Gissa column…

… I can do that.

Columnists, eh? What’s all that about, then? For every witty, insightful, angry or thought provoking piece there are at least 10 others that make you want to cram your fists into your eyes and rip your brain out through the sockets. Perhaps I exaggerate. A bit.

As we know, that paragon of affable buffoonery, Boris Johnson, gets paid “chicken feed” for his, a mere £5k a time. Is this a gravy train anyone can jump on? As a subscriber to Time Out I read Michael Hodges’ ‘Slice of life’ every week and so have decided to write something in his style…

Last week the woman in our house I occasionally talk to (I would say “‘er indoors” but Arthur Daley already claimed that one) accused me of being a lazy, drunken oaf who does nothing for the well being and stimulation of the small child that lives in our house I occasionally refer to in these columns. I like to think I put up a good defence against this slight, however, I had been drinking a cheap but sturdy red all evening and so only managed to utter a few words before falling off the chair and landing face first in the dog’s food bowl. I have never been able to put an eloquent case while licking day old Pedigree Chum from around my lips…

The next day, ignoring my hangover and the piece of Winalot jammed in my left ear, I grabbed the small child that lives in our house and made off for the park, stopping only at the front door as the woman in our house I occasionally talk to thrust the dog’s lead into my hand. The dog was attached to the other end.

We made it to the local park with only seven falls (mostly mine and the dog’s) and the small child that lives in our house sprinted off to the play area. I took a seat on a bench that afforded a view of the recreational delights. I let the dog off the lead and it immediately sought refuge behind my legs as urban stereotypes with grinning shark dogs passed by. The dog has never been the same since it was mugged for its ball by a burly Yorkshire Terrier with tattoos.

An older urban stereotype sat beside me and started to talk about his life, pointing and jabbering with foam flecked lips. His dog, wearing a Muscle vest and with multiple piercings, pee’d on my shoes and glared menacingly at mine which had now taken to gnawing at the back of my knees with anxiety. Suddenly I heard a scream from the small child that lives in our house. I looked over and saw that it was hanging from the top of the slide while a younger urban stereotype, or maybe Banksy, started to stencil a design on the back of its onesie. At the same time the older urban stereotype crapped himself and kicked his dog, setting off a chain of events that culminated in my dog running in circles and wrapping its lead around my testicles. I decided that we should leave and seek a safer location.

Sitting in the pub half an hour later with a flat pint and the remnants of several packets of crisps strewn around me, I looked on in contentment as the small child that lives in our house enjoyed being nestled in the ample cleavage of the barmaid. The dog made itself busy between my legs hoovering up bits of crisp and the occasional torn beer mat. Then a gang of shaven headed urban stereotypes burst into the pub acting all stereotypical and stuff. One of the shaven headed urban stereotypes said something offensive to the barmaid concerning her ample cleavage and it kicked off. The small child that lives in our house bit the shaven headed urban stereotype on his nose, the other shaven headed urban stereotypes panicked, their shark dogs started fighting some table legs and each other, and my dog ended up on top of my head piteously whining a Coldplay song. I quickly calculated if I’d got enough out of the day’s experiences in order to fill this column and we took our leave.

On the way home I wondered at the lack of art galleries in the part of London where I live. Art galleries mean openings and openings mean free wine. I like free wine. Then I fell over and the dog vomited in my mouth. The small child that lives in our house looked on and slowly shook its head.

There. That’s nailed it. I doubt that Hodges gets £5k for his efforts so I won’t be asking for that. As one of many public sector workers who earn less than the average wage and face real term pay cuts for the next few years, 50 quid should do it. I promise I won’t think of it as chicken feed.