Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  'We bloody did, didn't we son?'

  'Yeah? And what happened?'

  Debbie folded her arms as she squared up to her husband.

  'Not much,' said Big Ted, and with that, he slouched off to his soon-to-be pimped lounge.

  Little Ted remained in the room.

  'Hi,' I said weakly.

  'Hi,' he said moodily, his gold chain swinging from his scrawny neck.

  I recognised his type. All mouth and no shell suit. The nasty little coward who would mug you from behind, even if you were a pensioner. The air filled with a mutually satisfying loathing. What was the posh twat doing in his house?

  'So then,' I said. 'Did your mum tell you about the programme?'

  'Not really.'

  I noticed that the camera had started up again. I did my best not to feel self-conscious.

  'Well, I'm the WonderHubby . . .'

  A snort, the type of snort that suggested not only derision, but that the nose was the orifice through which Little Ted received the majority of his pharmaceutical sustenance.

  'And I'm going to be using the techniques of management consultancy to show you how to run yourselves better as a family.'

  'Management what?'

  At this point Dom stepped in, ushering everyone to their feet.

  'Right, let's do this properly. Let's set this up in the lounge, where Sam can show you how it's all going to work. Ems, fetch the flip charts and all that stuff.'

  'But there's nothing wrong with our family,' said Little Ted, sniffing.

  My presentation was a disaster. Finally, at around 12 o'clock, we managed to assemble the family in the lounge, which really did need to be pimped. The 'carpet' was purple, the walls were orange, and the sofas were a mixture of brown and grey. Along one wall stood a vast cupboard/display case thing, upon which were the naffest ornaments human beings have ever created, such as dolphins playing tennis and angels crying on toadstools. Unsurprisingly, the room was dominated by an enormous flatscreen television that somebody must have paid at least £2,000 for. I reflected that whoever had bought it must have been missing it.

  Debbie seemed to take much exception to our moving the furniture around, and it took Dom to gently remind her that doubtless Pimp Your Lounge would be doing a lot worse, to make her shut up. Eventually, the Lamperts were squeezed onto one sofa, all of them – bar Epernay – dragging hungrily on their fags. The room was full of smoke, and as both the windows were permanently shut – 'There's a lot of stealing round here,' Big Ted explained – it was impossible to clear the air.

  I set up all my presentation devices as planned, and began to talk to them about what I was going to do. I started by asking whether any of them knew what management consultancy was.

  'Nah,' said Debbie, examining her yellowy fingernails.

  'Fucked if I know,' said Epernay.

  'Language!' hissed Big Ted.

  'Management consultants are people who help managers run their companies,' I explained, doing my best not to adopt a primary school teacher voice.

  'But,' interrupted Big Ted, 'if you need a management consultant to tell you how to manage your company, doesn't that mean you're a bit fucked?'

  I closed my eyes momentarily. This was exactly the same question Sally's sister asked me a while back. Why does everybody think this?

  'Do you think we're a bit fucked?' Big Ted asked. 'Cos if you do, you can fuck right off!'

  'Language!' hissed Epernay.

  'I don't think you're fucked at all,' I said.

  'Language!' hissed Little Ted, at which point they all laughed.

  'I just think,' I continued, 'like most families, you need to make some improvements. And that's what management consultants do with companies. They don't come in and run the company, but they show how to make everything a little bit better, and hopefully more profitable. Obviously, the notion of profit doesn't apply in a domestic-cum-familial scenario, although the underlying tenets of efficiency maximisation and yield-optimising techniques are identical in many ways.'

  I realised they were looking at me as if I were a freak.

  'You what?' said Little Ted.

  'You're having a laugh,' said Debbie.

  I looked at Dom and Emma out of the corner of my eye, pleading with them to back me up, but they were smirking. As was the cameraman, the git.

  I then proceeded to attempt to spell out in simple language what it was I was here to do. I did my best not to use too much jargon and business-speak, but that's the problem with management consultancy, you just have to use it, otherwise you're taking an age to explain every concept. The family looked slightly bored, and at one point Little Ted even turned on the television, which caused Debbie much annoyance.

  'Don't be rude to our guest!'

  This was accompanied by a slap round the head that would have felled a reasonable-sized tree.

  After another fifteen minutes, I finally lost them. Little Ted and Epernay were playing with their mobiles, Debbie was reading a magazine called Flick! (once again, not my exclamation mark) and Big Ted was snoring.

  'Shall I keep going?' I asked Dom.

  'Of course!'

  Arsehole, I thought. I didn't know who the programme was designed to humiliate more – the family or me.

  We disappeared to the pub for a late lunch, and by the time we got back the family had disappeared. They returned about an hour later, armed with bags of shopping from the local supermarket, which we filmed them unpacking. I couldn't quite believe their contents, and neither could Dom. Out came beer, fags, crisps, frozen chips, ice cream, biscuits, frozen sausages, more frozen sausages and frozen sausage rolls. There was not one vegetable, piece of fruit, or anything that hadn't been processed in some way. No wonder they all looked so pallid.

  Detecting our middle-class gasps, Debbie turned to me and said, 'Is there something the matter?'

  Dom's eyes lit up at the potential confrontation.

  'No,' I lied.

  'Well what's the bloomin' face for then?'

  'Well, don't you ever eat vegetables?'

  'Nah. None of us like them.'

  'Fruit?'

  'Too much hassle.'

  'Hassle?'

  'Yeah, you know, having to deal with the skins and the pips and that.'

  I have to confess I was speechless, and I resolved, in a nanny-state kind of way, that if WonderHubby did one thing with this lot this week, it would be to get them to eat something nutritious.

  It was at this point, just as I was radiating the benevolent thoughts of a Victorian missionary, that Big Ted piped up.

  'Listen pal, I'm not sure I like that look on your face.'

  His eyes locked on to mine like some missile system in an Apache helicopter.

  'I'm sorry,' I replied, all the time aware of the camera.

  Big Ted allowed a finger to extend out of his perma-fists. He then pointed it at me as though it were a dagger.

  'You come in here, all posh and southern and lah-dee-dah and you film us doing our normal things and then you take the piss. Am I right?'

  'Er . . . no . . . not, not um, not at all.'

  'Well, why are you here then? I mean, if you thought we was all OK, then you wouldn't bother, would yer?'

  Big Ted's point was unassailable. I took a deep breath.

  'Look, Ted, clearly there are some things that you might want to do better as a family. All I'm here to do – at Debbie's request – is to offer you some advice which you can take or leave.'

  'I don't want your fucking advice!'

  I'd had enough of this.

  'So why did you agree to be on this programme then?'

  'I didn't agree to be on this programme!'

  'Oh?'

  'No! She did!'

  Big Ted stabbed his finger towards his wife.

  'She didn't tell you?'

  'No! Why? You gonna say I was lying next?'

  By now Big Ted was standing very very close indeed, and I could smell his breath (boozy-cum-ciggy) an
d could see the blackheads that thickly peppered his red nose.

  'Of course you're not lying.'

  Ted's eyes narrowed as they continued in their relentless Apache-missile-lock mode.

  'You know what I think?' he asked.

  'What?'

  'I think you're a tosser.'

  'Well, I think you're a bit of a tosser as well.'

  Oh dear. Why did I say that? What a stupid beta-male thing to have said. What did I possibly think I had to gain by standing up for myself? All I had to do was to turn away, ignore him, anything, but no, I called him a tosser.

  Obviously I did not have time to reflect in this way, because within half a second Big Ted's fist had connected with my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. The next thing I did was to sort of crumple to the floor, attempting to catch my breath. It took me a few seconds to realise that I had actually been punched, something that hadn't happened in about thirty years, not since primary school. I thought I was going to pass out, and all I could remember was laughter, the word 'Ted!' being shouted, and repeated queries of 'Are you OK?'

  After a minute or so, I stood up, holding on to Dom. I must have cut a pathetic sight, pathetic enough for the two Teds still to be laughing. Even Epernay was grinning, and Debbie merely looked embarrassed.

  'I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I wish he wouldn't keep doing that to TV people. I think you're all right myself.'

  'Thanks,' I croaked.

  I tried looking steelily at Ted, but he just continued his low soft smoky cackle.

  'So you think I'm a tosser do you?'

  'No,' I replied, grinning sarcastically. 'I think you're a top bloke.'

  'That's got that settled then! So then, now we know what's what, do you wanna continue?'

  'Perhaps tomorrow,' Dom said.

  Within five minutes we had gone. Dom was frantically apologetic and kept asking if I was OK, which I am. The only thing really wounded is my pride, and I'm not sure how quickly I can recover from that. Still, perhaps it's good to be punched. Perhaps I needed it to show me that what we are doing is insulting and condescending. Perhaps Sally is right, perhaps the whole thing is an absurd idea, and I'd be better off doing something sensible.

  But something inside urges me not to give up. At least not yet.

  Tuesday 11 March

  8 a.m.

  I didn't sleep well last night. I'm wondering whether to continue with all this. At around 4 in the morning I got up and just sat on the edge of the bed, considering what to do. I thought of Sally and the children, who would all be fast asleep, and it felt wrong to be so far away from them. Who am I doing all this for? Them or me? I'd like to think both, but I'm not sure if I'm being honest with myself. And although I like to think not, that punch took more out of me than wind. Hot air as well.

  Knock on the door – that'll be Dom. I wish I could share his enthusiasm – last night he said that this was going to be commissioned, no sweat. Two days ago, I would have rejoiced. Today it depresses me. Knock, knock. All right, all right, I'm coming.

  11 hours later

  I've just spoken to Sally and the children, and they all sound very happy, which is more than can be said for me.

  Peter was on extremely good form.

  'Daddy,' he said. 'I love Halet.'

  A pang of jealousy shot down my spine.

  'Why's that?'

  'Because we do lots and lots of things with her! Today we made some cakes and a spaceship! And Daisy made a magic crown!'

  Guilt now. That's more than I've ever done with them.

  'Wow!' I went. 'That sounds really cool! I'm glad you like her.'

  'My spaceship goes all the way to Mars!'

  'Wow!'

  'And tomorrow Halet said we could make another spaceship after school and then we will be able to have a fight between the spaceships and mine will be the goodie spaceship and Daisy's will be the baddie spaceship and my spaceship will win because it is really fast and it has lots of guns and will be the winner.'

  'Wow!'

  'And then Halet said that if we are really good we can watch a little bit of TV but I don't want to watch TV because Halet is very good at telling stories and she does not have a book and they just come out of her head.'

  'Wow!'

  This was both brilliant and awful. What was Halet? Some kind of childcare genius? I thought I was supposed to be the genius, not her. Maybe she was right, maybe she should have her own TV programme.

  After I said goodnight to Peter, Daisy came on the phone.

  'Hello Daddy.'

  'Hello little lady. How are you?'

  'I did pee on the potty.'

  'Wow!'

  And I meant it. This was unbelievable. Could it be that Halet was already potty-training her? I had been kind of brushing this one under the carpet and hoping she'd just eventually copy Peter, after a fashion.

  'Did you really?' I asked.

  'Bye bye,' said Daisy, and with that she disappeared. She's a girl of very few words, my daughter. She would make a good soldier – only gives out need to know information and nothing more. If she had access to email, I'm sure today's would have been little more than:

  Dear Daddy

  Did a pee.

  Love,

  Daisy

  Sally came to the phone. She was laughing.

  'Did you get all that?' she asked.

  'I did indeed, it's incredible. Halet seems to be a miracle worker. Not only has she weaned Peter off the box, but she also appears to be potty-training Daisy.'

  'I know,' said Sally. 'Although I dimly recall you saying only last week that you were already pottytraining Daisy.'

  'Ah, yes. Well, we gave it a go and it didn't really work out for us.'

  Sally didn't seem too worked up about it, and I heard a welcome warmth of tone in her voice.

  'They seem very well,' I said.

  'They are,' she replied.

  It went unspoken that they sounded a bit too well.

  'And how are you?' I asked.

  'Not bad. Work is still pretty dire, but the situation seems to have calmed down a bit.'

  'Good,' I said. 'Is that why you're back early?'

  'It is, and to be honest, Mark told me that I looked shattered and thought I was burning the candle at both ends.'

  'Sounds like the boss is right.'

  'He is, it's just that . . .'

  Sally's voice trailed off.

  'What?' I asked.

  'It's just that whenever he thinks people are looking tired, that's normally a prelude to moving them to Personnel or some other backwater.'

  'I doubt that very much, and besides, is Personnel really such a backwater?'

  'Comparatively. Anyway, how are you?'

  I sighed.

  'Not bad,' I said.

  'That bad, huh?'

  Sally knows full well that my 'not bad' is everybody else's 'fucking awful'. That's the funny thing about marriage (or at least one of them). No matter how well your partner knows you, you still persist with those little obfuscations that you would normally use with strangers. Why do I keep saying 'not bad' to Sally, when I should just be saying 'fucking awful'? What's the point in lying to someone who knows when you're lying?

  'What's the matter?' she asked. 'Things not going well?'

  'They could be better,' I started. 'Actually, they're shit.'

  'Oh?'

  'Well, yesterday I got punched, and today all that happened was that I got laughed at.'

  'Punched? By who?'

  I told her, and said that it was water under the bridge etc., and she wasn't to worry.

  'But who was laughing at you?'

  'The family, Dom, Emma, the cameraman, the rest of the crew, you name it. It seems that every time I open my mouth to try to suggest something constructive, they just find it all very funny.'

  'But isn't it meant to be funny?'

  'Well, I didn't think it was, but that's how it's turning out.'

  'And what does Dom think?'
r />   'So far, he seems delighted.'

  'Well, that's OK then isn't it?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'You didn't really think that these people were going to sit there like clients and just take your advice and then play happy families happily ever after?'

  I paused.

  'A little bit I guess.'

  Sally laughed.

  'You're even more of a tyrant than some of the people we're dealing with in Ktyteklhdfistan.'

  'Perhaps I should take the show over there.'

  'Hmm . . . I'd strongly advise against it!'

  After that, we said some night-nights. Dinner with Dom and Emma in a sec. I must get my head sorted.

  Wednesday 12 March

  6.30 a.m.

  Another shit night's sleep. Nevertheless, last night's dinner was very productive. I expressed concerns to Dom and he reassured me that he'd got it all under control. He said that we needed this sort of footage to establish what monsters these people were, and that by the end of the week, we'd be able to show how I had transformed them into the perfect English family.

  'But that's impossible,' I said.

  I caught Dom and Emma smirking over our overcooked plasticky steaks. Something told me that they were shagging. I'm normally pretty good at working out when people are doing so. It's usually assumed that it's about telltale intimacies, whereas in fact it's the very opposite. When you're at the pre-shag stage, you're full of little flirty remarks and touches and double entendres etc. But as soon as the secret shagging begins, all that ends. Not only is the tension between you broken, but you're also mindful that you don't want to look as though you're shagging, and so you drop all the flirting. In fact, you drop it to such an extent that you almost appear offhand with each other. This is an error, and if you want to appear undetected, then the thing to do is to keep up the flirtation.

  In this instance, Dom and Emma exchanged the type of smirk that wasn't flirtatious, but intimate. It's the husband-and-wife dinner-party smile that tells each other that they're both thinking the same thing, that someone is being a prat and that they can't wait to talk about it later. I always find such smirks somewhat irksome, because usually I'm the prat who's being smirked about.

  'Nothing's impossible,' said Dom.

  'You're just going to pay them, aren't you?'