear that. What happened?’ The second said, ‘Hope U R OK.’ I hit the jackpot with the third response, though. It read, ‘To be
honest, mate, I think you were spared.’ I ‘liked’ this comment and logged out.

My bathroom tap stopped working today, so I had to call out a plumber. I did a Google search and chose the one nearest to my house. He said he was too busy to come, but
miraculously managed to find the time when I offered him an extra twenty quid.

He turned up at 8 p.m. and I showed him to the bathroom. I always find it stressful when tradesmen come round because you’re supposed to call them ‘mate’ but I find it too
embarrassing.

‘What’s the problem, mate?’ asked the plumber. He was chewing gum with his mouth open, which was putting me on edge. I just wanted to point the problem out and leave him to do
his plumbing.

‘There’s no water coming out of the tap,’ I said. I tried to force out the word ‘mate’ but for some reason I said ‘dude’ instead. I think I must have
caught it from Jez.

The builder looked at me in confusion before crouching down and inspecting the tap. He unscrewed a small bit of metal from the end and held it up.

‘Blocked aerator,’ he said. He scraped some dirt out of it with his finger and screwed it back on. The water came out in full flow again. I waited for him to say something about how
it wasn’t a proper plumbing job so I didn’t have to pay, but he just looked at me and chewed his gum.

I winced and handed over the cash, including the painful extra twenty. He stuffed the money into his pocket and made his way down the driveway.

‘Thanks,’ I shouted after him.

‘Anytime,’ he said, getting into his van. ‘Party on, dude.’

I tried watching TV tonight. There was a reality show about some stupid people shouting at each other. There was a programme where some celebrities from the eighties were quite
rightly tortured for wanting to be famous again. Then there was one of those talent contests judged by talentless idiots who think it’s possible to have a million per cent of something. At
least, I think it was a talent contest. The only thing they seemed to be showcasing was their recent personal misfortune. Maybe they’ve cut the performances from these things now and
they’re just competing over who has the best sob story.

The picture quality on all this stuff was brilliant, of course. I got so excited when high-definition TV came out that I forgot there’s nothing worth watching any more.

You’ll be able to see all the action in pin-sharp detail, they said. But they forgot to tell us that the action we’d be able to see in pin-sharp detail was a former boyband member
eating a kangaroo’s testicle. You’ll believe they’re actually in the room with you, they said. But they forgot to tell us that the person we’d think was in the room with us
was a woman spewing into the gutter outside a nightclub.

Thanks a lot, HD. Where were you when man walked on the moon? Where were you when Frost interviewed Nixon? Where were you when Debbie Harry was on
Top of the Pops
? It’s all well and
good being around now, but don’t you think it’s a tad late?

Today is Easter Sunday, which means we’re supposed to eat overpriced chocolate to celebrate Jesus coming back to life. I can’t quite remember the link, but I think
it’s something to do with rabbits. I’m pretty sure they explained it at school.

I spent the day unscrewing the ends from all my taps. How can something so simple have caused me so much inconvenience? Why had no one ever told me to do that if a tap stops
working? You’d think the guy who put them in might have mentioned it. To be fair, he probably would have done if I hadn’t been hiding so I didn’t have to call him
‘mate’.

This new phone isn’t quite the punishment Graham said it would be. I think I actually prefer it. You don’t have to click on any minuscule icons before making a call.
You just press the numbers and then the call button. The camera’s so terrible I never consider getting it out, which means that if I see something interesting like a sunset or motorway
pile-up, I can enjoy it without worrying about taking a photo. And best of all, I can’t get emails on it, so I get a proper break from work when I’m away from my computer.

It’s possible that onlookers would point and jeer if I used it on the street, but I hate phoning in public anyway. I’ve had so many train journeys ruined by idiots yelling into their
phones that I try not to inflict that pain on others. But if I ever had to use it in public, at least I’d know nobody would want to nick it. And that’s a feature Apple will never be
able to build into their phones.

None of the lights were on in the TC Waste Solutions offices when I arrived, but the door was open.

I made my way through reception and down the murky corridor to Trevor’s office. I wondered if he would be waiting behind one of the filing cabinets, ready to spring out and force a pissy
chocolate bar down my throat.

I found Trevor inside his office, inspecting a grey box file.

‘So what was this urgent project?’ I asked.

‘There isn’t one!’ he shouted. ‘April fool!’

I shrugged. I’d forgotten it was April Fools’ Day, but I certainly didn’t mind getting out of another tedious brochure.

‘That wasn’t one of the great April fool jokes, was it?’ I asked.

Trevor lifted an ancient Letts diary out of the box file and flipped through the dusty pages.

‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘April 1st. “Dave Cross told me that Mandy Riley would give me a blowjob if I gave her a pound and said the password ‘Hubba Bubba’.
Mandy slapped me and told Mrs Mitchell. Now I have a week of detention.” Was that one of the greats?’