Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) (6 page)

I ask my wife if she’d like a go. She gives me an expression that speaks volumes and I let it pass.

We return safely to the forecourt, the grin on my face now so big the top of my head is in danger of falling off with a wet plop.

We get out and I inexplicably give the car a gentle pat on the bonnet. The salesman notes this and pound signs start floating in front of his eyes.

We then start to haggle.

This is where problems occur…

I can’t haggle. I’m useless at it.

I’m the type of person who likes to have a price staring them straight in the face from the get-go, with no chance of variation. Life is much simpler, and transactions proceed with a smoothness I adore.

The prospect of standing toe to toe with someone who is no doubt infinitely better at haggling than I am makes me nauseous.

The term
or nearest offer
fills me with dread.

Even using Ebay makes me break out in a cold sweat.

My new salesman friend begins the process by saying the car can’t go for less than £5,900. I say I’ll chuck in the Volvo as part exchange. He says that’ll knock off the paltry sum of a hundred quid, which shows he has enough talent at the car game to recognise a dying dog when he sees it.

I say it’s only ten years old and has got to be worth at least two hundred.

He looks at me in disgust.

Distress and panic set in.

Any hold I have over the negotiations flies out of the window and I start to make truly idiotic bids.

I tell him I’ll give him three grand for the car
. Half its value
.

He laughs, tells me I’m winding him up and reiterates the previous offer. I’ve already forgotten about using the Volvo as part exchange and counter with the genius bid of £5,850, thus putting myself another fifty quid out of pocket.

He looks stunned by this and starts to back away.

I stare at him for an uncomfortable amount of time before lowering my eyes and shuffling my feet.

It’s all going away from me at this point.

I’m so out of my depth I’m bumping into sperm whales and giant squid.

Floundering, I do the only thing at this point that might save my bacon… I call the wife over.

She comes, arms folding across her chest, taking in the situation with one glance. Knowing her husband and knowing what has to be done, she talks to the salesman and I melt into the background, feigning an interest in the condition of the alloy wheels.

My wife starts her own method of negotiating, which is to speak in the same low, monotonous tone and stare directly into the salesman’s eyes. It’s like watching a mongoose sizing up a snake.

Some time passes and I surface from my detailed alloy inspection to be told that we can have the car for £5,500 and absolutely no less.

I nod my head enthusiastically and delve into my pocket for my wallet, like I’m going to produce the cash there and then. I’m stopped by my wife and told we have to go into the salesman’s office to sort out the paperwork. This sinks in and I return the wallet in a hurry.

As my wife goes to collect Tom, I notice the salesman getting a good eyeful of her bottom. I instantly understand why we got five hundred quid off the car, and why all negotiations with salesman of any kind will henceforth be done by her.

Some thirty minutes later I emerge from the office in dreamy contentment.

I own a BMW.

With the key fob in my hand, I float towards my new acquisition on a wave of happiness. My wife and the salesman exchange parting pleasantries. He remarks on how sweet Tom is and she wishes him a nice rest of the weekend. Tom looks up from his kiddie seat with dribble around his mouth and a wide eyed smile.

Twenty feet away, his father looks exactly the same.

I press the alarm activator on the key fob. The alarm goes
beep beeeeeeep beeep
, the doors unlock and the lights flash.

I’m in Heaven.

I continue to stay in nirvana as we drive away from the salesman - who knows he’s just sold a five thousand pound car for five hundred quid extra - and set off for home.

I take a really, really long route.

For the next month, the sound of the alarm activating or de-activating will give me a little thrill every time I hear it. I’ll occasionally look at the car from the front window of my house and will spend more time than is necessary on a Sunday morning cleaning it.

I don’t mind the fact that my bank balance is now a hell of a lot smaller, or that my petrol consumption has sky rocketed. My friends at work like the car and I can tell they’re all just a bit jealous.

Everywhere I go, I drive upright and proud, grinning all the time.

The car may not look like a penis, but I more than make up for that by looking like one myself while I drive it.

The car won’t start to have problems for nearly a year and a half, and by that time I have far larger concerns.

Namely, the increasing likelihood that my wife - who so neatly stepped into fill the breach on that garage forecourt - is going to divorce me.

11.56 pm

11907 Words

That ended on a bit of a down note, didn’t it?

Sorry about that.

I didn’t intend it to, but these things happen.

I’ll be honest with you, I considered deleting the last paragraph to finish the story on a high, but then decided against it. After all, I said I was going to be honest with you and that’s what came out on the page.

You may be wondering what went wrong with my wife and I promise to get to it before this book is done.

I’m going to leave it for a while though, if you don’t mind. It’s the kind of thing I need a good run up to.

So, how are we doing as the night drags on and these chairs deaden the feeling in our posteriors?

Not too bad I think, not too bad at all.

I’m still feeling pretty fresh. Still up for some rock n’ roll.

Hope you are too.

It looks like I’ve still got your attention and that’s a very good thing.

By this point in a book the reader has pretty much decided whether they’re enjoying themselves, and will probably stick it out to the end if they are.

Our friendship is growing all the time and it looks like you’ve relaxed in my company.

Look…
you’ve taken off your shoes and put your feet on the desk. Both good signs that you’re content.

There might be aspects you’d change if you could, I’m sure.

You might occasionally blanch at the language I use, the metaphors and analogies I’m employing, or the way I construct my paragraphs - but on the whole you’re pretty happy with the big picture.

As a writer, that’s nice to know. It massages my fragile ego nicely.

All writers have fragile egos to one extent or another.

Writers like me - who haven’t reached the giddy heights of fame and fortune - tend to have the most fragile of all.

Anyone who works in the creative arts tends to suffer from it. It’s part of the job.

Actors, painters, singers, dancers and writers: we’re all basically hoping what we do is appreciated, enjoyed and above all
wanted
.

When I’m writing, it’s coming from the heart, so when you get rejections or knock backs, it hits home heavily.

Every story I write - everything I put on the page - is personal. And pretty life consuming while I’m writing it.

You’d like to think you were creating a masterpiece, but there’s a part of you more likely to worry it’s a disaster of epic proportions.

I call this the
black little voice
, which chips in every once in a while and makes you doubt yourself.

It’s very important to ignore him, as he’ll drive you crazy.

Some people try to drown him out with drink or drugs. I prefer to ignore him the way you tune out interference on the radio when a song comes on that you like. I only resort to intoxicants when the knob breaks off.

Quick, let’s move on as fast as possible, so he doesn’t notice what’s happening and ruin the flow I’ve got going…

Every writer is emotionally attached to their work, so when you send your baby out into the world for analysis and appraisal, you’re filled with a strange combination of dread and mindless optimism.

You hope the little fella will stand on his sturdy little legs and walk in a straight line, without bumping into the furniture too much. You know you won’t be able to stand behind him with your arms outstretched, ready to catch him if he falls, so you spend an anxious time waiting to hear a cry of startled pain or gurgle of excitement.

This is otherwise known as
feedback
.

I guess that’s why I decided to take this project on.

At least I’ll only spend a short amount of time on it, so if nobody likes it the blow will be far easier to deal with. No harm, no foul. Only a weekend lost.

The labour will be over quickly and the delivery won’t be too exhausting.

Besides, I’m actually enjoying this immensely. It beats watching Lost repeats any day.

Having said all that stuff about fragile egos and rejections, let’s not get it out of proportion, shall we?

There’s nothing worse than listening to some arty type, tragically bemoaning their lack of success, the long hours they’ve put in
suffering
for their art, and how under appreciated they feel.

When I talk to folks like that, I have a fancy to line up some junior doctors, policemen and firemen while they’re gabbing away about not being appreciated - and let them pound on their stupid faces for a couple of hours.

I first discovered a desire - and a degree of talent I'd like to think - for writing at school. English classes were always my favourite, despite being sat next to a rather obnoxious fat boy called Clive, who liked to pick his nose with my Star Wars pencil.

I was thirteen and had a BMX - which was the coolest thing in the world.

I remember we were given a project to create an outline for a book we’d like to write. To me, this sounded like a fantastic idea and I threw myself into it with abandon.

The TV was switched off, the pencils were sharpened to a lethal point and the BMX was left out in the garden, one wheel spinning forlornly in the breeze.

Four weeks later my masterpiece was complete.

I’d been reading Tolkien’s The Lord Of The Rings and was heavily influenced by it, so my project was a searing epic full of wizards, magic and dubious plot developments.

I thought it was
wonderful
.

It had maps and character descriptions. It had a run down of the plot and a detailed back story. It was the blueprint for a novel so epic, it’d make The Bible look like a pamphlet. It was a labour of love.

I handed it to the teacher - who looked a little worried by the size of it - and wandered off to buy sweets, secure in the knowledge an A grade was on the cards.

‘Twas not to be.

In the end, I received a D - because the teacher felt it was too long and didn’t conform to the assignment we’d been given. And she was right.

We were told to write two thousand words.

I’d written nearly
twenty five
thousand.

Including all the folded maps I’d drawn, the thing was enormous. I had to carry a bowling ball under my left arm to balance the weight of my school bag under the right.

I took the D with the kind of grace and acceptance any thirteen year old would demonstrate. I stormed home with a face like thunder, kicked the cat and snapped the arms off all my Star Wars action figures.

I got my first taste of rejection at a young age, but the disappointment didn’t hold me back or depress me for too long.

It was that wonderful time of life where let-downs are usually forgotten about once the cartoons come on.

My mother wasn’t quite so pleased when she found out I’d failed the assignment and the cartoons were withheld in no uncertain terms for a couple of weeks.

As I reached my late teens, I found my capacity for invention on the page was, if not quite limitless, then at least relatively prolific and I started to write more, convinced a best seller was just around the corner.

Everything I wrote was crap, of course.

At eighteen years old, you like to think you’ve already arrived at all the answers to the important questions in life, and have a solid and unshakable belief you’re great and the rest of the world just doesn’t know it yet.

I would sit for seemingly endless hours perched on a chair (nowhere as comfortable as this one) tapping away on a rapidly aging electronic typewriter, which was slower than the shifting continental plates and needed its ink ribbon changing nearly every day.

I was fully convinced I was creating masterpieces at every turn. That my prose was blinding, my observations striking, my characters well-rounded and my plots Machiavellian in their brilliance.

In reality, what I was writing were bad knock-offs of the authors I liked at the time:

James Herbert writes a book about killer rats, I write a short story about killer hedgehogs. It was called ‘Spine Slaughter’.

Robert Ludlum writes about a secret agent with no memory, I write about a covert ops soldier with no memory.

And so it went on.

Ream after ream of rubbish.

Page after page of recycled plot devices and one-dimensional characters, displaying no originality
whatsoever
.

I would have made a great Hollywood studio executive…

You may think I’m being hard on myself but trust me, I’m not.

Memorably, one of my stories started with this particular piece of astounding prose - original grammar included:

 ‘He was dead, and he knew it. His lungs were ruptured, and his brains leaked, all over the road. He’d received the bullets straight into his body without screaming, as any man of his mettle should do.’

See what I mean?

Horrific
.

How the hell do you ‘receive a bullet’?