Daft Wee Stories (13 page)

He asked everybody to leave, so that he could chat with his doctor in private. ‘So, what are my options?' he asked. The doc said he could have the eye out immediately, right there and then, the sooner the better; it was an abomination. Arnold was about to give the doc the nod when he wondered if he could maybe have a bit of fun with it first. The doctor reluctantly agreed to let Arnold go for a wee half-hour wander, but he must return before the clock struck three, or the eye would turn into a pumpkin. Arnold couldn't believe his ears. A pumpkin? The doctor told him he was only joking, but he'd really like him back by about three. Arnold left, excited about all the things he was going to do in this final thirty minutes with his arse eye.

The first thing he did was a shite, to watch the shite pass his eye and plop into the pan below. That was good.

Then he had sex, anal sex, and watched the cock go back and forth like something out of a 3D film. And that was good as well. But after that, he was out of ideas. Except one.

He had the idea to stand in front of an oncoming bus, then pull down his trousers and pants and show the driver his arse. The driver would think Arnold was about to get hit because he wasn't looking behind him, but Arnold would rely on the eye in his arse to gauge how close the bus was before jumping out the way. The driver would be amazed.

So with a few minutes left in his half-hour playtime, Arnold walked onto the road and flashed his arse to an oncoming bus. His vision was perfect, his arse eye was twenty-twenty. But the problem with just having one arse eye is that you can't judge distance very well. You need two eyes for that. So he left it too late. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway. When he tried to jump, he tripped because his trousers were round his ankles, and he got demolished.

I think the worst thing that ever happened to Arnold was finding that eye in his arse.

Typical, thought Joe. The one day he goes out cycling without either a spare tube or a pump is the day he gets a puncture. It just had to fucking happen today, didn't it? And the funny thing is, he deliberately left the tube and pump in the house in the hope that it would help him cycle just that wee bit faster. The tube, the pump, the bottle of water, the Allen keys, all the essential bits and bobs that they tell you to never leave the house without, all left in the house, for the sake of lightening his load by no more than a fraction. It was stupid, it was risky, but he hadn't had a puncture for well over two years, and had no reason to think that today would be the day that the planets aligned to take the total piss out of him.

He wondered how long he'd have to walk. He remembered what the cycle route looked like on the map before he left the house. It was one big fuck-off canal path that went on for twenty miles, occasionally passing by a wee village, but mostly passing through nothing but fields. He got out his phone and opened up the map, hoping that he was just five minutes away from a train station or something. But no. A forty-five-minute walk to the nearest town, and no sign of a train station either. He shook his head. No doubt it would start bucketing down into the bargain, the way his fucking luck was going. And to think he got himself into this because he wanted to go faster. Haha. He was going fucking nowhere.

‘D'you want a pump?' came the voice behind him.

Joe turned around to see who was speaking, and had to stop himself from smiling. It was a woman. A good-looking woman, he thought. She looked fit and athletic. Her face was shiny with sweat, her cheeks were red, and the way she was heavy breathing made her look like she was blowing him a kiss. In short, she looked pure sexy. And she'd asked him if he wanted a pump.

‘Cor,' said Joe, ‘you don't waste any time, do you, sweetheart?'

No, he didn't really say that, don't worry. But the thought did pop into his head. It was an unpleasant surprise. He didn't know where it came from, he never considered himself to be a sleazeball. He wasn't, he was sure he wasn't, yet here he was, with a thought that wouldn't be out of place in a
Carry On
film. He wondered if maybe that's all it was, maybe he'd watched one too many
Carry On
films when he was younger, and it just seemed like the most natural punchline to that kind of setup. But that was a cop-out, because it wasn't a setup, this was real life, and he knew it.

He was fucking ashamed. He felt like a thirteen-year-old. He felt like some immature schoolboy that can't have a conversation with a female without spunking in his drawers. But he wasn't thirteen, he didn't have that excuse. He was a grown man who should know better. All that stuff about her looking fit and athletic and blowing him a kiss, Jesus fucking Christ. You've got a puncture, mate, and a helpful cyclist (who just happens to be a woman) stopped to see if you need assistance. She wants to know if you want a loan of her bike pump, that's all.

Or is it?

Is that all it is? Maybe, just maybe, she doesn't really mean a bike pump. Maybe she really does mean that other type of pump. A pump-pump.

Oh my God. I can't believe you're thinking that. Just tell her to go. Tell her to go right now, tell her you're dangerous and she should cycle away as fast as she can. Tell her you're a sleazeball and you can't understand why a woman would talk to you other than to initiate sexual intercourse.

No, he thought. Let's keep an open mind here. Aye, it's narrow-minded to think she must be after a shag, but it could be argued that it's also narrow-minded to assume that she isn't. Women have a sexual dimension just like you, mate, and for you to find it strange that a woman would wish to act upon that is … well, it's sexist. It's actually sexist. Maybe she's genuinely asking if you fancy a shag. Maybe she's using the bike pump thing as a double-meaning thing, to get the conversation going, so that she can chat for a while first, work out if you're what she's after, and then, if you're not, back out of the whole thing by saying that she only meant a bike pump. Think about it, why is she offering you a pump when you've probably already got one? What's the use in her offering a pump without also offering a spare inner tube? If she thinks you've already got a spare inner tube, what would you be doing with that without also having a pump? The situation doesn't make any sense unless you see it from the point of view of her asking you if you fancy a shag. You thought the planets were aligning, well, maybe they are, but not to take the piss out of you. They're aligning to get you your hole.

Or maybe, you utter fucking sleazeball, she's just asking if you want a bike pump for your flat tyre. Now tell her you're fine, thanks, and let her get the fuck out of here.

‘I'm fine, thanks,' he said.

She smiled. ‘All right,' and off she cycled down the canal path ahead. He began walking in that direction himself, keeping his eyes to the ground to avoid looking at her arse; he'd sickened himself enough today already. When he could no longer hear her tyres against the dirt, he felt it was safe to look up.

And there, in the distance, he saw her stopping to say something to a middle-aged guy in wellies walking his dog. The guy looked over his shoulders, left and right, then nodded at her. He tied the dog's leash to a branch; she got off her bike and led him into the bushes.

When Joe eventually caught up with them a few minutes later, he had a wee peek. Looked like he was right about the planets aligning to take the piss out of him after all. The pair of them were going at it hammer and tongs.

Joe was gutted. It looked fucking brilliant.

There once was a man who was shite at playing games. The kind you play on your phone. Puzzle games, action games, you name it. His skillz were laughable.

So he decided to cheat.

He got some apps that made him shit hot; he felt fantastic, top of the world. But then he realised it was all just pretend. It was all in his mind. He wasn't actually good, he was just imagining he was. And if he was just imagining he was, why bother even playing the game in the first place? He may as well just imagine that as well.

So he did.

He put down his phone and simply imagined himself playing. It was a brilliant idea. It cut out the middleman. It cut out the middleman of staring at a screen for half the day, plus it saved him a few quid, because he could play any game he liked, games that didn't even exist, and it cost him nothing. He imagined himself winning over and over, and in a far shorter time than if he was winning in real life. In real life, even the shortest game would take at least a minute. In his mind, he could convince himself he was winning ten games a minute. Or a hundred games a second. It was up to him. It put a right spring in his step, it was so fucking easy.

Too easy.

He needed a challenge. He needed to imagine at least some sense of achievement, some sense of there being a battle against the odds. So he lost a few games. Not many, to begin with. Every thousand wins or so, he'd chuck in a loss, to balance it out. It hurt, but not enough. So he chucked in some more. A loss every few hundred. Then a loss every fifty. Then a loss every ten. Before long, he lost as many games as he won, it was fifty-fifty.

And soon after that, he was on a total losing streak. He was back to being shite.

His skillz were laughable.

So he decided to cheat.

These people that run marathons wearing a bear costume, it's incredible. Not only running twenty-six miles non-stop, but huffing and puffing inside a big furry suit. All that body heat having nowhere to go. Plus there's the weight itself holding you back, it must be a nightmare. And I should know.

I think it was about a month ago, I was in the motor at the traffic lights one afternoon, and crossing the road was somebody in a bear costume. They had the full thing, the suit, the head, the lot, like a big teddy bear. It wasn't a marathon or some other kind of race, I didn't know what the occasion was, and I'm quite sure nobody else knew either. But that didn't stop passers-by going in for a cuddle and a picture. It didn't stop my fellow drivers beeping their horns and waving in the hope of getting a wave back. When the light went green, I quickly rolled down the window to give the bear a wave myself, and when it waved back to me, I was delighted. I'm a grown man, but I have to admit it, it gave me a right wee buzz.

As I drove away, I looked in the rear mirror and saw what the occasion was. A lassie had appeared from a pub with a pink bucket, and began walking alongside the guy in the costume. They asked a few folk around to chuck in some coins, before heading into another pub nearby – they were collecting for charity, obviously. I thought that was really good of them, I felt good will towards them. Funny thing was, I felt good will towards that teddy anyway, even before I found out the person inside was doing it to raise money. And that, to me, was quite a revelation.

None of us knew. Back when people were going in for their cuddles and we were beeping our horns and waving, we didn't know it was anything to do with charity. We didn't know why that person was in a bear suit. It wasn't Pudsey Bear from Children in Need. It wasn't some famous bear we all knew and loved, like Paddington Bear or Bear in the Big Blue House or thingy from
Rainbow
. It was just a bear. Yet we all had love for it. We all sent our warm feelings and best wishes to this complete stranger. And I thought, Here, I could really do with that.

Things haven't been going too well recently. I've not exactly been having a lot of warm feelings or best wishes coming to me, not from strangers, not from friends either. I've fallen out with one or two of them, plus things aren't going well in work. It's not my fault, I've just got a bit of a bad habit of doing the wrong thing and landing myself right in it. It's been like that for a while. So when I saw all that good will that bear was getting, I thought, you know, I want to get that as well.

So I did.

I bought myself a bear costume.

It was a good one, I got it online. I could have got something cheaper, but the cheaper ones looked cheap, like, the head bit was just a hood you pulled up that had ears at the top. I wanted the same as that bear I saw at the traffic lights. It cost a king's ransom, but I wanted that kind. That one was perfect, so that's what I got, something that looked like that. I stuck it on and checked myself out in my bedroom mirror, and d'you know what? It was actually better than the one at the traffic lights. It was bigger or something, and it just had a better finish or shine. Maybe it was because the one at the traffic lights was a bit worn out and mine was brand new, I don't know, but it looked really good.

And then I got in my motor, and headed up the toon.

Looking back, maybe I shouldn't have went out on a Saturday night. Maybe a weekday afternoon would have been better. Doing it on a Saturday night was a bit daft, especially when the pubs were just emptying out. But I thought, you know, in at the deep end.

Anyway, it was some buzz. Parking the motor, taking a deep breath, sticking on the big teddy bear head and then stepping out. Right away I heard shouts and whistles and folk beeping their horns as they drove past. That was within ten seconds of stepping out the motor, I'm not joking. And I wasn't even in a busy bit.

When I walked round to Sauchiehall Street, my God! I had lassies running up to me wanting their photo, guys instantly becoming my best mate, I was getting carried, cuddled, it was out of this world. I felt like I was in a boy band. No, I felt like I was all five members of a boy band rolled into one, walking down a busy city-centre street on a Saturday night. I could barely move two steps without somebody else wanting a picture or a cuddle or a handshake or a high five. My jaws were aching with all the smiling I was doing, not that anybody would have seen. I'd only been out in the costume for less than half an hour, yet I was already sure that this was the best night of my life.