by Chris Pascoe
His wife still remembers exactly where she was when he phoned her to tell her what he’d done. She says she always will.
Anyway, I received one further letter on the subject of ablutions. A reader named Pia informed me of her cat Whisky’s habit of jumping into her empty bath and relieving himself down the plughole.
The reader seemed to be very happy about this. As she’d enclosed her e-mail address, I wrote and asked why. ‘Better than on the carpet,’ she replied. Doesn’t your bathroom stink of cat urine, I asked. ‘Not at all, he’s an excellent shot!’
Two months after we agreed to disagree on the merits of your cat urinating in your bath, Brum urinated in the bath. He hopped in as I stood cleaning my teeth, raised his head and tail, closed his eyes in blissful contentment and sent a jet straight down the plug-hole. I watched in stunned silence. Had he read Pia’s e-mail? Where had he got this idea from? Perhaps he’d been doing it for years – I have no idea, but he was certainly doing it now! To say that Brum is also an excellent shot doesn’t do the boy justice. His stream was so spot-on that it splashed and tinkled into the plughole without touching the sides. And it went on for ages. Much too long. I tapped my foot and waited for him to finish for nearly a minute. It was like watching an elephant go. When he’d finally finished, he simply hopped out of the bath with an air of total nonchalance.
‘Oi!’ I shouted. ‘You wait just one moment, Birmingham. You’re in big trouble!’
But he didn’t think so. He seemed very pleased with himself indeed. And I’m not exactly sure whether he should or shouldn’t have been. I inspected the bath after he’d gone. Not a drip seemed to have missed its target. Now, when I think about it, isn’t this the perfect place for a cat to pee? If you turn the tap on regularly, isn’t it the same as a toilet flush? Isn’t this a far better option than a smelly, unhygienic litter tray? I think it probably is, and I e-mailed Pia to tell her so. ‘But doesn’t Brum have a cat-flap and a garden to go to the toilet in?’ she e-mailed back. ‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Well – that’s disgusting, then,’ she said.
Brilliant. We’d gone full circle. Whisky lives at the top of a high-rise and uses his brains. Brum’s a lazy and disgusting slob. Settled.
One reader-letter in particular came as a big surprise. It was from a lady named Natalie, who told me all about a troublesome cat she’d owned in the sixties. What was really amazing about the letter was the address at the top. I couldn’t quite believe it. Natalie lived two doors down from Peanuts.
Peanuts had a whole chapter of A Cat Called Birmingham devoted to him. Peanuts was a double-hard mad-psycho cat, who scared the life out of Brum and serial-killed rabbits, leaving only one paw and a bobtail as evidence of each grisly slaughter. And Natalie was his neighbour. Isn’t it a strange world? She read all about a psychotic cat in a book, without realising it was the cat next door but one!
That letter brought back memories! Natalie still lives in the road, but Peanuts moved away a few years ago. I decided to track him down. Not through a newspaper column or anything – PEANUTS. WE ARE MISSING YOU. PLEASE CONTACT US. WE LOVE YOU – but through his owners, a couple named Heather and Simon.
Through various old e-mail addresses, etc., I found him. He now lives in the French Alps! Heather’s description of Peanuts as an old man of the mountains was so funny that I feel it’s my duty to print it here:
Peanuts is well. He still has one tooth left and is now very deaf . . . which can prove exciting for him at times. He’s so deaf that we try to throw shadows across him as we approach by way of compensating for his lack of hearing – otherwise things get a bit chaotic. Unfortunately the cats that he spent the whole of last year beating to a pulp aren’t quite so considerate, so he’s learnt to sit with his back against the wall. We don’t have rabbits here – all the snakes/eagles and other wild animals have eaten them – so Peanuts chases lizards now, but with just one tooth left – Peanuts, not the lizards – it proves quite interesting and he tells me they are extremely bitter. Well, who wouldn’t be while being gummed to death? He has also learnt to speak French and now meows loudly, with such a tone of distress and misery, and continues this verbal onslaught for such prolonged periods of time, that we find ourselves wondering if he has been possessed or if he’s auditioning for The X Factor. I read some of your book out to Peanuts, including the bit about him being the ‘Australian cure-all’ (for ridding Australia of their epidemic of rabbits), which he seemed rather pleased by, but while I found it highly amusing he seemed to take it all rather seriously as though it were a distinct possibility.
A distinct possibility indeed. The scourge of rabbits! I’ve yet to meet a bigger worry to the leporine world than that lad.
Finally, a letter from Violet from County Antrim.
I’ve learnt all about her hot-water-bottle-hugging cat of bygone times. This cat had an old stone pot variety of water bottle to snuggle up to, but of course hot-water bottles nowadays are a much flimsier proposition. A modern rubber-bottle-hugging Brum could have you waking in the dead of night convinced you’d had a very nasty accident indeed.
Violet is catless these days, and has long considered taking in another feline friend, but worries that the possibility of ending up with a ‘Brum’ is too risky. I have to admit that, judging by the letters I’ve received, the chances of another Brum are higher than previously thought. But so what – a Brum’s better than no cat at all, even if there is every chance it will totally destroy your house, self-confidence and life.
Go on, Violet – get another cat.
Beggar, Billy, Barmy Spy
‘How is it that little children are so intelligent and men so stupid? It must be education that does it.’
Alexandre Dumas
Sometimes I like to be independent. Sometimes I like to shrug off Maya and Brum and make a complete idiot of myself without assistance. Striking a blow for the free idiot.
To help me along with my stupid plans, I work part time in a call centre as a market researcher. For those of you who think market research is an easy, non-dangerous job – think again. I know the only apparent dangers of a job involving talking and key-tapping would be falling off your chair or smacking yourself in the eye with a phone, but not only is research dangerous, it can be cool, suave and debonair. You see, as a market researcher with a prestigious double-0∗ prefix, I am sometimes sent ‘into the field’ on spying missions. The intelligence branch of market research is known as mystery shopping and I, Chris Pascoe, am a man of mystery . . . a Mystery Shopper.
In the interests of market research, and maybe national security but probably not, I visit restaurants, pubs and cinemas and pretend to be someone else. I then have to slip off into the toilets to update top-secret dossiers on all staff I’ve interacted with, and also to check there’s adequate toilet paper. It’s a sneaky sort of job, but it’s great. I’m employed to watch movies, eat food and drink beer. That’s more or less all I ever do anyway, and these people pay me for it.
As my job involves doing . . . well, nothing, my superiors believe I’m capable of little more than nothing and treat me like a moron. Either it’s the job or they just happen to have met me and know very well that I’m a moron.
Either way, I regularly receive mission memos of the following nature, which in most cases seem to have been written by somebody equally as bright as I’m considered to be:
Reference Pizza Restaurant Visit: With regard to note 5 (checking the pizza is at an acceptable temperature upon reaching your table) we would stress that you must on no account use a thermometer. Repeat, DO NOT USE A THERMOMETER. This may arouse the suspicions of restaurant staff.
Reference Name Badges: As you know, it is imperative that you record the name of all members of staff you deal with. Their name can be located on their name badge. Please do not write staff members’ names down in their presence, as this may cause concern. Please note that staff are required to wear their name badges at all times, and it is therefore important tha
t you record the names of any members of staff not wearing a name badge [how??]. It should also be noted that the manager of an establishment is not required to wear a uniform or name badge. The manager can be identified as he will not be wearing a uniform or name badge.
Reference Fried Chicken Restaurant Visit: Please take careful note of the time taken to deliver your order. DO NOT USE A STOPWATCH.
The mind boggles. Can you imagine the reaction of staff if you were to time the arrival of your food with a stopwatch and then whip out your thermometer and carefully test its temperature?
Even us morons aren’t that stupid.
So . . . how do you make a ‘complete idiot’ of yourself doing something so seemingly easy? Well, mistakes have been made. One particular visit went so completely wrong I can’t believe I ever had another. Come to think of it, I haven’t had another.
On a visit to one family pub-cum-restaurant, I seemed to completely forget I was supposed to conceal my reasons for visiting. In fact, I have no idea what I was playing at – the beer must have kicked in early – I seemed to forget everything about everything. Therefore, when Lorraine whispered across the table, ‘Can I order anything on the menu?’, I boomed back, ‘YES, JUST PRETEND YOU’RE OUT FOR A MEAL.’
Lorraine looked at me in horror. This rather peculiar comment raised heads on tables all around us. One old chap asked his wife, quite loudly, what I’d said.
‘He’s saying to pretend they’re out for a meal, dear.’
‘What? Well . . . they are, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t know, dear. That’s all he said.’
I sat in silence for a moment, trying to ascertain whether any members of staff had heard me.
Just when I thought I’d composed myself and put my mouth back into gear, I got up from the table and loudly announced, ‘I’LL GO AND HAVE A LOOK AT THE TOILETS.’
I headed for the lavatories with every head following me. I noted that Lorraine’s was the only exception. Her head was firmly in her hands.
Minutes later, after ordering meals at the bar, I realised I’d forgotten to read the barmaid’s name badge. Anybody with half a brain would have left it at that. Instead I returned to the bar, conspicuously pretending to study the optics, and shot a clandestine glance at her badge.
I couldn’t make out her name. I squinted. Still no good. Completely forgetting the need to be subtle, I squinted hard and leant forward, quickly becoming aware that both the girl in question, whom I now knew to be named Juliana, and her manager were watching me in astonishment. Clicking back to reality far too late, I realised that I appeared to be openly staring at Juliana’s fairly exposed chest in a disturbingly squinty-eyed, pervy way. I smiled, trying to think of something to say. They both stared at me. I edged away, my cheeks burning red with embarrassment, and sat heavily down at our table.
Lorraine noted my unease and asked what was wrong. By way of rounding off the worst secret mission ever I blurted out, again much, much too loudly, ‘IT WAS AWFUL. I WAS TRYING TO GET THE BARMAID’S NAME, BUT EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS LOOKING DOWN HER TOP.’
And so you see, now you think of market research as quite a romantic job, don’t you?
But when I do feel the need for help, Brum and Maya are always there for me. Brum you know all about, but it’s quite extraordinary the embarrassment levels a toddler can take you to. Sure, I’d had plenty of exposure to toddler embarrassment already, but nothing compared to my summer onslaught.
Maya chooses her situations well. She prefers crowded places like pubs, where there’re lots of people and so maximum embarrassment potential. Not that she hangs out in pubs often – she can’t reach the bar – but I’d started taking her for early evening pints with a friend of mine named Pete. I’d been meeting up with Pete on a Thursday early evening for the past decade or so, and the fact I now had Maya with me didn’t seem any reason to stop. Not until she gave me one, anyway. Or two. First she turned me into a beggar, then she committed a serious attack on an innocent bystander.
I think the ‘beggar’ thing was deliberate. Maya stood on a stool to admire a pub fruit machine up close. I wouldn’t let her feed it, claiming to have no money. A group of women brushed by and Maya, grabbing one of the group’s attention, and also her coat, hurriedly explained our predicament.
In true Dickensian style she held out an upturned palm, looking all sad and mournful, and said, ‘Please can we have some monies. My daddy hasn’t got any monies.’
To complete the picture she rested a tiny, dirty hand (chocolate) on my shoulder and looked as if she was about to cry.
I smiled at first, but my smile quickly faded when two of the women started rooting around in their handbags.
‘No . . . no,’ I started to say.
One of them gave me 50p.
Then they were gone, through the door and into the car park. Pete arrived seconds later. He looked around the room in a puzzled kind of way.
Finally he looked at me.
‘Are you the only two in here?’ he said in a low, conspiratorial voice.
‘Yes . . . why . . . what are you going to do?’
‘Eh? Do? Nothing. It’s just I heard some women in the car park saying some bloke in here should be ashamed of himself . . . must’ve been something to do with the landlord.’
Brilliant. Not only a beggar, but one who uses his child to do the dirty work. A career move involving Maya in rag clothing and Brum in bandages entered my mind and was instantly dismissed.
Pete has eyed that landlord with deep suspicion ever since.
Believe it or not, that wasn’t the first time I’ve been caught embezzling at a fruit machine.
I once sat down at a table in a seaside café and noticed that the fruit machine was showing more than fifty credits. I nudged Lorraine and she looked at the machine in a totally uninterested sort of way. I tried to do likewise and lose interest in the thing but I couldn’t. There was no one else in the café – just the owner, who seemed equally uninterested, and, you know . . . FIFTY credits. That was interesting.
I stood up and studied the machine. Nobody rushed from a dark corner to claim their unused credits, which came to over ten pounds’ worth. I tentatively pushed the flashing start button and the three wheels spun. I pressed again. The lights flashed crazily. I had nudges. I got excited, leaning forward and straining to see right up the reels. At this point a red face sporting glasses and a moustache popped round the side of the machine as if from nowhere. I was crouching and yet we were nose to nose.
He looked at me as if I were something Sammy had dragged in and said nothing. And then he was gone. I stared at the spot his face had occupied seconds earlier. Strange. Very strange indeed. But he’d said absolutely nothing about the credits, so I pressed nudge. And again. And again.
‘WILL YOU BLOODY WELL PACK THAT IN!’ boomed a voice from behind the machine, so loud that Lorraine almost choked on her pasty. ‘You’ll have my sodding fingers off!’
What?
I looked round the side of the machine. The bespectacled, moustachioed face met me halfway at waist height. I stared down, he stared up. He was on his knees sucking his finger. Lorraine glanced over and did a double-take – the situation was looking a little too erotic.
‘Pack it in, will you,’ he muttered, and crawled off behind the machine.
I tentatively glanced around the back. The machine had it’s back-plate off. The strange face with the grazed finger was now busily doing something to it with a screwdriver. It glanced at me and glowered.
I grinned sheepishly and edged back to my table.
‘Faulty machine, Repair Man?’ mumbled Lorraine, without even looking up, a suppressed laugh now becoming the latest cause of pasty-choking.
Anyway, my main reason for meeting up with Pete in the pub, other than beer, was to play pool. Maya’s ‘sweep and destroy’ attitude to pool tables soon put a stop to that particular pleasure, and I began to wonder whether I should maybe forget about Thursday teatimes at the pub
during the Mayan summer. The ‘sockosaurus attack’ put the issue beyond doubt.
In a vain bid to keep Maya amused at the bar, Pete had taken her spare socks from her backpack and placed them on her hands, telling her they were both dinosaurs and naming them Dave and Colin (obviously – I expect ‘Dave and Colin’ would instantly spring to most people’s minds as dinosaur names. Try it. Ask a friend to name three dinosaurs. Chances are they’ll say Tyrannosaurus Rex, Dave and Colin).
Maya spent a deliriously happy five minutes slamming her growling sock-puppets into one another before deciding not to be selfish and to bring others into her fun game. And so, with a mighty roar, Colin suddenly swooped upwards and punched a passing stranger’s testicles with quite considerable force. The poor chap threw beer over all and sundry as Pete and I reacted with the agility of open-mouthed cardboard cut-outs. There was just time to hear the shocking words ‘LOOK OUT, DAVE’S GONNA GET YOU!’ before the stranger received a second terrible uppercut from Maya’s rocket left.
Bidding Pete farewell until the autumn, I narrowed Maya’s options considerably.
But at least all these things happened out of Lorraine’s worried gaze. Lorraine feels that they only happened because they were out of her worried gaze, but she’s not immune. If ever a day contained as many negative incidents as our family day out at the ‘Goat Centre’, a local wildlife park housing all sorts of animals but with (funnily enough) an awful lot of goats, then I’d like to know about it. Admittedly, nothing was in any way her fault, and in some cases it was quite clearly my fault, but her worried gaze didn’t stop any of it, did it?
Things got off to an incredibly bad start when, within seconds of stepping through the turnstiles, I decked Maya with an abrupt cuff to the ear. What the crowd of startled onlookers didn’t see was the wasp that’d settled on the ear in question, and which my determined smack had missed by quite some way. Thus, to all intents and purposes, it looked as if I’d suddenly turned around and brutally slapped a toddler to the ground with a shout of ‘LOOK OUT’ for no apparent reason.