He says he’s going to give any money he makes from the sales of the T-shirts to a mental health charity.
The utter, utter bastard.
And of course, with all of this going on, I am still not on the Internet. My detox continues apace – whether I like it or not.
And it feels so much worse now, because I have no idea when it’s going to end.
When will this Loggers Off thing lose steam?
It must eventually, of course. Everything does. Our culture is fad-based, and fads are not usually long-term pursuits. But the more Fergus tells me about how many people are logging on to join Loggers Off (oxymoron that it is), the more I become worried that it’s not going anywhere soon.
And yes, of course I’ve been tempted to break the detox and go online to see the bloody Twitter and Facebook pages. In fact, I’ve been more tempted than at any other point in this whole process, I think. But I’ve managed to resist, simply because I know I might not like what I find if I do. Fergus tells me everyone’s being overwhelmingly positive . . . but I’m not sure I entirely believe him.
The Internet does not allow for universal praise. If you don’t believe me, just post a picture of the cutest puppy you can find, and there will be some people who will criticise it for not being fluffy enough, or having doe eyes that are just a bit too runny.
I know full well that there will be some trolls on the Loggers Off social media accounts who will be ripping into me no end – and I can’t take seeing any of that.
So, I have not broken my online fast, and have no intentions of doing so.
Frankly, out of sight is out of mind to a certain extent with all of this, and I am able to live my life day to day without obsessing about it too much. Especially when I have something else to concentrate on.
And today, I am concentrating on linguine with chilli, crab and watercress – followed by chocolate and honey semifreddo.
These are the two recipes I have decided to cook for dinner this evening.
Usually, I would be eating a lamb and chicken shish from the local Turkish grill (it’s a new Friday-night tradition in these here parts), but tonight I am making a special effort, because I have a guest for dinner. The person who has had the most impact on my life in recent weeks.
No, not Fergus! About the only thing I’m planning on cooking up for him in the near future is a slap across the chops. He thoroughly deserves one, given that he’s made me a local celebrity, has improved my work opportunities no end and is helping a very worthwhile cause by donating money to it. He’s evil personified, as I’m sure you’ll agree.
I am – of course – talking about Grace.
Yes, I have finally plucked up the courage to ask her around to my place for a meal.
Our platonic relationship has been going very well, and there’s been a part of me that hasn’t wanted to spoil it by trying to take things to the next level. But then this morning I was in Heirloom working on a logo design for a leisure centre when Grace came over, looking decidedly harried and telling me how rushed off her feet she was.
I instantly felt guilty, because I’m responsible for this. It isn’t easy running an independent coffee shop at the best of times, but when you’re planning on a sizeable event like another Loggers Off meeting, it makes it all the more difficult.
‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going,’ she told me. ‘I won’t get out of here until bloody late, so God knows what I’m going to do about dinner.’
‘You could come to mine.’
The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about them. This is just as well, as I probably wouldn’t have said them otherwise.
Grace smiled shyly. ‘That’d be lovely, Andy, thanks.’
And thus the die was cast . . .
I spent the rest of the day worrying about what the hell I was going to cook.
A chicken and lamb shish really wouldn’t cut it. Nor would my standard go-to recipe of battered chicken bites with super noodles and a dollop of habanero sauce.
I am to cooking what Homer Simpson is to parenting.
No, I have to make a proper effort tonight – hence the linguine with chilli, crab and watercress, along with the chocolate and honey semifreddo.
Nigella is to blame.
I went into Waterstones at lunchtime and picked up her latest.
I chose the above two options from the book because the first one sounded relatively straightforward, and the second sounded just exotic enough to impress.
Needless to say, the first wasn’t easy in the slightest, and the second may sound exotic, but is a galloping bastard to actually make.
I have been at this shit now for five hours.
My kitchen looks like several war zones have been through it, on their way to the pub.
The linguine thing wasn’t exceptionally hard in terms of the actual ingredients, but cooking crab is roughly as hard as performing brain surgery with boxing gloves on. It’s all about the cooking time, you see. Not long enough and it’s mush, but too much and you’ve cooked yourself something that you can erase pencil marks with.
But I got it right eventually, and putting it together with the pasta, the chilli and the watercress wasn’t too hard. I just chucked it all on the plate and remained hopeful.
My version of the recipe doesn’t look entirely the same as Nigella’s, but we’ll put that down to the lack of decent lighting and prep time, and hope it’s going to at least taste nice.
The fucking semifreddo is another thing entirely.
I had no idea what a semifreddo was before attempting to make one, otherwise I would never have bothered. It’s essentially a big block of frozen cream, covered in chocolate and honey – which sounds like it shouldn’t be too hard to make, right?
Wrong!
Do you know how incomprehensibly difficult it is to shape cream into a block? To wrestle a liquid into a solid? If you’ve never attempted to make a semifreddo then you don’t, and please don’t pretend otherwise.
There are currently six semifreddos going hard in my freezer.
Yes . . . six.
There are so many because I have no idea whether any of them will actually stay solid once they come out.
It’s the cream-whipping, you see.
Cream-whipping makes crab-cooking look about as easy as running a tap.
I have whipped so much cream today that I frankly never want to look at the stuff again as long as I live.
My right arm could wank off an elephant.
Some of the cream went globby. Some of the cream went slooshy. Bits of it went crumbly.
Crumbly!
How in Captain Fuckabout can you whip a liquid into a crumbly?
It’s against the laws of physics, people.
It took me hours just to get the cream whipped into a consistency that could be considered worthy of freezing. And even then, I’m not sure whether I’ve done it right – hence the multiple semifreddo attempts currently cooling off on the bottom shelf.
I’ll just have to hope that at least one of the buggers comes out OK, so I can drizzle it in the honey and runny chocolate I bought from M&S in my rushed bout of last-minute shopping this afternoon.
Everything else is done, though. The table is laid with crockery that only has a few chips in it. There’s a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, and I even bought a candle, which is currently sitting in the middle of my IKEA dining table, wondering what all the fuss is about.
I’m wearing my nicest jeans, a black shirt and an expression of faint hope.
Maybe tonight, I can try to kiss Grace.
The thought of this makes my toes curl.
It feels like the right time to move things to the next level.
As stated previously, Grace has settled into her own detox well, and is very much enjoying all the excitement around Loggers Off – despite the admin problems it’s thrown up for her.
She did have one wobble recently. Though that’s to be expected after a few weeks.
It happened the other day when Shayna – Grace’s assistant barista – told her that Chrissy Teigen’s website has 50 per cent off her make-up range. I had to forcibly hold Grace back from ripping the Samsung Galaxy out of the hands of a nearby customer.
Other than this incident, though, she’s been coping magnificently.
The time spent wandering around the local countryside has helped, I’m sure. Grace loves to be out and about as much as possible. She’s clearly trying to make up for all that time spent locked in her house, in front of the computer screen.
And on those walks we take together, we talk a lot. About everything and nothing. About our lives before we met, and our lives now we’re on the detox.
I feel like I’ve bonded with her more than I have with any other human being, and it’s come about via a lot of in-depth conversation – only interrupted by the occasional stile or disconcerting cow. I could talk to her for hours.
I think both Grace and I are in a place now where I can probably make a move.
I’m guessing (hoping) she must feel the same way, otherwise she wouldn’t have agreed to come to dinner tonight.
This will be the first time I’ve had her over to my flat since we met. Up to now, we’ve been hanging out with each other in the great outdoors, or over at Heirloom. Nothing as intimate as an evening spent in my own home. Tonight will mark a real change in our relationship.
With any luck I can do a good job of wooing her with the crab linguine and the semifreddo.
Then maybe I’ll get that kiss . . . and more besides, if I’m an extremely lucky boy.
I try to ignore my own semifreddo’s reaction to this train of thought, and busy myself tidying the kitchen.
Ding dong!
That’ll be her now!
A little earlier than she said she’d arrive, but no matter. The linguine is being kept warm in the oven, and the semifreddo should hopefully be freezing nicely, so I am in a calm state of mind as I go over to the front door.
As I do, I am reminded of the first time I opened it to Grace. I am hoping and expecting to see her looking a lot happier tonight than she did back then.
‘Just in time, I’ve got the meal all read—’
This is not Grace.
Unless Grace has split herself into two entities, both male, one wearing a blue and red cagoule.
Actually, make that three entities. The other male one is holding a small dog.
‘Colin?!’ I say, in a horrified voice.
What the hell is he doing at my door?
‘Hello, Mr Bellows,’ Colin replies, offering me an ingratiating smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Er . . . I’m . . . I’m fine, thank you.’
I look over – and down – at Colin’s companion as I say this.
Said companion is about five feet tall, has curly dark hair of a tight, wire-wool consistency, and is all about the teeth.
The chubby little fella has virtually no top lip, so his large and brilliantly white main incisors are presented for all the world to see.
He looks like Dennis the Menace and Bugs Bunny made sweet, sweet love, and this was the result.
He is also wearing a Death Curse Intransigent T-shirt. A game that I have still not as yet purchased, or even had a go at – given that you have to play it online.
The little man is holding the aforementioned small dog.
This dog is a pug.
The pug is dressed like a wizard.
A little blue pug wizard looks up at me from his owner’s arms with doe eyes that are probably just a little bit too runny.
Incredible stuff.
‘That’s lovely to hear,’ Colin says, nodding appreciatively. ‘Sorry to trouble you on this lovely Friday evening, but I felt I should come to you, because my partner Wilberforce here really needs your— Puggerlugs! No!’
The dog jumps out of Wilberforce’s hands and powers right past me into the flat.
‘Hey!’ I cry in surprise as I dodge out of the dog’s way.
‘Puggerlugs! Come back!’ Colin entreats, before his small companion rushes past me into the flat to chase down the puggy wizard – who is now over at the bookcase by the TV, turning in circles on the spot. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bellows!’ Colin exclaims, a look of vast apology on his face. ‘Puggerlugs can be a little devil sometimes!’
‘Apparently so!’ I cry, still trying to process this extremely strange turn of events.
‘I’d better go and render my assistance,’ Colin tells me in a harried voice. ‘I warned Wilberforce that we should have left Puggerlugs at home, but he’s so attached to him!’
And with that, Colin the Cagoule also barrels into my flat and over to where Wilberforce is trying to corral Puggerlugs into one corner.
‘Look, you two . . . sorry, three . . . can’t be in here!’ I bellow – possibly for the first time in my life. Despite the fact it’s my surname, I am not a natural bellower. But I have made a lot of effort this evening, and I don’t intend to have it ruined by two unwanted gatecrashers.
I sprint over to Colin and Wilberforce just as the little toothy man is trying to grab Puggerlugs back up into his arms. This fails completely, and the pug wriggles away, heading for the footstool that sits in front of my couch, at a vast rate of knots.
The instant the dog arrives at it, he pops his two little front legs up on the footstool, gaining a strong grip on the jumbo cord material it’s made out of.
The dog then starts to have sex with my footstool.
Less than three minutes ago, I was having a lovely daydream about what might transpire with Grace here in this flat tonight. Now I am watching a pug dressed as a blue wizard shag my footstool.
If anyone doubts that the universe is a place of complete chaos and total uncertainty, this jolly well proves it, as far as I’m concerned.
Things would be bad enough if the pug was undressed, but the wizard outfit adds a whole new level of surrealism to proceedings that I can scarcely comprehend. Just look at the way the little wizard hat on the top of his head is jiggling about, would you?
‘Get him off there!’ I cry, jumping over to where Colin and Wilberforce are now crowding over my footstool and around their little dog, both with dismayed looks on their faces.
‘Oh dear. He doesn’t normally do this, I can assure you! He’s usually a very good dog!’ Colin exclaims.
‘He’s not being a bloody good dog now!’ I spit, and bend down to pull the little bastard away from the footstool before he has a chance to really get going on it.
This earns me a growl and a baring of teeth. Both are quite horrifying.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I exclaim in terror, and back off before the pug can lacerate my hands with those tiny sharp teeth.
‘He must be stressed out!’ Colin says in a hectic voice. ‘He knows how anxious we are at the moment, and it’s obviously translated down to him! Puggerlugs has always been a stress humper!’
‘Well, just bloody stop him doing it before he translates something on to my jumbo cord!’ I demand, still trying to keep my distance from those ghastly little teeth.
Colin looks at his friend. ‘We’ll have to sing the song. It’s the only way!’
Wilberforce nods feverishly in agreement.
I whip my head from one to the other. ‘Song? What song? What the hell are you both on about?’
‘We have a special song we sing to Puggerlugs when he gets like this,’ Colin tells me. ‘It never fails to work. He loves it so very much!’
‘Well, bloody sing it then!’ I cry as I see the dog start to build up speed.
Colin and Wilberforce both nod to one another, and the little man with the big teeth then pulls out what looks like a kazoo from his back pocket. He blows on it once to produce a note.
Then they both take a deep breath and start singing in perfect harmony.
‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Stop being bad!’
I’ve clearly gone fucking insane.
‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! You’re making us sa
d!’
Stark staring bonkers.
‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! To you we entreat!’
Completely off my bloody chump.
‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Be a good boy, and get a lovely treat!’
As if on cue, at the end of the song both Colin and Wilberforce hold out small doggie treats in their hands, dangling them temptingly in Puggerlugs’s direction.
This seems – quite incredibly – to do the trick.
The little wizard dog slides down off the footstool and gently plucks the treats from first Wilberforce’s hand, and then Colin’s. He then sits attentively for a moment, before allowing Wilberforce to gather him up in his arms again.
Colin visibly relaxes. ‘Blimey. That was a hairy one, I can tell you.’
‘Was it?’ I respond in disbelief.
‘Yes. We did well to calm him down that quickly.’
‘Did you?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘Colin?’
‘Yes, Mr Bellows?’
‘What the hell are you both doing here?’ I snap.
Colin gives me an ingratiating smile. ‘I came to ask you to speak to my partner, Wilberforce. He’s not one for large gatherings, so I couldn’t bring him along to Loggers Off.’
‘How did you find my flat?’
‘Your website, Mr Bellows. Your address is on it, in the contacts section.’
I groan. I really should have done something about that – or got somebody else to do something about it. It’s one thing for someone like Grace to turn up at my door, but it’s quite another for Colin the Cagoule, his odd little friend and their humping dog to do so.
Grace!
She’ll be here any minute! I can’t have her walking in to discover these two!
‘Look, you guys really can’t be here. You’ll have to leave,’ I tell Colin in an urgent tone.
Both of their faces fall.
‘But I promised Wilberforce that you would speak to him,’ Colin tells me. ‘He’s been struggling like I have recently – with being on the computer too much. I hoped your advice would help him . . . help both of us.’
And then Colin does something so profoundly loving that it quite takes my breath away. He gently puts one arm around the little man’s shoulder, and gives him the gentlest kiss on the side of his head, before turning back to me. ‘Life has become so very difficult for Wilberforce, Mr Bellows.’
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