Your friendly local Gonzo journalist, answering the questions no-one’s asking

Oh god what’s he doing now?

Well, it’s been almost three and a half years, so I thought it was probably time for an update. The last time I posted Obama was in the White House, David Bowie was still alive, and things were comparatively good.

Some things don’t change. I’m still in the same middling desk job as when I last updated this blog, only now I’m fatter and slower and with worse posture. And I still harbour a passion for both writing, and undertaking fatuous yet taxing ordeals very much at my own expense, all in order to cattleprod the daily grind and make my inevitable death & decay seem fractionally further away. I haven’t been up to anything bespoke for this blog or big and worthy of a whole article, as there’s been 3 years of important office meetings to transcribe, email, print, copy & shred, but there is something quite new and exciting on the horizon which is my ulterior motive for ending the blog drought…:

I’ll leave your curiosity about that image simmering for a while. Until then, and just to make this post something other than a shameless plug of my new project, here’s an update of the last 3 years.

A bad start I know, but I have almost no memory of this year. I was drinking a lot, but that’s standard procedure. I simply did nothing noteworthy at all with my 25th year of life. Mary Shelley had already written Frankenstein by this age, and Mark Zuckerberg had already become a billionaire, but I spent my quarter century milestone trapped in a stultifying cycle of sycophantic corporate paper-shuffling and ubiquitous after-work drinks.

Genuinely I think the most interesting occurrence across the entire 12 months was watching my friend and fellow word-chef Luke (the sausage-spinner with whom I penned The Shack Memoirs, read more of his stuff here) eat the world’s spiciest burger at the Man vs Food restaurant in Isleworth, London. A man eating a burger. Not even me eating it. That was the highlight of the year.

I’ll run you through it briefly anyway. As the establishment’s name suggests this restaurant deals in extremes, serving up combative portions off the back of the successful Man v. Food TV show on Food Network. For any who haven’t seen it, the show features the large and likeable Adam Richman taking on eating challenges across the United States in gratuitous American fashion, lasting four seasons until doctors warned him to stop due to the levels of cheese in his blood. He’s recently been replaced by some new mook who’s not as good.

The London restaurant specialises mainly in mass portion challenges, steaks the size of surfboards and hot dogs like draught excluders, you get the idea. As we entered, an unwisely slender young chap was half way through ‘The Belly Buster’, an 8-lb burger. He was a cowering shell of a man, periodically forcing down quivering fragments of meat, his eyes unfocused and his breathing irregular.

I was going to take a stab at ‘The Banana Split Belly Splitter’ (most of their dish names have some reference to intestinal rupture), a 3lb ice cream sundae, when I saw in the legalese the restaurant insisted you eat it all in 30 minutes with the smallest teaspoon in the kitchen. This unnecessary requirement tipped the odds too firmly in the House’s favour for my liking so I bypassed the challenges altogether and instead had a normal-sized burger which used Krispy Kreme donuts for buns.

As Luke has a taste for spice he ventured for ‘The World’s Hottest Burger’, which has since been discontinued. He had to sign some paperwork waiving the restaurant’s responsibility should he at any point die, adorn some blue surgical gloves so the chillies couldn’t burn his flesh, and amongst a cacophony of sirens and the obligatory Johnny Cash Ring of Fire Luke’s burger was brought out by a waiter straight from the London fetish scene.

He was allowed no drink during this and forced to endure a 10-minute afterburn once he’d finished, a glass of cooling milk teasingly sat before him the entire time. Luke devoured the burger at some pace, admittedly sweating and looking morose, but he would always sweat and look morose. I was enjoying my donut burger and beer, talking to our other companion Will about fireplaces of all things. Our gas-masked maître d’ stood by the table throughout watching Luke intently to ensure he didn’t cheat, whilst Johnny Cash played over and over on a loop.

Luke did succeed and gratefully, gracelessly knocked back his milk, but this did nothing to relieve the intensity of the max-Scoville firebomb searing its way through his innards. Eventually the pain became unbearable and Luke had to scramble to the bathroom to make himself sick; unfortunately the fiery vomit splashed back against the toilet water straight into Luke’s eyes, leaving this grown adult, this scholar, the man who introduced me to Beat literature, curled at the base of a toilet, howling, clutching his scorched belly, blind. He should have won a T-shirt, but the restaurant had run out.

So that was my 2015.

I was so stagnant with boredom as another year ticked by that I agreed to something foolish even by my harlequin standards: accompanying some work colleagues on the 2016 Trailwalker expedition which is described straight-faced as the UK’s toughest team endurance challenge. It consists of a 60 mile (100 km) walk from Portsmouth to Brighton across the stony, undulating terrain of the South Downs, as a team of 4, and must be accomplished in less than 30 hours. I heard “walk”, thought that couldn’t possibly be too arduous, and extemporaneously signed up.

In my team were James who adores the outdoors and camping and generally unpleasant survival situations, Ben who has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, and Dan who casually does marathons just for something to do. In stark contrast, I get out of breath playing video games. I never exercise, subsist on a horrible diet of bacon fat, ice cream and San Miguel, and have zero interest in “pushing my body to the limit” or “finding strength I never knew I had” or any of the glib stock statements the Trailwalker website flings around.

Unfortunately on a distinctly monotonous day I did agree to participate and soon sponsors for the Trailwalker’s set charity Oxfam began to trundle in, so I really had no way to squirm out of my stupid responsibilities. I started by buying some hiking boots from the footwear department of a specialist outdoor equipment shop which even had a mini faux rocky outcrop you could practice tramping over – if you add up all the money I’ve ever spent on shoes historically I don’t think they’d match how much this pair cost, and they weren’t even that expensive – but neglected to pick up any special walking trousers or pants which was a decision that would come back to almost literally bite me on the arse.

We did about three practice walks, all a long, long way short of the 60 miles that would be required from us on the day – I think the furthest we went was about 20. The first one saw me intensely hungover, glugging morning scotch to compensate as we hiked some bastard hills over Durdle Door in Lulworth. Second practice trek I stepped in both dog and horse shit. And the third was most memorable for my uncharacteristically successful river crossing:

Throughout these preceding weeks we were also supposed to be raising the necessary £1,400 that was the minimum Oxfam would accept to let you walk yourself to death for them. I was predictably apathetic about garnering sponsorship funds, but thankfully one of Ben’s contacts who owned a distillery contributed a huge chunk on the proviso that we wore T-shirts advertising his company throughout the walk. We each got a free litre of good gin out of this deal too so I was happy.

Overall though I was immensely underprepared by the time Trailwalker rolled around, as unfit as ever and not even compensating by having all the right gear. I’d go as far as to say that genuinely every single one of the thousands of fellow walkers bar me had purpose-built hiking trousers that wicked sweat from their skin and esoteric rucksacks full of anti-chafe salves and energy gels and Camelbak hydration packs so water was always available to them via a tube which protruded from their bag strap. I was wearing Primark underwear and denim shorts, carrying a Primark rucksack that had a 2-litre bottle of water in it I’d picked up from Tesco that morning as an afterthought. I didn’t even wear my special shoes for some of it, the first 20k I walked in my Vans because I couldn’t be bothered to get changed.

The 60 mile route is pretty much all barren South of England scrubland which seems to be going constantly uphill, but is punctuated intermittently by checkpoints, 9 to be precise, that offer a brief rest-stop amongst the endless trudging. By the second checkpoint, when I changed into my proper boots, I’d already developed two bulging blisters which I had to burst with my keys.

One of the nadirs of the experience both emotionally and topographically was around checkpoint 6. We’d been clomping along for 19 hours straight, it was pitch black, my feet were in agony and my groin chafed to dust, on the outskirts of some shit-kicking village like Bramber or Fulking, and we got lost. A lot of people had thrown in the towel already so the crowds of participants still walking had thinned dramatically, and the group we chose to naively follow led us the wrong way into a fen. It was the dead of night and I felt like crying. We had to walk an extra 20 minutes to get us back to where we should have been half an hour ago. The woman at the forefront who took us the wrong way made a chirpy comment and I bit back acerbically. I wanted to cut her skin off and wear it as socks.

Ben dropped out not long after this, he hadn’t been drinking enough water and at the next checkpoint began to hallucinate so we retired him from the team. I hadn’t been drinking enough water either, my urine looked like coffee, but I wasn’t lucky enough to start hallucinating.

The exit of Ben put even greater pressure on myself as at least 3 of the 4 members of your team have to cross the finishing line in order to legitimately complete the trail. James and Dan were still going strong but I was idling further and further behind them with each passing mile, knowing that if I gave up I would ruin everything but also unsure of how much more toil my body could withstand. Whilst my feet felt like I was wearing wasps nests as shoes it was my inner thighs and arsehole emanating the most pain, as my cheap, papery Primark pants had worn away most of the skin down there and blood had started to trickle down my legs.

When the sun rose I was somehow still walking despite my lack of perineum and reached the last checkpoint with the finish just a 6 mile slog away. I was delirious with fatigue and pain – I had no cathartic sense of self-pride at how far I’d got, no glow from the feeling of altruism at Oxfam’s gain, I felt agony and misery and that’s about it. Various onlookers lined the course to cheer us on, including the Queen’s Gurkhas who showboat needlessly by running the 60 miles and then backtracking to usher us mere mortals along. I saw these people and heard their support and wished nothing but ill upon them all.

Although it was only 6 miles left this does sound a lot to someone with blisters the size of onions and boxer shorts filled with desiccated testicles so I found the medical tent at checkpoint 9 and asked the doc if there was anything he could do to help. “Please,” I lamented, “you’ve got to help me. Anything.”
“What I prescribe,” he began, as I leant in with hope, “is to buck up and soldier on!”
I sat on the edge of the campbed in a puddle of my own ruined genitals, unable to believe my ears. No gauze, no drugs, nothing?! “Are you a real doctor? You can’t be a real doctor, are you?” I asked incredulous. “Can I please see a real doctor?”

No real doctors were forthcoming so the 90 minutes it took me to limp those last 6 miles was probably the worst hour and a half of my life so far. I did, unbelievably, manage to complete the walk within the 30 hour time limit, unfit and ill-prepared, but I can not unrecommend it enough. If you’ve Googled “Trailwalker” and are reading this now as you yourself are thinking of signing up, I will probably be the only blog to give you any real sage advice and that is not to do it. Ignore these other bloggers bleating about a sense of accomplishment and how by pushing their limits they found out things they didn’t know about themselves and other such nonsense. I couldn’t walk for 3 days. Instead, the weekend of the event, stay at home, drink wine, play video games, eat tiramisu in the bath, have sex, read some Edgar Allan Poe, and quietly thank me for saving your gooch.

It had been an age since I’d allowed my life to be dictated by an actual traditional project like winning a gameshow or eating all the animals so in early 2017 I sunk myself into a new one. I compiled a list (for these endeavours are much more manageable if broken down into list form, I had the same for shows and species in the last projects too) of 230 different get-rich-quick schemes compiled from as many books and websites as I could find on the subject. This idea of testing unusual money-making methods could be justified as researching the deadly sin of greed following my capers with pride and gluttony in the previous two experiments. Plus with this one there was a chance I might make a profit, or break even, or at least not be plunged into abyssal debt in exchange for mildly amusing my peers.

The project wobbled along for about 5 months, and I know it’s a bit infidelitious to type here but I even made a new blog for it so you can read how the whole thing unfurled if you like. I’d rather you didn’t though as this isn’t meant to be an exclusively nostalgic post and there’s a more current affair waiting for you to read further on below, so I’ll quickly summarise.

Most of the financial schemes that actually worked were websites which paid insultingly little, we’re talking a few pence at a time, in exchange for some form of mundane data entry, be it reviewing terrible music on Slicethepie or answering kids homework questions for them on Weegy. I also found a surprising amount of coinage by simply scouring the pavement everywhere I walked (a genuine “get rich quick scheme” proffered unironically by various sources), and made some money by selling money for more value than that money solely as it had a quirk like an unusual serial number – a £5 note with a code commencing AA01 shifted on eBay for over a tenner, for instance.

As you might have expected the majority of the schemes didn’t shower me with riches. I signed myself up to websites like RentaFriend (get paid to pretend you like someone) and RentaMourner (get paid to pretend you used to like someone) with no nibbles. I submitted a short horror story to a competition with a $100 prize for first place, and came second. I struggled through games of bingo in cavernous smoky halls filled with pensioners and was outbid at police auctions on cheap impounded bicycles which would have been sweet to sell on. I’m poor anyway so it shouldn’t have surprised me but I was still amazed at how difficult it was to turn a quick buck.

My projects always tend to meander into grim, visceral territory at some stage be it discussing early-morning cunnilingus on Channel 4’s Joy of Teen Sex or regurgitating chunks of octopus into a student house toilet, and money-making was no different. I looked into ways of selling most of my bodily elements: my blood, my hair, my tears, and even my shit which the Taymount digestive clinic in Luton were keen to stump up for. Interestingly, from a more intangible angle, there was the website Demonical which offers cash sums in exchange for your soul, requiring you to do nothing more than transcribe an ominous contract onto a piece of paper and send a selfie of you holding it. As a malevolent atheist this seemed like not just money for old rope but money for old fictional rope, but sadly they never imbursed me for my soul so you may be stuck with me in Heaven yet. Who would want to buy my soul anyway? Be like paying for a beat-up old car with 800,000 miles on the clock.

As with most things these days a lot of the schemes were managed on apps. There were apps which counted your daily steps and converted it into a form of quasi-cryptocurrency, and others that paid you to flood your phone with adverts. A Shopandscan app sent me a barcode scanner in the post with which to log my weekly shopping for them to harvest data from but I lost the little scanning widget within days. An app called CPM rewarded money for documenting any cars you saw parked illegally, but as soon as I signed up to it the tattletale stigma of the organisation came under public fire, the company leaked all their member’s contact details, and I had journalists from The Sun emailing me asking what I thought of this data breach of local snitches and whether it made me feel unsafe.

Worse was an app named DoubleDog which would pay its members for performing dangerous, disgusting and/or degrading dares. I thought this would be easy money for me and my lax definition of the word ‘dignity’, but it was complicated by a horrendous and unintuitive bartering system that meant after performing a couple dozen dares I somehow ended up making an overall loss. The stupid app had me eating bananas with the skin on, juggling cacti, and skateboarding down a slide which resulted in a torn meniscus and my first ever hospitalisation at the hands of a project.

Generally the blog didn’t do that well. With the best writing skills in the world posts reviewing different paid review websites can only be so interesting, and the sole fan seemed to be a guest calling themselves ‘Ghost’ who commented on most articles suggesting the next get-rich scheme should be me entering a sandcastle building competition. Time and time again they posted, always with that sandcastle idea.

I dropped this project suddenly at the end of May, but I still now get daily emails about paid extra work and clinical trials, and phone calls from Shopandscan asking for their barcode scanner back. Another abandoned project to add to the list, but at least more ambitious than a year in which I watched someone eat a spicy burger.

In this new year, just a few weeks ago, I found myself silently evaluating what bizarre avenue my life had taken a turn up when I was being filmed hunched behind a sofa controlling a bright pink puppet playing a bright pink ukulele as part of the montage to the title sequence for a sitcom I had written, produced and starred in. Pet projects from the last two years had almost stripped me of my soul and soles but 2018’s looked to be the most unusual yet.

I’ll explain. One of the chaps whom I share my vapid office life with is a screenwriter and stand-up comic named Chris Murray (pictured above), who sold his car a couple years ago in order to fund the purchase of a four-foot-tall blue furry puppet, as you do. This puppet was plopped in the corner of his flat facing the wall like a scolded child to await featuring in some miscellaneous future project, and sat there untouched for the next two years.

After some conversing at the water cooler Chris and I took the plunge to socialise outside of the office confines and spent an evening drinking rum and watching fireworks during which, coincidentally, I spoke at lengths about this very blog as a way of explaining what I get up to in my spare time. Chris decried in a fit of semi-soused passion that we should write a script together; I had no foreseeable plans and that sounded like a pleasant enough distraction from my banal existence so I agreed we should.

The third writer to join the trio with Chris and I was Luke Biddiscombe who worked overseeing a pub-themed set at Bournemouth University – it had a bar and a pinball machine and pub furniture making it ideal for any drama students so long as their script heavily involved pubs, pub life and being in pubs. I soon made it habitual to yell “BIIIDDISCOOOOOMBE!!” in a wavering falsetto whenever he entered the room, which kept me nicely entertained.

We originally wrote a pilot episode for an animation, it was going to be like a twisted version of Scooby-Doo where paranormal investigators mooch around horrific crime scenes and hilarity naturally ensues. Writing was a fun process but the dialogue for some characters just didn’t click into place, particularly the Siamese twin sisters, and we kept getting sidetracked by the superb puppet lolling about in the corner. Eventually we shelved the cartoon, adult animations are ten-a-penny on Netflix these days anyway: the future is adult puppet shows!

Several boozy writing sessions later we had a draft script for the first episode of Freddy & Fuzmo Fix the World, the colourful irreverent tale of everyman Freddy (human) who cohabits his bachelor pad with the lazy crass alien Fuzmo (puppet). A second puppet had been added to the gang by this stage, a bright-eyed pink critter with a horn whom we christened Grumble, and who also flatshares with the titular duo. Grumble is a purveyor of chaos & evil, and as I could exude the most unsettling shrill squawk, as well as my enjoying chaos & evil too, it was decided I should voice and puppeteer the character.

I have zero experience in puppeteering, and my Year 9 school drama teacher once told me, in front of the whole class, that I was “the worst student she’s ever had in all her years of teaching”, so my acting’s not really up to scratch either. Irrespective of these points I was also cast as Fuzmo’s boss Clegg (utilising the same original blue puppet, only in more regal garb), meaning I played two-thirds of all the alien characters featured and had really better get started on learning my lines and practising my ventriloquism.

Any shortcomings in my acting abilities would be especially obvious too as I was performing alongside Ross Smith as Freddy, a well-established stand-up comedian, and Toby Osmond as Fuzmo, an actual award-winning, Hollywood-grade, IMDB-listed stage and film actor. Toby had recently lost a finger from a misguided gate vault, but the puppet hands only have 4 fingers anyway, so he was OK.

Another issue we had to address was where we going to film this all. The pub studio managed by Luke we could easily dress up as a messy flat by hiding the beer-pumps with clutter and turning the jukebox into a pseudo-scifi “space phone”, but we had also made the rash decision to include, in our no-budget pilot, a Godzilla-style titan-v-titan intercity fight scene. Even our editor, the ludicrously talented Laura Johnson to whom we would yell “just fix it in post!” after every mistake we made, needed something to start from to bring such a spectacle to life so we opted to build our own miniature city out of cardboard.

Acquiring, transporting and storing a scaled-down conurbation’s worth of cardboard is surprisingly difficult. Chris and I had to sneak into our workplace on a Sunday and haul the flatpack storage of 30 office chairs up from the basement where the janitor had slyly stashed them for us, then get them to Chris’ flat where they utterly overtook his entire bedroom. Thankfully the task of painting them to look like buildings we outsourced to Laura. Same with set design, prop design, costume design, editing and grading, makeup, everything really. She helped puppeteer too. And she added some jokes to the script. She’s a good egg.

The actual shooting took place over two weekends and was remarkably successful, thanks mainly to the first-rate crew we were able to assemble. All was overseen by our director Mikel Iriarte, basically a young Edgar Wright. Puppeteering itself was probably the toughest element, and not necessarily syncing up the mouth movements to the spoken lines which I was most apprehensive about, but simply the physical toll of keeping your arm extended in the air supporting a great hefty puppet for long periods of time.

It took me hand and bicep cramps that felt like I’d dunked my arm in molten metal to appreciate why most puppet show sets are custom designed for the comfort of puppet manipulators – they’re normally about 5 foot off the ground with special grooves and notches for ventriolquistic arms to thread through. We had no such luxuries and at times there would be 4 grown adults on top of one another managing different limbs and facial expressions of our puppet stars. When special movement was required such as a shot of Fuzmo walking from one side of the room to the other, this same affair would be repeated only precariously balanced atop a skateboard pulled along at walking pace. The accidents were loud and frequent.


The surreality of watching characters I’d moulded saying lines I’d written was not lost on me, particularly as this was my first time on any sort of set so I was excited anyway. Whenever not in a scene I would pace around in the darkness behind the cameras, high on Diet Coke, occasionally fidgeting around on my skateboard which would earn me a chastising as people were worried I would fall off. They were not concerned for my safety you must understand, not even having ruptured my knee last time I was trusted on a skateboard, but rather that I might hit and break the prized 4k cameras we were shooting with. I further aggravated my fellow crew by laughing egregiously during takes from my spot in the shadows, and to keep myself quiet whilst watching a scene in which Fuzmo mixed some chemicals together I had to bite the hood of Luke’s jacket so hard that the bite mark is still there today.

We had a whiskey-soaked wrap party and are now in the process of trying to garner as much interest around the show as possible so that it might eventually find the desk of a TV exec who’s an unashamed fan of aliens, puppets and miniature cardboard cities. This is essentially the overall reason for this rambling post, as I still get a daily trickle of new visitors to the blog who might be interested in following Freddy and Fuzmo (and Grumble) in their ascent to world domination. Probably not as interested as they are in whether you can smoke during flu camp, which is by far the most popular search engine term which drives traffic this way following my piece on medical trials. Flicking through the list of searches which have led people to this blog at least one of you is interested in “squatting pulling bloody tampon out gonzo”, and whilst I doubt I have what you’re looking for here, I wish you all the best of luck in finding it. In the meantime, although there’s no squatting or menstrual blood involved, how do you feel about sardonic puppet sitcoms?


You can all follow the madness on Twitter as it develops, feel free to suggest it to anyone you know who you think might enjoy it, the more human eyes locked onto the plastic eyeballs of our alien puppets the better. Although the final edit’s barely completed we’ve already had an article in the paper about the show and, madly, were nominated in the Test Pilot category of the Debbies awards, part of the Edinburgh TV Festival.

This meant I got to go to my first ever awards do, something I was very excited about. For instance in the car ride to London on the snowy morning of the event I received a cold call from a salesman named Jake who began his wearisome pitch about PPI or washing up bowl insurance or something. “I’m sorry Jake,” I explained, “but I can’t really talk now, you see I’m a writer and actor, our show has been nominated for an award and we’re on the way to the ceremony as we speak, so it’s not a great time, Jake.” He said “I totally understand Mr Rose,” but of course Jake didn’t understand, not really.

We didn’t win but being such a virgin to show biz I was enthralled by every minute regardless. Plus there was a free bar which, of course, I appreciated. A radio show presenter bought me tequilas and a man in a kilt told me blue jokes. I gave Toby permission to slap me in the face whilst Luke filmed to test out the effects of his super slow motion camera, but he didn’t film it right. Later that night I would go on to knock over a full goblet of red wine across the floor of our Airbnb and only discover the spill the next morning, scrubbing away at the mess with a beastly hangover. After an evening of such highs the next day, jarringly, I was back at my desk squabbling with the company I.T department via email.

That basically brings me to the current day. Thank you for perservering through 3 and a half years of my languorous life. There is a chance I’ll be blogging more often than once per leap year now I have something reasonably intriguing and in need of publicizing to write about. Stay alert for the presence of psychopathic pink puppets voiced by this humble blogger on your TV sometime soon, then you can coolly be like “I’ve been aware of that guy and reading his stuff since before he even puppeteered, so….”


The Shack Memoirs

Matt: arrogant, bombastic bold font
Luke: cock-eyed, pretentious italics

It was during my heaviest prolonged period of alcohol consumption to date that I applied to work at Whittaker’s Sausage Shack in Guildford, Surrey. Looking back I almost can’t believe we used to drink so much. It was abhorrently impressive not just in volume but frequency – rarely were there more than 2 nights a week I could confidently remember. Hangovers were so omnipresent they were now just the everyday state of consciousness to be routinely suffocated with booze, beginning daily whenever the Sun made a suggestion it was about to start its descent. Studying English Literature at University is little more than a glorified book club, it requires none of the intense lucidity demanded by a course in Biochemistry or Equine Dentistry, in fact to reach the creative mind-set required to properly crack most literature it’s almost essential to loosen up first with a couple of stiff drinks. I used to watch in wise, tipsy amusement as the more sober, industrious students on my course would plaster the walls of their room with dry notes and facts, jacked and frazzled from pints of coffee and permanently frustrated that their essays could never seem to muster high marks; they were always too sterile and cognitive, coldly dissecting novella like a piece of toad on a microscope slide.

So alcohol became a sort of study tonic that I didn’t like to go too long without, that was my flimsy excuse for borderline alcoholism at any rate. But a student loan can only keep you at low recreational levels of inebriation, especially in a county that falls within London’s price catchment radius. In the summer that divided my penultimate and final year of studying I reluctantly accepted I’d have to find a job, it was the only way to keep me in beers for that last dose of University work, the work that would determine what overall grade I finally staggered off campus with. No work meant no money meant no alcohol, which meant my writing would become vapidly functional with none of that vital boozy passion that lecturers love sensing because it makes them feel young and vivacious, like maybe they’re not wasting their time speaking to a wall of vacuous, doodling, mouth-breathing degenerates struggling to come to terms with the end of their teenage years.

I’d heard from my fellow profligate drinkers Luke and Peter that a new business was opening in the Friary Centre – Guildford’s main shopping hub. Specifically it was in the food court on the top floor, a sort of semi-circular amphitheatre of fast-food outlets under a brutally harsh sky of fluorescent lighting. The shopping centre did that tricksy arrangement of elevators that all malls do whereabouts once you’ve reached a level you have to circumvent the entire floor, subconsciously absorbing more advertising than a solid day of TV exposes you to, in order to reach the set of stairs that take you back to where you’ve started. I think they were hoping the combination of delicatessens would create an inescapable net of delicious smells, particularly alluring after two storeys’ worth of tiring shopping, but really the whole place just smelt old and salty, and not bracing sea air salty or even fried food salty, more the saline quality of a busy gym. There was a McDonald’s and a Subway that generated about 90% of the court’s income, and then various generic noodle bars and sandwich stalls desperately fighting for attention amongst the corporate big boys. The domed ceiling meant the acoustics were unkind, especially as, even if the whole place was seemingly deserted, you could always, somewhere, hear a baby crying.

Sausage Shack would go on to occupy the entire right wing of this gastronomic arena, in the shell of what was once a thriving artisan coffee shop, gone bankrupt through trying to compete with the cheap steaming cups of war-time standard Joe pumped out by the McDonald’s opposite. This new enterprise was intriguing, clearly the brainchild of someone with a penchant for both alliteration and innuendo, enigmatically hidden behind a partition during construction adorned with a small, single, almost-missable “staff wanted” poster.

I was 20 years old, and had never had a job before. It wasn’t like I had some personality defect or handicap that rendered me unemployable, I’d simply never found it necessary to earn a living until now, probably as I’d never before reached this level of alcohol dependence. The exam results I got at school were all OK but my CV, curiously bereft of any prior work experience, not even a newspaper round, still looked ridiculous. I tried to compensate for this by hamming up my own character traits, cringingly referring to myself as “energetic” and “exceptionally personable”. I think the phrase “giving 110%” probably slipped in too.

The aforementioned Luke and Peter had already sent across their CVs and been called for an interview by the time I got around to e-mailing over mine. I remember genuinely hoping the Sausage Shack proprietors would be of Christian faith, and see it as a blessed sign that their fledgling business was being steadily contacted by the namesakes of Jesus’ disciples. Such holy superstition might just blind them to the fact that I’d lived two whole decades without once clocking on and doing some actual work.

The interview was a simple process, on a hot day in May at the local Connections centre. I had hoped that it would be held behind the tantalising boards that displayed the banner ‘Sausage Shack coming soon’ at the food court. I turned up in an un-tucked shirt and borrowed black jeans with a skull on the back pocket, hoping to make a good impression on the undoubtedly astute businessmen that my interviewers would turn out to be. I waited in a small room that backed onto another small room; it had the feel of a shrunken doctor’s surgery. They beckoned me in and shook my hand. The two men couldn’t have been more different, except for the mouth-watering fact that they were both called Mike Whittaker and were in no way related. One was tall and slim, and would come to be known as Suit Mike and the other was a man of short rotundity who we came to love and know as Fat Mike, or Fat Michael on formal occasions. I don’t remember the questions I was asked because they must have been pointless and innocuous but I remember the glaring eyes of Suit behind his glasses as I attempted humour. As a final note they asked the question – why do you want to work here? to which I gave the standard answers and, piqued by Fat’s canine enthusiasm for all things Pork, I added – because I love sausages. The little man snatted with laughter while the taller of the Mikes glowered like a man catching somebody taking a shit on his carpet. Needless to say, the job was mine.

Borne of that day were a thousand in-jokes and scenarios to be played out ad nauseum, as Matt and a second friend had also found employment with the Shack – as had everybody interviewed by the dynamic duo. The question I find myself asking about this period – laughably miserable as it was – is what was any of that for? Propped up by student loans and extendable overdrafts I didn’t necessarily need summer work; we seemed to only need to make a good time of things. Somewhere in our addled minds we decided that taking on part-time work at a place requiring us to dress as baseball players and work long, empty shifts was a sure-fire way to have fun. Somebody said that we had got the jobs ironically but I don’t think we thought about things that much.

Suit phoned me the next day at around 5pm, while I was writhing in the middle of a beer-nightmare.

“How are you, Luke?”

“I feel terrible, Mike.”

“Well, I’ve got something that will make you feel a lot better.” I assumed he was going to tell me that they had to hire someone else. “You’re now a bonafide member of the Sausage Shack family. Start Monday.”

Usually getting a job feels like a success. Usually being told that you’re employable would make you feel good. I was glad it wasn’t Monday.

My interview too fell on a viciously hot day – it was, after all, the start of summer, and I had to make a 3-hour journey from the coastal town of Swanage where my girlfriend lived to reach Guildford’s stifling, halogen-drenched food court. I was wearing the only smart shirt in my possession which was jet black, perfect for soaking up every hit of the Sun’s heat to guarantee maximum discomfort, as well as sparking unspoken but obvious thought processes amongst everyone else on the train as they tried to deduce whether I was going to, or coming back from, a funeral. Throughout the journey I felt dense with the unfamiliar anxiety that I was purposely consigning my summer, which would usually involve music festivals, paddling pools filled with bottles of beer, and endless passages of sleep, to performing a completely unknown work duty at a completely unknown franchise. With this Surrey branch being the first to pop up there was no precedent I could check, I just knew it would involve (possibly metaphorical) sausages and may well be operating out of a (hopefully metaphorical) shack. I could vaguely approximate work hours as I gathered they’d be reasonably synonymous with the opening times of the surrounding shops, and I could also guess with some confidence that the pay would be poor, this being one of the most well known stigma of working at a fast-food chain, but besides that I was flying in blind.

I was so distracted by the fact the two disproportionate men interviewing me shared both an interest in selling hot tubes of pig ­and first and last names that I think I probably asked them more questions than they asked me. Learning I’d obtained some A’s at GCSE and that I didn’t have any past criminal convictions elicited both squeaks of excitement from Fat and grunts of almost fatherly admiration from Suit. I could already tell the dynamic of polar opposites the Mikes enjoyed; I bet that one liked salt and the other sugar, one was the domme and the other a sub. For some reason they were dressed identically in pastel pinstriped bowling shirts, and whilst I could appreciate Fat needing the vertical stripes to appear slimmer it just made gangly Suit look like a stick of Brighton rock on legs. A couple days later I was offered the job, my confirmation call coming from a lady who explained she was Mike Whittaker’s wife. She didn’t specify which one. Maybe they shared her.

I wasn’t quite at the stage of Luke’s miasma of despair at the news, in fact I was actually pretty excited at the prospect of working alongside my friends on a daily basis, presumably helping ourselves to free hot dogs whenever we liked as we casually ogled throngs of Guildford girls in their skimpy summer gear. Then again having never worked anywhere before I had no idea what to expect, plus in the midst of all our drinking I didn’t really have enough sober time to mentally calibrate exactly what I was signing up for. Luke and I had both hit a nasty period in our drinking careers where our main tipple was vodka mixed with imitation-brand lemonade called ‘Fizz Time’ which tasted of, and probably was a, disinfectant, and the vodka made myself in particular very skittish, violent and completely amnesiacal. It was unquestionable that we would get into that evil stuff the night before our first shift, Sausage Shack’s big opening day, so I knew that would be an unpredictable event to say the least.   

The first ‘Shack Day’ as they would come to be known was looming and so we decided to have a quiet night in before. I don’t remember exactly what happened but vague, blurry outlines of a group of us walking through the train station footbridge with warm Budweiser and shopping bags of vodka keep flashing back. I imagine we spent the evening drinking steadily, possibly to ward off the pressing engagement we had the next day and to blot out the ridiculous uniform we each kept cloistered in the back of our drawers. I don’t think that was the night Peter cracked his head in the road to avoid dropping his kebab but it might’ve been – it would have offered some semblance of an explanation for what happened the next morning.

I think the lesson Suit should have taken from this saga (for I have assumed that he made the decisions in their relationship) would have been to learn to spot idiots who do not care about what happens to them. A phase many of us have to go through before we can become truly miserable.

That morning I woke up, having planned to meet Peter at the end of my street for our 9am start – Matt would be starting an hour or so later, for some reason. Bleary eyed I explained to my girlfriend that this whole thing was a terrible idea. She assured me that I should go; that it would be funny; that all of our friends were coming to the grand opening. Somehow, I decided to get dressed and I pulled on my jeans (which, thankfully were not provided by Shack) and reluctantly slithered into my stripy baseball themed t-shirt, emblazoned with the logo of my employer. Fat had told me how expensive these tops were, and that they had been imported from the U.S.

8.30am – there was no sign of Peter. 8.45am – still no sign. I called him and there was no answer. It first dawned on me that this might have been a joke constructed by him and Matt, to set me up to go and work for Sausage Shack on my own, like a real person with responsibilities. I decided that unless I was going to go in with somebody else I wasn’t going at all and promptly climbed back into bed, still dressed in the outfit of America’s national pastime.

Eventually, the idiot called me and explained that he had overslept and he was on his way to mine. I met him and we were forty minutes late. Shack was due to open in twenty minutes and we had no idea what we were supposed to be doing. Our lie for being late was a mixed-bag of excuses detailing the breakdown of Peter’s car – Suit seemed unimpressed as he was well aware that we both lived within thirty minutes walk of the shopping centre. Fat had no idea what was happening and was moving about the place like one of those robot hoovers you occasionally see a cat riding around on – bumping into walls and counters and occasionally falling through the door to the rear office. This might have been a Sunday, not a Monday.

The place was spotless and decked out with a gargantuan amount of staff. The Mikes would later discover, much to the chagrin of our bank accounts, that this quantity of personnel was in no way required. We posed for a humiliating photo and got to work. My stomach ached. Suit watched on with characteristic disdain.

None of us was aware, at the start of the first shift, what our jobs would entail. As it turned out the Mikes had also let this inherently important factor slip past their keen business-trained minds. About twenty minutes before we opened they assigned us each a role. I was to be a chef. That left Matt, Peter and the other Shack misfits who had evidently not gained this employment as a joke. Eva the incredibly hardworking Polish woman who never took lunch (a fact that Suit was in love with) was to be my second in command on the grill. Working on the other side of the small room would be Matt, Peter, Lucy, Harry and Kaiya. I remember literally nothing of those last three people other than they were all younger than us and seemed to be doing their first part-time jobs. Harry was tall. Kaiya was a racing driver and Lucy was also there. There were five members of staff for two tills. Plus the Mikes. That put nine of us in the room that Suit and Fat would later discover needed no more than two members of staff in at any one time.

At this point in my life I had done precious little cooking. Occasionally heating something up in the oven was a rare risk I took. The Mikes had brought in a George Foreman grill to do the cooking of the British Sausages and had left me and Eva to it. There was no room for two of us so one stood by waiting for printed receipts of orders that were placed on the tills (even though we were only ten feet away from the servers and there were never enough orders to warrant this technology – it broke down quite soon after anyway) and the other would put the Sausages on the grill. We also had a few Chicago Beef frankfurters and ‘Regular’ Pork Frankfurters floating in yellow water in the bain-marie like a couple of turds too stubborn to flush. The Mikes would soon realise that cooking the sausages to order was a bad idea as this would push our cuisine so far outside of the ‘fast’ food category that they so desperately wished to inhabit. Their solution was to cook several of the grilled sausages at once and put them into a waterless compartment of the bain-marie to fester, like a couple of turds that your cat leaves behind the kitchen door.

The first day had the potential to go well. There was enough staff that any crisis could, theoretically, be handled sufficiently. However, many of our friends had lined up in the food court for the grand opening. I think that our hubris at having been funny and getting a stupid job wore off the second the shutters came down to reveal their faces. I don’t know how many people there were, we weren’t especially popular, but there were enough and they were sure to order the more difficult things. To make us earn that £4.90 per hour.

One thing that strikes me about this was what it said about our generation, that the mere fact that we had jobs was such material for laughter. I’d worked before. In Tesco. And people came and laughed at me there too.

Sure enough, they lined up and ordered the Texas BBQ Melt. All of them. At the behest of Matt and Peter (who didn’t have to make it).

The Texas BBQ Melt was a curious concoction. I don’t remember all of the ingredients on it but the ones I do paint an unfortunate picture. There was the standard Shack bun, which was old before it was opened and crumbled away like cake. This was topped with the 1/4lb Chicago Beef frankfurter that Fat was obsessed with. Then a strange melding of disparate ingredients topped it. There was onions, cheese, BBQ sauce, roasted peppers that tasted like they had been stored in piss and, just for good measure, bacon… which had been heated up in the microwave until it possessed the delicious texture of duct tape. The unfortunate thing about making these items was that it took so long, far longer than it took to order them. Especially when some people opted to remove certain elements from the list of toppings and the Mikes had implemented nothing to make this easier for us. The Mikes had also invested in a warming cabinet which baked the whole thing to a fine, puffy crust, the BBQ sauce condensed on top like paint. Things ran but not smoothly. The receipts built up until we had twenty or thirty of them; Suit licked his lips with the prospect of booming business, entirely unaware that this would not, by any means, last. The receipts all had the exact same order on which made it almost impossible to comprehend where we had got to – Eva flipped out, I heard Matt shouting about Smoothies with a cup of brown mud in his hands. Suit dished out loyalty cards to the hapless customers. Nothing worked quickly. There were mushrooms melting into themselves in the bain-marie.

The excitement lasted about an hour before our friends went home. A place my head longed for, amidst the shouting of orders that didn’t coincide with the receipts that were printing out down our end. Lucy, Harry and Kaiya stood in the middle, between the servers and the ‘kitchen’ acting as ‘runners’. A child ordered a Little Franky which didn’t even fill the bun and nobody got a vegetarian option. It was hard work but that didn’t matter because I couldn’t foresee myself lasting longer than a week. Matt seemed to be enjoying himself once the crowd died down a little; speaking to people, giving out sausage based puns which many of the customers were probably only there to hear.

The excitement of that first day lasted no longer. We kept a steady crowd who were interested and perhaps enticed with disgusted intrigue. After 5pm we closed and went home stinking of pork. Suit informed us that we were not permitted to eat any of the leftover food and that it must be thrown away. Fat declared that he would be taking some home ‘for the dog’ which we quite rightly interpreted as his nickname for his swollen gut. Walking home dressed as a baseball player when you are not, in fact, a baseball player is a humiliation unbeknownst to most of the population. I got in and checked what my friends thought of the delicacies on offer and, other than our most charming friend, Joe, they didn’t think very much of it at all.

Our inaugural day was, indeed, a shambles. The only upside was that at least I wasn’t placed in food prep like Luke to get spat at by tanks of meat water on a rolling boil; boasting I was 110% exceptionally personable in my CV clearly paid off as I was given the much kinder job of customer server. This roster was truly a blessing as my cooking abilities were worse even than Luke’s. It is no exaggeration to say that I didn’t even know how to use a tin-opener.

Although the work was fairly stressful as no-one knew what they were supposed to be doing I felt comfortable that no matter how badly I cocked up I wouldn’t get in trouble, as the Mikes posed about as laughably feeble a pair of authority figures as you could imagine. About 2 hours into that first day as I was trying to close the sale of a Chilli Cheese Melt to a girl with lots of piercings, Fat was capering about behind me interjecting “Matt… Matt… Matt… Ask her if she wants potato salad…”

“I already have, Mike,” I explained slowly. “She said she hates potato salad and besides, all our potato salad is frozen, because you left it all in the freezer, not the fridge.”

“Yes but Matt…” he persisted, gesturing at the customer as if she couldn’t see him standing there 2 feet away, “a-ask her if she wants the potato salad.”

This became too much not to get angry at and I snapped “Mike! I’m trying to bag a sale here, stop treading on my toes! Just get out, Mike! Get out!”

I instantly cringed. Despite not having any prior experience in the workplace I could still appreciate that telling your boss to get out on your first day was a bit of a no-no. But, amazingly, he did. He sulkily moped out to the back office like a disruptive child who’d been sent out of class. It was so unbelievable I burst out laughing at him.

We regaled our friends with these anecdotes in the pub that evening. I’m perfectly happy getting myself into painful and/or humiliating situations if I can get a funny story out of it so I was quite content, drunkenly holding court on Fat’s expression when I told him to leave the premises of his own business. Luke stared into his pint of lager like he wanted to drown himself in it, clearly not looking forward to the next day.

The second shift passed much as the first, with the scarcely notable absence of Harry and Kaiya. Thankfully Joe and crew were already bored of seeing our suffering so weren’t there today to bait us. Chaos still prevailed though, particularly during the peak of the lunchtime rush when Suit dropped a full cup of Fanta that exploded on the floor, then stood there glaring at it morosely, arms crossed in his trademark stance. It’s worth mentioning at this point that Shack had an entirely exposed open-plan layout, so every spill, stumble, blunder and glaring violation of hygiene laws be they by the tills or in the kitchen were all visible to the paying public. Suit’s Fanta accident therefore prompted a chorus of pantomime “oooohhh”s from the amused queue.  

By the end of Day 2 however even the entropy that dictated proceedings had become predictable and dull, so in the pub that night Luke and I decided we’d spice up our third day with a little challenge. In addition to the pasta salad and popcorn and smoothies and everything else we sold, we also did big hearty cups of coffee, and although the machine spent easily more than half of every day broken, groaning and hissing and dribbling milk like a dying cat, when it was working the coffee it spat out was actually pretty decent. At any point during our shift we too, as staff, were entitled to help ourselves to a cup of java, and it was agreed between Luke and myself that the winner would be whoever could drink the most free coffee throughout the working day.

We began in good spirits, both quaffing a cup of hot brown immediately upon walking in. Continuing our good pace we went up for another one just 5 minutes later, already feeling caffeine’s excitable effects. Suit was looking at us with disgust, but then he looked at everything with disgust, even his children, that was just how his face was built. The next coffee scalded our mouths but went down just as fast. By 09:22 we were striding up to pour our third cup of the day, and that was when Suit stepped in.

“Boys, in fact, everyone!” he announced. We all sluggishly amassed around him as he prepared his statement. I had a feeling this wouldn’t be a motivational speech. “We need to talk about the coffee situation,” he said gravely. “Some people are having 2, even 3 cups of coffee throughout the day. As you can tell, it’s gotten way out of hand. You should be having 1, or ideally no, cups of coffee.”

And so, not wanting to further exacerbate ‘the coffee situation’, we ended our game almost as soon as it had begun, sadly without even the chance to liven up the day by hitting the hallucinogenic stage accessible after 100 cups of caffeine.

This trend continued throughout the next few days and weeks with more and more consumables being placed off-limits. Staff refilling their soft drinks was next seen as being far too bourgeois and limited to one per shift, and even that had to be gulped back whilst crouched hiding beneath the till so no customers could see for some unexplained reason. The drinking of coffee eventually became a prohibited act altogether, a stupid move really as I need to be pumped full of coffee intravenously to even spark a modicum of energy at work so deprive me of the stuff and you may as well have hired a store manikin. This was especially true for the first month of Shack employment when I was living in a mouldy little room above a music student who practiced constantly and alongside another music student who practiced constantly, leaving me permanently sleep-deprived. And although the Mikes had less power and command than a Cub Scout they were fucking serious about these drink embargos. Even when they weren’t around and you thought you might be able to sneak in an extra snifter of Diet Coke as a treat for bearing these demeaning, underpaid conditions, Fat’s wife was a hawk-eyed Orwellian nightmare constantly ratting out who’d drunk what, when, and how much.

As the Mikes’ budget became tighter and tighter things eventually became so destitute that we were only allowed to drink the tap water out of the smallest of Shack polystyrene cups, and even then they hadn’t quite pinched every penny. We all dawdled into work one morning, acutely aware we only had hard Surrey water to reinvigorate us, to be confronted by Suit with another of his cost-reducing ideas.

“From now on staff won’t be able to use our cups,” he announced with the doleful pomp of a Communist dictator. “Staff will bring cups from home into work. That is all.”

I went with Lucy and Kaiya after work to go shopping for beverage containers to use during our shifts, which we did in a sour, mutinous mood; I think this was genuinely the only time I ever spent with them outside of work. Lucy was a quintessential girly-girl and I gleaned from her outspoken nature that she was used to getting her own way, so when she demanded we all buy our cups from the Disney Store Kaiya and I knew better than to argue. I bought a Hannah Montana one, with contours in the mug defining Hannah’s burgeoning pubescent breasts and hips, tactically thinking this would surely make anyone too uncomfortable to consider borrowing to drink water out of when I wasn’t around. Unfortunately I forgot Luke was just as debauched as me and he made full use of Hannah too whenever he could, the sick hairy bastard. This actually became my favourite mug until 2 years later when I awoke with a furious hangover and sadly and inexplicably found it smashed into a hundred pieces.

But even with this level of austerity Suit was aware within the first fortnight that Whittaker’s Sausage Shack was turning over less revenue than his most pessimistic of projections. To try to drum up business Lucy and I were sporadically sent to hand out coupons and free samples to the shoppers of the Friary; I because I’m convivial and can turn on the charm like a faucet, Lucy because she’s a teenage blonde with, as Fat often smarmily opined to us boys, “nice legs”.

We were sent to the very central atrium of the shopping centre, a pandemonium of noise and haste and scared lost children, truly the worst environment for a gaggle of faux baseball players carrying precariously overflowing plates of complementary sausage. It would be 10 or 15 minutes maximum until Friary security approached us to politely but firmly inform us that we weren’t allowed to be doing this, that we could offer free samples from within our stands’ premises but not out here in the main shopping piazza, that could we please leave before we drip any more hot cheese on an already frantic mother who can’t find her son.

Then we’d report back to Suit with these grievances who would flippantly say, and I quote, “just do it anyway.” If security hassled us again, we were to bribe them with free samples. And then we’d delve back into the hubbub to try again, only to return 10 minutes later, chastised by security for a second time.

“Why didn’t you sweeten them with a free sample?” Suit would ask.

“We tried,” I’d explain. “But they said this stuff was too bad to even give away.”

“Ah,” Suit would say understandingly, palpably feeling his invested money ebbing away. Then Fat would poke his head around the corner and ask how you spelt “sausage”, or if we’d seen his moonwalk, and we’d all laugh.


The food at Shack was not entirely putrid and the free lunches with which we were provided were adequate and added inches round the belly. Comparable with McDonald’s, at which Suit would grimace from behind his folded arms all day long, the food was of a reasonable quality. That being said, their menu had problems. Fundamental problems for a restaurant that sought to provide convenience.

They had spent a good proportion of the pre-opening time preparing a menu that had excellent graphics and was eye-catching, in the hope of alluring the youths of Guildford with their legendary love of all things baseball; they had, however, forgotten to plan what kind of meals and food would be available. Your standard meal consisted of a sausage in a bun (which became a nasal catchphrase to be hollered at passing customers), of which there were many varieties; a soft-drink or coffee, of which the former would be almost entirely ice, as per the Mikes’ insidious instruction; and a side dish.

Most people asked for chips or fries as their side dish. We then had to explain that we didn’t sell chips. They would always ask why and the Mikes’ excuse that ‘we don’t have a fryer’ just didn’t suffice. But our menu was nothing if not expansive. At the start of this debacle, the side dishes they could have were popcorn, pretzels, buttered pretzels, potato salad (made in-house!), vanilla ice-cream or the hugely popular nachos with sour cream. We rarely had enough pretzels to go round and I liked to save one for my lunch; the potato salad was frozen due to Fat’s inability to properly set a fridge temperature and nobody wanted popcorn because… it wasn’t the cinema. So, more often than not, people would opt for the nachos. A sound choice. And yet, when presented with a bag of ‘Cool Original’ Doritos and a small pot of watery sour-cream people seemed a tad unsure:     

“Sorry, I didn’t ask for crisps, I had the nachos.”

These people must have been expecting a large plate of warmed, crisp tortilla, smothered lovingly with all their favourite toppings. It was always hard to have to look them in the eye and explain.

“No, sorry… these are the nachos.”

“These are Doritos.”

“Yeah… I know. They’re technically nacho chips,” we would say, hopefully.

I’m sure these customers never came back. Eventually we took it upon ourselves to pre-warn them, when placing their order, that the Nachos were, in fact, Doritos. Sales of which declined thereafter.

After a while, sales began to decline on all stock due to lack of interest from the public. A lack of interest that was probably well deserved. One man even suggested that we close down because what we sold was ‘just hot-dogs’. I couldn’t disagree with him. The Mikes decided that it was time to get creative and the next few weeks saw us develop our menu extensively – despite not updating the physical menu to which customers had access. Nobody knew what we would be selling from one day to the next.

Ben & Jerry’s is coming to Sausage Shack! Fat declared. The miniscule tubs were proudly displayed in a mini-fridge on the counter, blocking off space that could be used for trays. They added £1.80 to the standard meal price.

Shortly after this things became depraved. I would come into work to discover that we now sold Kit-Kats, and there they would be, in a strange container in front of the tills. The next day saw the popular mint with a hole, the Polo added to our stock – because what goes better with a Chicago Beef Hotdog than 30 mints? I think it must have been out of sheer desperation on the part of the Mikes. In one of their board meetings (probably held around a flaming metal bin near a railway track) they deduced that the way to ensure a steady stream of customers was to slowly become a Newsagent. I’m surprised I didn’t have to give out a copy of The Sun with every purchase of a Lincolnshire Onion.

To be honest, I can’t remember what else they added to our menu while I worked there. The exaggerative nature of memory leads me to believe that I was handing out crumbling buns filled with watercress and a side of Strepsils to customers paying £24.50 for the privilege. The real thing that sticks in my mind was their complete lack of faith in what they did, which makes me wonder why into the dark pit of Shack so much money was thrown. They didn’t seem to want to be proprietors of a sausage-based fast-food restaurant; it was more that they just wanted to be proprietors of something. Anything. The best thing on the menu was the German Bratwurst but it was discontinued after less than a week. Fat instructed that the customers ordering Curry Wurst meals were to receive a regular pork frankfurter (the kind you can buy at Tesco) with a dollop of curry sauce. For them anything would do, as long as somebody bought it.

Several weeks after we left they were still at the menu hacking and seemed to have found some success. I went along to say hello and see how things were going. On the counter was a strange looking metal box with pieces of bread on shelves. Fat must’ve finally cracked was the obvious first-thought.

“What’s that over there?”

“Oh, that’s the toasted sandwich warmer” said the server, vaguely aware of who I was.

“The what?”

“Oh, yeah, we sell toasted sandwiches now.”


“They sell more than hot dogs! In fact, we don’t sell many hot dogs at all anymore.”

Suit interjected: “That’s right Luke. It’s all about toasted sandwiches here at Sausage Shack. People can’t get enough.”

Of course the drinking continued throughout all this. The hangovers weren’t so much obstacles to work but they did endeavour to make the day, if possible, even more unpleasant. My main requisite to coping with a hungover day is to be dressed comfortably – loose plaid shirts and lounge pants so ill-fitting I have to hold them around me like a sarong. So to be decked in an imitation baseball player’s shirt weft from fibreglass, with a cap so tight as to trap circuits of blood screaming around my upper head, the average vanilla hangover went from debilitating to daemonic. Not to mention the stifling heat from the ovens, the nauseating, gastrointestinal gurgling noises from the bain marie, the smell of roasting larvae from the fly zapper, and Lucy’s endless diatribes about the world of celebrities, the combined effect was not dissimilar to the environment less salubrious governments would imprison enemy soldiers in with the intent of obtaining classified information.

It was on one of these ten-a-penny hungover days that it was reported a new member of staff had the misfortune of joining us, another teenage girl and best friend of Lucy. She bounced in cheerily, already shackled in her baseball outfit, and we all dismally grunted our welcomes before returning to whatever mindless toil we’d previously been engaged in.

I’d been landed the unenviable task of preparing the day’s sour cream, which went out in paper pots to accompany people’s so-called nachos. It was routinely the duty of some unfortunate fuck, usually whoever had pissed Suit off the most, to dose out around a hundred individual potfuls from the main sour cream vat. This was a chore I’d become quite skilful at avoiding, usually pretending I was in the middle of serving a customer and letting the job slide to one of the grunts like Eva or Luke, but my hangover had dulled my reflexes and somehow I found myself the one staring straight into this tub of curdled, glutinous scuz.

I don’t know if it was the way the industrial vat was stored, the poor quality of the product, or maybe this was just standard sour cream behaviour, but the liquid and solid of the stuff would separate to leave a claggy, white mass around the inside of the container and a pool of milky water in the centre, like the geological feature of some chalk cave. The sour creamer on duty was responsible for slopping the coagulated lumps and fetid cream-water together for each and every pot to create something, impossibly, that a paying customer would voluntarily put into their mouths.

For me and my hair-trigger gag reflex, especially on a hot hungover day when Kaiya is talking about nothing but alcohol it seems, this was a job that never failed to make me retch. And it was in this position that I had to make my pleasant introductions to the new girl, wrist-deep in what resembled a compound of semen and grout, almost going cross-eyed with nausea. Small talk passed harmlessly enough when suddenly, apropos of nothing, she announced “y’know, I had an abortion once,” and then taking my stunned silence as a cue to continue talked me viscerally through the entire procedure.

“And then I felt it just fall out of me,” she eventually concluded. I nodded along glumly, trying to stifle my heaves by way of common courtesy. This was the sort of conversation I’d feel uncomfortable enough having with one of my closest friends so to be smacked with this narrative by a total stranger, a hangover dancing its macabre samba around my skull and a disgusting job quite literally on my hands to boot, I could only focus on controlling my breathing and hoping I’d just pass out.  

The Mikes had premeditated that the sour cream would be distributed with the nachos, but seeing as no-one tended to order the nachos because they weren’t really nachos, they ended up being the side-dip of choice for the pretzels. These jumbo-sized, optionally cheese-infused dough-knots were actually pretty tasty, certainly as a Shack employee they posed the best thing to pilfer for your 20-minute lunch break, but they looked like polished wood. And this isn’t a petty insulting simile, customers genuinely thought they were made out of wood. They were hung on a sort of mug-tree on the counter right by where people ordered, I assume to place them within an alluring proximity to boost chances of an impulsive “oh and I’ll take one of these too!”, but as they just resembled pine decorations people as they queued would often absent-mindedly flick them, squeeze them or downright snap them in half. Almost always they’d be most apologetic when they realized they were fiddling with a doughy snack for sale and not a wooden trinket, but I’d reassure them that it happened all the time.

In terms of size the pots that the sour cream went out in were unrealistically huge, they were like an entrée all of their own, and so most of the contents would end up dumped and smeared over the cheap blue trays the poor Guildfordian’s lunches were served on. Eva would extensively wash these to her industrious Polish standard but drying up was left to Fat’s wife who’d flippantly wave a disposable towel near everything and then go back to looking after her kids who always seemed to be there. Consequently I would have to set up food on a tray so waterlogged that a goldfish could live in it as the customer stared in disbelief at what they’d just paid for, their Mush Puppy floating slowly towards them like a tiny disgusting barge.

The Mush Puppy, whilst we’re on the subject, was commonly regarded as the worst thing we at Shack sold. Our menu described it as a “beef frankfurter served with Mushrooms topped with Cheese & Onion Flakes”; the onion flakes were dire, looking and smelling like stale fish food, the cheese was a watery juice the colour of smoker’s teeth out of a plastic bottle, and the mushrooms were these little slug-like entities that came floating in a can of brine. The end result was like a normal hot dog that had been exposed to dizzying levels of radiation, and everyone who ordered one at best politely advised us afterwards that “this doesn’t really work.” I believe the Mush Puppy was one of Fat’s monstrous creations as he’d be incredulous with rage when anyone complained, asking the customer, in no uncertain terms, whether they thought they could do any better, until Suit calmly interjected and apologized on behalf of both of them.  

On the times when Suit wasn’t occupied with babysitting his bumbling, yard-wide business partner he would stare unblinking into the food court trying to discern visually why other outlets were thriving and his wasn’t. Ironically the grimace of discomfort he pulled as he did this was one of the main reasons why people weren’t approaching our counter. Occasionally he’d run a marketing theory or question by me when I wasn’t busy, so any time really.

“Spudulike,” he grumbled, squinting at the baked potato franchise which pulled in a reasonable turnover each day. “What d’you reckon they do?”

“Spuds I should think Mike. Potatoes” I answered.

“But what’s their USP? And who’s their demographic?” he asked. I confessed I didn’t know. “It’s old people,” he revealed. “Old people eat there every day. Why is that?”

I mused for a second before facetiously offering “minimal chewing?”

He slowly nodded his head, never once breaking eye contact with the potato stand in case he missed their trade secret. “I think you’re right there.”

I went to Spudulike only once at the behest of my girlfriend. A gentleman of extremely limited English handed me some slushy potato covered in mayonnaise from one of those big grimy bottles with a nozzle that makes a satisfied farting noise after every squeeze. It was served in a mauve plastic disc like a Frisbee, and the only utensil I got was a big, blunt spork, also mauve, such as might be used by a baby or someone admitted to a psych ward. My meal was like hot wet paper, served out of a deflated basketball. You were in trouble if you looked to Spudulike for guidance.     

In fact the only eatery doing worse than Shack was Kebab Express, where they considered it a good day if they got any number of customers that was a plural. You could generate a healthy income selling kebabs between midnight and 5am to pissed-up revellers craving bread and fat, but less so during 9am and 3pm in a brightly-lit department store filled with fussy middle-aged women. The only time they ever bagged any revenue was from groups of deathly looking young men that had clearly been out partying all night, who without fail would order the biggest kebab on the menu only to instantly blanch upon seeing all that glistening speck and offal illuminated by the harsh halogen lights overhead.

Kebab Express sort of became a canary in the mine to the Mikes – as long as that could stay afloat, so surely could Shack, and so every day we opened our shutters to see our kebabish compadres doing the same we could breathe easy knowing at least we weren’t quite the worst place here. So you can imagine the sort of lugubrious scene it was to walk in one morning to find the Kebab Express shutters still closed, all the lights and appliances switched off, the fridges bare and no questionable animal abdomen skewered on the rotisserie. They’d been shut down, the canary had finally choked. Suit of course just maintained his wearily irked facial expression but Fat effectively prolapsed in panic, and had to spend all day in the back office to recuperate.

“I could see this day coming,” Suit told me. “This place isn’t made for a business doing just kebabs.”

I paused, wondering if he’d be able to concede “Neither for sausages to be honest.” But no, he stayed silent, and we both stared out at the gloomy husk of what used to be the worst food stand in The Friary, trying to ignore the sound of Fat’s wife in the back room yelling at her husband for being so incompetent.  

I don’t think Fat’s wife liked me. She was a mean spirited woman from the first time I met her. Perhaps she was the only one who saw us for what we truly were; where the Mikes thought we were diligent and hard working she saw only feckless idiots. Fat’s feelings were hurt quite badly, understandably so, when one of us referred to him as Fat Mike to his face. His lower lip quivered and he ran outside flapping his arms like an overweight bird trying to take flight. I felt bad about that because, for all his inadequacies, he was a genuinely nice man and we had given him a painfully accurate nickname. Suit, on the other hand, loved his nickname. He didn’t, however, wear a suit. It was his mock-professional demeanour that meant that he always seemed to be wearing one.

I suppose that Fat must have told his wife about the incident because she was a vindictive person towards me thereafter. Her main issue was with me and my trousers. I didn’t own a belt and that dug at her so hard she must have been kept awake at night. When I bent over to pick up a small slug of a mushroom or wipe some spunky sour-cream from the floor she would be behind me, without fail, to chastise me for a slight riding of my trousers.

“It’s terrible. The way this happens.” She was trying to make me feel bad but never actually used the word pants as if through embarrassment.

“I can’t help it” I would protest.

“Buy a belt!”

“Pay me more!”

And so on, and so forth. This happened almost every day. I loathed times when she was working. Her problem didn’t seem to be with my pants being (ever so slightly) visible to the two people in the shack, but what the customers might think. I believe that she felt that it was my undergarments keeping people away. Or my 2 days of stubble, or my stupid stupid face.

One day I lost it. I was making a Texas BBQ Melt or a Mush Puppy or something else that is stupid and tasted bad and it was taking quite a long time. I often claimed that the artistry in putting a hot-dog together was, perhaps, the only thing about the job that didn’t make me want to throw myself in the river. It had maybe taken a minute and I was nearly done. There were a great many ingredients to put together so I didn’t feel like a minute was too long. Mrs Fat, however, did.

“Why is that taking you so long?” she said, within earshot of the customer who looked on sadly, clearly regretting his choice of food that day.       

“It’s not.”       

“It is! You’ve been doing it for ages now! There are other things to make.” I looked over at the counter. There were no other customers.       

“It takes as long as it takes. You want me to make it right.”       

She screeched at me. “Listen! Do it faster!”       

Rage boiled in me. Usually I’m a very placid man. Matt has said that the only time he’s ever seen me angry was when I went up to a bar and was waiting for a drink, only to be told that there was, in fact, a queue. A QUEUE?! I exclaimed. IT’S A BAR! There is no queue, you just wait. I looked at all their idiot faces lining up behind each other. Each thinking that they were in a Costa or something. Dicks.       

I told Mrs Fat that she couldn’t do it any faster and she was slowing me down. She scowled at me and told me to hurry up. Fat watched on nervously as she walked back over towards him.

Things rarely escalated beyond raised words in Shack. Indeed, there were fewer customers as each day went by so there were never any quarrels. Eventually I thought Suit might think it a cogent idea to pay people for their custom.       

Eva became their number one chef after a few weeks. I’m not sure what I did to upset them but Suit made the executive decision. She wasn’t as good as me at putting patterns in the ketchup and mustard but she got the job and I was always on the tills from that point on; a job I had hoped to avoid for the humiliating position that it put you in with Guildford’s public. The people of Guildford, through the lens of a Sausage Shack worker, were all fifteen, rich and obnoxious. They laughed at you not because you had a job in the fast-food industry; they laughed at you not because you had a job that made you dress like a fool; they laughed at you because you had a job. Eva worked two jobs but they couldn’t see her very well behind the counter.

On one particularly busy day there were a few of us serving at the tills and due to the poor planning of the interior there was space only for Eva at the kitchen counter. It must have been a Saturday lunch time and, although Subway had a line that snaked around past our counter, we had a few customers ourselves. We were able to take two or three orders in less than the time it took to make one hot-dog. Eva was prepared for the onslaught and the orders started rocketing through. Each electronic order sent through to the receipt machine which Eva could use to keep track of her cooking. The digital buzz of the machine audible in the confines of Shack. Two Texas BBQ Melt meals, one with no peppers, one British Banger meal with onions, mustard and ketchup…       

“Eva, that last one was a mistake. Cheese, not onions,” Suit would shout at her, from his position behind the servers. More orders buzzed through. Chicago Beef with sour cream and onions… pork frankfurter with mustard and crispy onions… Lincolnshire onion meal.       

“Eva, not too many caramelised onions on that Lincolnshire… How’s the first Texas BBQ Melt coming?” Mike went to investigate. Eva had six hot-dogs still to make. “Eva, this Texas BBQ Melt isn’t right. You’ve not put onions on it.”       

“You said cheese not onions.”       

“No! That was for the British Banger. Put some onions on this please.” Suit walked back towards the servers. Orders buzzed through.       

“Mike,” Eva shouted, “We’re out of hot frankfurters. There are none in the bain-marie.”

“Just chuck them in the microwave,” Suit responded, in earshot of the queue. Orders inexplicably still buzzed through.       

“Eva,” Suit shouted, “Two Curry Wurst meals please.”       

Eva handed the first of the Texas BBQ Melts to a customer. More receipts buzzed out of the machine. 

“Two Curry Wurst meals please, Eva,” said Suit.

This was where Suit’s plan for organisation began to fall down. Eva got all of the orders buzzed through to her and, although she was busy grilling Lincolnshire sausages and watching pork explode in the microwave, she knew what needed to be cooked. Suit, on the other hand, chose to call out whatever took his fancy. Sometimes he would call out orders twice, confusing Eva into thinking she had to make four Curry Wursts instead of two. Sometimes he wouldn’t call out what needed to be made and this led to her thinking that some of the receipts might have been old ones. She was drowning in a pile of money, except that it wasn’t money; it was pieces of paper that had Mush Puppy written on them.       

She fell to pieces when she was about to start on the third or fourth of the orders, Mrs Fat shouting at her like a dog guarding a front-garden. She positioned the 1/4lb beef frankfurter in the bun and turned around to get the correct sauce. When she turned back the bun, in slow motion, fell forward and out the 1/4lb beef frankfurter rolled. She screamed.       

“Eva,” said Mike, “Take five.”       

She huffed out of Shack for a fag, as red in the face as the ketchup on her shirt.       

“Peter, take over down there would you?” Mike nonchalantly indicated the pile of receipts in the corner.       

“But, but, how will I know what to make?”       

Suit shrugged, “I don’t know, figure it out.” He folded his arms. He was in a good mood. 

Peter Cryer, or “Crymax” as he liked to be known, our chirpy, fubby Chinese friend was actually something of a late addition to our friendship group. When we began working at Shack he’d only been inaugurated into our awkward little crew about 5 months prior, but we knew he’d fit in when we watched him sit in the corner of a party and stoically drink an entire bottle of port until his face turned brick red in hue. I quietly think he only applied alongside Luke and I to ingratiate himself further with our group, but as it transpired Peter seemed to rather enjoy working at Shack, and Suit became professionally smitten with him. Because Pete had both my debonair charm and Luke’s practical skills he was one of the only members of staff regularly permitted to serve people and also make the food as customer demand dictated, whilst Suit watched on, grimacing with pride.

But even perfect Peter wasn’t faultless. He suffered from an excess of creative joie de vivre in the kitchen and would emblazon people’s plain hot dogs, plain because they’d specifically ordered them plain, with mismatched garnishes and surrealist geometric designs in ketchup, constantly practicing his vocal impressions of MasterChef’s Gregg Wallace as he did so. On the tills he’d often get too preoccupied with trying to get girls to smile at him that he’d just forget to charge them any money, and what with the Mikes so strapped for cash this was a grievous err. One shift saw Peter with a deficit of £15 from simply failing to remember that he was supposed to be charging for this food rather than giving it away like a charity drive. Suit fastidiously checked the receipts at the end of the day alongside the takings in the tills and pounced on any discrepancy – he once even phoned my mobile several hours after a shift when I was lying in bed drinking beer and trying to forget about the day I’d had to inform me the contents of my till were 60p short, and that he’d overlook it this time but to be more careful in future. With a whole £15 unaccounted for Suit might likely take the matter to court, but Peter was unfazed.

“There’s still a couple hours left, so what I’ll do,” he explained proudly, “is just overcharge the next 3 foreign customers by a fiver. They won’t know will they?”

Right on cue a Chinese family strode forward to order, all eager anticipatory smiles for the patriotic British Banger. Peter totalled their order, and let’s say £9 flashed up on the till display, clear for both parties to see.

“That’s £14 please” Peter said unblinking. Heart-breakingly they paid it, happily no less, all for Luke to wipe his nose and then fish a tepid sausage out of the cage it’d sat in for the past 4 hours since it was cooked. Overcharging was a practice Peter was quite familiar with however, as after most of his Shack shifts he’d quit literally run to his night job at a pub called The King’s Head, where prices were so high you had to watch not to bang your head on them when you walked in.

Because it always took less time to serve someone than it did to prepare their food, and besides for vast swathes of the day there was no-one to serve anyway, when Peter and I were both on the tills we’d be forced to find ways to amuse ourselves. Suited & Fatted had given us a cursory tour of Shack on our first day but refused to mention or acknowledge a wall-mounted phone that sat just below the bug zapper. It was an unappetizing device because the zapper above it was poorly made and the tray for catching all the dead flies hung on a dodgy hinge, so the handset was constantly peppered with slightly charred bluebottles, but the fact it was curiously bypassed by the Mikes made it particularly intriguing. Eventually when Suit was occupied elsewhere, probably remortgaging his house again, Peter and I approached the mysterious phone and discovered there were hotkeys to contact every single other outlet in the food court, absolute pay-dirt for the quintessential restless prankster.

Instantly we phoned both McDonald’s and the snootily Bohemian smoothie bar it neighboured and told them both that we here at Sausage Shack had run out of milk, we needed milk and that they’d better high-tail some milk over here right now or someone somewhere would be furious. Then we’d pull out the flies that the handset had disgorged into our mouths whilst talking and hide beneath the counter, shaking with the most puerile of giggles as we watched confusion erupt amongst their staff as managers were consulted and cartons of milk gestured to questioningly. Behind the superficially sterile and swanky face of the food court that customers saw was a grotty stone viaduct full of leaking pipes and chicken wire that connected all the food stands; every staff member employed within would have to channel through this to reach the toilets or the main store room, and be they the sneering hipsters selling smoothies or the arrogant ‘sandwich artists’ of Subway or just the terrifyingly incomprehensible operators of Kebab Express there was always the feeling of inferiority being the smelly Shack rookies dressed as baseball players who couldn’t sell well. But the tables turned when we realized that we hadn’t been told of this pupa-bukkaked phone as it was meant for high authority figures only, and anything heard on the other end of this phone was thus considered gospel. Peter and I had staff from every single company running needless milk, salt and sugar to us, turning that quiet staff viaduct into a human hamster run, just for the gratification of acting perplexed and stating “well no, we didn’t order this…” when they arrived.

That phone offered about the only job satisfaction one could hope to glimpse at Shack. Working in retail is certain to dampen your feeling of authority, particularly retail of fast food, particularly retail of badly cooked fast food by idiots for idiots, so it was healthy to occasionally flex your megalomaniacal muscle by giving Spudulike a call on the magic phone and telling them of a fictitious spill just outside their stall which someone should attend to immediately before a customer slip and fall. It wouldn’t be long before a Spudulike employee headed out with a mop to gormlessly scratch his head and pace the area several times searching for this elusive mess. We once tricked that poor guy with this same lark thrice in one day.

Conversely, when I was serving and a rowdy teen dropped his full cup of Coke outside Shack I saw this as an opportunity to dissuade custom, thus freeing up even more time to make juvenile prank calls, so gave him a replacement drink on the house and shook his hand heartily. He called me “cool” or “safe” or whatever the parlance of 2010 was, and walked away as possibly Shack’s only satisfied customer.    

That was practically the limit in terms of employee benefits; that phone was our dental plan and pension scheme rolled into one. The only other advantage was the occasional haul of free food on offer after hours. Whoever saw a shift to the end got lumbered with the chore of mopping up all the sour cream and mustard and what putrid juices had been sweated out of pork and staff alike that formed a daily fen around the food prep station. This was a task I was particularly bad at considering I never even clean my own house, the most I’ll contribute is using my urine stream to blast specks of excrement off the inside of the toilet bowl. Often I’d just hide the biggest and most incriminating bits of food debris under the oven or the fridge and call it a day at that.

When Suit wasn’t around and it was just Fat captaining the HMS Shack he would share out what remained in the warming cabinet between you, him and “his dog”. This point in the day was easily when you would see Fat Michael Whittaker at his happiest, diving into those meaty treats like a kid attacks their candy on Halloween. As Eva always had to dash off to her next job before she could take advantage of this it was often just me and Fat gobbling down 6 hot dogs each inside of a minute like some crazed, ad hoc world record attempt. Then I’d meander home, crippled with indigestion and stoned on saturated fats, to pass out naked on my bed with both my office fans focussed on me at full blast, trying to catch a moment’s rest before my music student housemates got back on their synthesizers and tried to deafen God.   


“We’re launching a new product!” Fat proclaimed excitedly to start the day. “The SHACKUCCINO!” Everyone groaned.

Now the Frappuccino is a registered trademark of Starbucks, and so the Mikes were careful not to tread on any legal toes by calling their portmanteau the same, but I think they needn’t have worried about a lawsuit; the Shackuccino would only be on the menu for three weeks and the name was the least of their worries. A Frappuccino is made by blending coffee with ice in what is quite a delicate process, while the Shackuccino was a cup of regular coffee, left to go cold, with some ice cubes plunked in. Fat revealed this was invented by his 3-year-old daughter, “by accident!” he’d add astonished as if, like penicillin, the Shackuccino would forever be regarded as one of the great serendipitous discoveries of our time. We started selling them as of that morning, Fat naturally cavorting about behind us on the tills pushing a Shackuccino with every sale. For each one that went out, a complaint would come in, usually along the lines of “this is not a Frappuccino. This is just cold, regular coffee.” Combined with the amount of criticism we received about the food on a daily basis anyway, Fat’s wife had to nominate herself as a full-time one-woman complaints line to assuage all the livid customers. Often the queue for the complaints would be longer than the queue to purchase food, and short-sightedly both queues ran parallel right next to one another, creating an interesting dynamic as a customer would order a pretzel and a Shackuccino only to be wincingly told “ooh, wouldn’t do that mate” by the malcontent standing just beside them.

The Mikes truly were exemplary connoisseurs in the fields of contriving bad ideas and losing invested capital. Between them they could squander money as fast as Alan Sugar could make it, quite impressive in a twisted sort of way. Fat once soberly clued me in on the sort of financial oblivion this sausage enterprise had left him in.

“I’m very poor at the moment,” he confided in me once, his pudgy smile straining slightly. “All my money’s tied up in this place so in terms of what’s in the bank, pfftt..”

“Do you mind if I ask how much you’ve put into Shack?” I inquired out of morbid curiosity.

“Oh, well in the vicinity of half a million” he stated, causing me to choke on my own saliva.

They’d both budgeted with the devil-may-care attitude of two morons on a stag night. Everywhere you looked you could see signs of shallow, thoughtless investment. Let’s set up business in the biggest block of the food court. Why? Because being big is cool and macho. Hire staff with previous cooking or sales experience? Nah, let’s just get a load of funny mates, and some blonde teenage girls. And what shall we sell? I don’t know, sausages? Ha, yeah, why not?!

The limit to their market research, Fat told me, was travelling to Germany as a pair to drink beer and eat sausages for a week. They came away from this intense brainstorming expedition solely with the knowledge that Germans like sausages. Arguably the Curry Bratwurst was the product of this trip but that was just a regular frankfurter with some cheap curry sauce ejaculated over it, not particularly something to justify over a thousand air miles each. I think this fact-finding mission was really just a flimsy façade for a lad’s holiday, and I can picture the Mikes sauntering through the Reeperbahn bedecked in lederhosen with suspicious ease.

For Suit this fall into economic strife was even more galling as before he met Fat, the man who coincidentally shared his name and would grow to be the bane of his life, he enjoyed a cushy, well-paid managerial position at McDonald’s, and hence was now tortured daily watching his past burger empire strive just a couple dozen feet opposite his own business squib. It was like the CEO of Schweppes leaving to set up a handmade lemonade stand just outside the company grounds and getting his fat friend along to help squeeze the lemons.

Being forced to stare at those smirking golden arches, day in day out, seemed to inflict some degree of deep-seated emotional damage that left Suit comparable to a shell shocked war veteran. Sausage Shack’s laughably inaccurate motto “It’s all good!” did smack weirdly of McDonald’s equally optimistic slogan “I’m lovin’ it!”, and when Suit once heard Kaiya absent-mindedly whistling the McDonald’s jingle I actually thought he was going to hit her. Suit couldn’t grasp why for every 10 customers McDonald’s had Shack would only get 1, and that 1 would probably ask for a refund. An insane paranoia burned within him that the only explanation was a filthy, underhand one.

Suit gathered us around conspiratorially one afternoon to share his theory. He looked like he hadn’t slept. I told him we had a customer waiting but Suit said his McIlluminati revelation was more important. This was fine by me as the day’s shift was less than enjoyable – the drinks machine had broken and only dispensed carbonated water rather than any soda, but Fat’s wife commanded we serve it to people anyway (and everyone ordered soda with their meal, it was either that or spend £2 on a fucking 200ml bottle of Fruit Shoot), responding to complaints that their Coke was transparent and flavourless and not Coke at all with the prepared statement “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Next please.”

With a quick glance backwards over his shoulder, Suit leant in and just said “Spies”. We employees all quizzically looked at one another from beneath the brims of our ubiquitous baseball caps. Suit nodded his head slowly. Then, thankfully, he elaborated. “McDonald’s are sending over moles to gather intelligence on this place. We had a lad in a while back for a job interview, and he was particularly interested in how all the appliances worked. Then the other day, I saw him ordering from the counter of McDonald’s.”

He raised his eyebrows to indicate there was no more to be said. Covert agents were clearly being dispatched in just another one of those fast-food espionage cases you’re always hearing about. Anxiously he asked us to keep a watchful eye out for any suspicious behaviour without actually telling us what was classified as “suspicious”. I wouldn’t have put it past him to pat us each down to see if we were wearing a wire, but no, we were just furtively ushered back to our stations to continue selling cups of fizzy diluent and telling people we were sorry for it. Bizarrely Suit never raised mention of this conspiracy again, perhaps when he got home that evening he had a long think and realized how ludicrous the whole notion was. Or perhaps a gang donned in robes and Ronald McDonald masks were already there waiting, ready to pin him down and inflict upon him a painful night of hypnotic reprogramming. I guess we’ll never know for sure. 

The shock at someone’s stupidity, let alone your own manager’s, can progress into full-fledged pain if left unchecked, and it was certainly injuries to one’s dignity and sanity that were the biggest workplace dangers to a Shack employee. Sure you got spattered with hot grease and developed edemas of the ankles from standing up all day, but these were nowhere near as excruciating as when Suit would demand one of us drones approach a table of pretty young people trying to enjoy their afternoon and keep pressing menus into their faces until they acquiesced. I suppose I should have been grateful that at least I didn’t have to do this dressed up as a giant hot dog or something.

The gaggles of attractive summer girls that I’d hoped for as a distraction were indeed present but were always, every single time, assaulted by Suit’s sales pitch of “Ladies, sausage in your bun today?” Then they’d turn as one to see what raunchy lothario would yell such a thing, and find me, Luke, and Suit, standing in a line, all frozen in the same surly stance, arms crossed, rancid pork water wafting from our direction like a signature cologne. Their answer, in case you were wondering, was always unanimously “no”. 

As the days rolled by I thought I might be lucky enough to enjoy some base, nihilistic liberation at the futility of this job and my apathy towards it. Work makes you free, as the residents of Auschwitz were assured. But I couldn’t disconnect myself from it enough to become entirely indifferent, I always held a modicum of pride in my work which, try as I might, I couldn’t get rid of. Innately I wanted to provide a half-decent service to customers, if nothing else to apologize for the smorgasbord of bile and tuberculosis they were about to tuck into for lunch. And, clowns that they were, I probably felt a grudging sympathy for the Mikes as well. 

Occasionally I’d feel guilty at how sullen and short-tempered I, and certainly by extension Luke, were being on every shift. As I glowered out into the food court, spasming with anger slightly as Kid Cudi’s Day ‘N’ Nite song clicked around on the audio system for the fourth time in two hours, Kaiya and Harry would be frolicking about behind me trying to squirt each other with ketchup and laughing hysterically as they did so. I yearned to know if there was some existential coping method they had for this shitty job but really the answer was obvious – they were both only 16 or 17 years old, an age when this type of demeaning work was justifiable. Doing this in your twenties, the period in life to really start scaling the career ladder, was achingly pitiable. I recall one customer who asked how old we were, just making conversation as Luke languorously assembled his meal for him, and when I announced I was 3 years Lucy’s senior he barked cruelly with laughter and rather derisively asked “what the hell are you doing working here?” Even a wordsmith like myself couldn’t find a self-respecting answer and was reduced to abashedly looking at my feet, muttering “well, ah, y’see ah, me and my friends ah…” until Luke thankfully interrupted by dint of producing the man his British Banger.

For me, time spent at Shack was wasted time, but with money from maintenance grants running low towards the end of the summer, and overdrafts in dire need of expansion, there was precious little else that I could do to fund any kind of lifestyle. It was hard though, to spend time in a processed-pork emporium with a man who knew nothing of life’s social requirements. After a few weeks of painfully slow business Fat went back to work. I can’t imagine what a person of his calibre could have been doing for income but it must’ve been ridiculous. That left Suit with the day-to-day running of Shack. I had to give credit to him; it couldn’t have been easy to work seven days a week in a place as you slowly watch it dissolve into obscurity. All of his money simmering away to mush like so many day-old unsold frankfurters in a bain-marie. They had devised an economically viable way of utilising staff under Suit’s regime: only bring one in each day. The plan being that Suit would sit in his office while one person manned the tills. Orders were scarce so Suit could spend time going over the numbers in the back office, only being called to action when somebody ordered something that he was required to make. The hardest part, as the hours cracked and imploded in on themselves, was the knowledge that there could be no relaxation while Suit was in. He just sat out back, looking like Hank from King of the Hill, being miserable. Sometimes he would come and stand just behind you to one side, arms folded in disgust, as though he was some kind of conscience figure, alarmed at how stupid everybody was. These eight hour shifts were spent in silent meditation. Meditating on how much I’d like a drink, mostly.   

Time was palpable. At one stage I remember we didn’t get a customer for one hour and nine minutes. That was 69 minutes of standing completely still. It was like being a guard outside Buckingham Palace, but dressed even more stupidly. My hands took a chemical sheen from the amount of times I would use the antiseptic handwash to have something to do.       

Sometimes the Mikes would suggest that a certain day was going to be busier and they would bring in more than the one member of staff for a shift. They were naive to think this but time after time they did. Suit often suggested that June was ‘statistically the worst month for selling hot-dogs’ and that things would pick up in August, or maybe September. It was quite a strange phenomenon to have two people come in for shifts, with a fair days pay for a fair days work on their minds, only to be unceremoniously told by Suit or Fat that one of us would need to go home. The first time this happened I assumed that one of us would get to go home and still be paid, as we were contracted to a certain number of hours. When I asked this, Fat barked and Suit informed me that this was not the case; that one of us would have to go home and remain unpaid for all but the one or two hours we were there. Despite the fact that you couldn’t buy a meal in Spoons for one hours Shack pay there was always a mad scramble to see which of the staff would be lucky enough to go home. Usually I’d frame it sympathetically, and say that the other person could take the shift, I’d lower my head in faux-disconsolation and the other person would begrudgingly thank me. This scenario happened so frequently that I believe I was sent home without pay from more shifts than I worked. If Fat was on that day his emotions would overcome him and he would offer you the chance to take home a hot-dog, as a consolation prize. But not one from the warming cabinet, thankfully.

That summer was hot and I was temporarily staying at my girlfriend’s room on campus and, unfortunately, didn’t have a key. So on the frequent days when I would be exiled from the lush pastures of the food-court, I would have nowhere to go. The only other person who might be in the halls-of-residence was an angry man called Andrew who looked like a cricket blown-up to human proportions. But I couldn’t ask him because he would ask me to clean the grill. He always wanted me to clean the grill. This meant that I could either stay in town and drink at spoons or go to the student bar and drink there. It was a hard choice considering that either way I would be sure to spend more than I had made that day at work. The main issue was the fact that wherever I went I would have to go there dressed in my baseball uniform, with my cap in my hand. One occasion saw me so desolate at the prospect of traipsing around town being hounded by school children for looking like a twat, that I bought myself a jumper. It was £20 and it was 30 degrees out. So that gave me my sweaty, uncomfortable disguise. Nobody would know who I truly was. Then it was just the time to kill. I opted for a drink-included meal at Spoons which saw my total for the day rise to £25, up to £30 at least by the time I could feasibly walk back home. 

“Good day at work?” my girlfriend would ask.

“I made a loss of £25” I said, as I wiped the pork sweat from my forehead. 


“No, no, no, I’m not doing it, I can’t, I won’t!” were the wails echoing around the food court. We watched the source of this commotion with only half-hearted interest as we’d seen this display several times before. 

Being exposed to the public all day meant you witnessed a pretty generous slice of society as the weeks drifted by, and of course every society has its share of oddballs and eccentrics, Guildford being no exception. You were in for some entertainment if you spied the portly adolescent male who would take the elevator up to the food court to try to overcome an unusual phobia of his.

The guy was terrified of escalators.

“No I’m not doing it, thank you! Not today!” he’d cry in fear as he stood at the summit of those chomping metal stairs. He’d be visually shaking and shiny with perspiration.

“Go on, you can do it!” were the supportive yells from presumably the boy’s mother stood several feet back.

“I don’t know, maybe not today, maybe tomorrow, not.. not.. not today I think!” By this stage the lad’s performance would be generating a lot of stares to add to the pressure, not to mention a queue of impatient shoppers forming behind him for whom the escalators didn’t pose such a ghastly threat.

“Come on!” the mother encouraged. “We’ve discussed this! You have to just do it darling, you have to let go!”

He’d hover a quivering foot over that endless churning tide of sharp steel edges, desperately hyperventilating with his eyes screwed shut, before always ultimately bawling “NO, NO NOT TODAY THANK YOU!” and wrestling his way back through the crowd that had formed behind him. Some of the girls used to feel quite sad for the young escalaphobe but the circus act he put on would make me laugh so hard I had to sit down for a bit.

However the main freak to keep an eye out for was the Guildford Bearded Lady. For some reason during the 3 years I lived and studied there I never really gave the town’s bewhiskered female resident much consideration, she was just a noteworthy local feature that you became accustomed to seeing, like The Cathedral where they filmed The Omen or The Star Inn which used some haphazard building contractors and thus was slanted at a 20 degree angle for over a year. It was only after I’d graduated and moved out that I stopped and suddenly thought, good God, there used to be an actual bearded fucking lady wandering around.

Brenda, as she was allegedly named, measured in at 5 foot nothing, was never seen without her floor-length leopard-print coat, and of course modelled a great shaggy grey beard to complement her wild white mane of a haircut. This was a few years before Conchita Wurst came onto the scene to make stubbled sisters a bit of a style icon, so back then Brenda’s hairstyle made her true carnival freak show fodder. But she’d happily shuffle around town buying cups of tea and sitting down to clumsily reapply mascara, in fact the food court was one of her regular haunts so I knew it surely couldn’t be too long until I’d actually have to serve this creature. 

I was out soullessly distributing fliers in the busy shopping centre bottleneck when I saw her approach, her biologically improbable beard swaying in the summer breeze. It was my tendency to try to unload a pamphlet on literally everyone who walked by as the sooner I was rid of them the sooner I could return upstairs to sit on a kickstool playing the snowboarding game on my phone and watching Eva struggle to stay awake as she sailed into her 113th consecutive hour at work. Shamefully my first instinct was to overlook the bearded lady and instead hand a flier to a normal human being. To be honest I likely would have thought the same even if she was clean-shaven; this deranged, mad-eyed crone tottering down the street, 70 years old if she was a day and I suspect a long-term homeless. Something had clearly gone wrong in her life for her to become this lame, shuffling misfit – who was I to make her life any worse by encouraging her to eat at Shack? 

But as she shambled nearer I realized I’d seen her a couple dozen times and yet never once heard her speak, and was suddenly flooded with an inexplicable desire to know what she sounded like, something I could surely achieve by invoking conversation about the new fast food chain I was poorly publicizing. Would her tone be light and feminine, or gruff and masculine and tobacco-starched, or even rich and mahogany like the very Father of Christmas she so resembled? 

I waited until she was within a veritable whisker of me before ambushing her with a copy of Shack’s menu and the latest laughable offer the Mikes were pushing (“buy a coffee and get 5 boxes of popcorn for the price of 3!”) She appeared shocked and confused that this man was speaking to her seemingly utterly free of prejudice, and he was wearing a smile that was quasi-genuine rather than the everyday reaction from the public of fingers being pointed and children crying and loud anxious denouncements that “there is no God!” Eventually, in a slightly cracked but clearly womanly voice, she gratefully said “thank you” and began poring over the flier she’d been handed. 

Indeed she was so pleasantly surprised that just a couple hours later she actually approached me at the till to buy a meal, which she ordered in her same convincingly female pitch. In addition to the obvious feature Brenda was famous for another was her incredibly rigid dietary routine – she would show up on the Food Court most days but only ever go to McDonald’s for one cheeseburger and one cup of tea, so for her to venture into new culinary pastures was a big deal. I suppose it was a day of unusual firsts for both of us: it’s not every day you find yourself dressed as a baseball player talking sausages with a bearded lady, not unless you live solely on a diet of peyote. 

The legend behind Brenda, by the way, goes that she’s actually a man who became unhinged after the death of his wife and began wearing all her clothes, perfume and make-up, presumably to help him imagine she was still alive and going around doing her shopping, buying microwaved hot dogs, etc. It would certainly explain the grimy state of the fur coat, all stained and mottled like Miss Havisham’s wedding dress. But Brenda clearly hasn’t totally lost it; she was still astute enough that once she’d finished her soggy Mush Puppy, frozen potato salad and room-temperature Shackuccino, I never saw her buy from Shack again.   


It was the summer of 2010 and the world cup had begun. The sport of football can often put people in a festive mood, or a violent one, and Sausage Shack were looking to capitalise. For some time I had been suggesting to Suit that we should sell beer at the Shack; that hot-dogs and pretzels would perfectly accompany a nice cool lager. Obviously the perfect setting for this would be at some outdoor event, in the sunshine, probably as part of a loud enraptured crowd. As things stood, the food-court had been battling with the TV audiences of the world cup for dominance over the hearts and stomachs of Guildford’s population, and the food court was losing.

“We should sell beer, Mike” I said to Suit for the tenth time as we looked out on the dwindling lunch-time shoppers. “Maybe get some flat screen TVs to go above Shack, so people can watch the football here.” Suit seemed pleased at my enthusiasm for Shack’s success. Little did he know that I actually thought it was a crazy idea and that, by selling alcohol, the shopping centre would devolve into chaos and Sausage Shack would be ultimately unlikely to benefit.           

“I’d love to sell beer, Luke. Lord knows I would.”

“So why don’t we?”           

“We’re not allowed. I’ve asked the Friary management who told me it was an outlandish idea that they would never go for. They don’t have the licensing for it either.”           

Obviously, this was a sensible move on the part of the Friary management team. Why would any shopping venue that closed at 5pm every day think it was a good idea to sell beer? Suit was letting himself be deluded by my desire to drink watery lager from Matt’s Hannah Montana mug. That would’ve been great. Fat didn’t care, he still firmly believed that the Shackuccino would come to their rescue; he held out little hope for the Shack Smoothie, which was terrible.           

“Maybe we could just sell beer on the sly. Give it to people in an unmarked cup.” I just wanted to see Peter Cryer pouring pints in both his day and night job.           

“Maybe, Luke, maybe. That’s not such a bad idea.”           

With the beer idea firmly planted in Suit’s head I thought it would only be a matter of time before he did something stupid. The world cup would soon be drawing to a close and enthusiasm would die well before that upon England’s exit. He didn’t have much time and the customer base was low. Even during neutral matches there was little business to be had. Suit always kept the faith, however.           

“You see, this will actually work in our favour” he said, trying to pique my interest on a quieter than normal day. 

“How’s that?”           

“Well, there are going to be far fewer people visiting McDonald’s and Subway on days like these.” And that was true, there were fewer people visiting those outlets. “So, we can probably capitalise on that and get their old customers.”           

I didn’t want to point out the fatal flaw in Suit’s logic. He had fallen into a Fat trap and said something completely nonsensical. It was far more tragic with his sullen gaze, however, as he said it with absolute business sincerity and without Fat’s trademark maniacal head swivelling.           

Typically, in a new food outlet, there might be a week where free samples and flyers are given out to boost sales and awareness. This had lasted five weeks at Shack and it seemed to show no sign of slowing down. We would waste product putting an unclean tray of hot-dogs out, cut up into bite size pieces that were of a far greater bread to meat ratio than would successfully entice a potential customer. People would walk past on their way to Subway and taste one, feel the crunch of the stale bread in their mouth, grimace, and walk away. But the most humiliating aspect of their marketing ploys was when they asked us to approach tables of youths with special offer posters (posters that the Mikes also expected me to deliver to people around campus while I wasn’t even working). These youths were intimidating for their money and arrogance. I was always sweaty and smelling of pork but both Fat and Suit insisted that we act up to the task; that we really sell ourselves and our brand. What this generally consisted of was a gradual approach towards a table, shuffling sideways like a crab, chucking the flyers into their midst and revealing that ‘my boss wanted me to give you these’ – said as quickly as possible before running back to the folded arms of Suit Michael. On one occasion Suit went over there himself and was with one group for a considerable amount of time. I felt sorry for them, I thought he would drag them over to the counter by their ears. Fat would have done a little better, in hindsight. He had the air of a less insidious Boris Johnson and people might have reacted to him like they would a clown with a flower in his lapel.           

It was during one of England’s world cup group games that I was working a shift at Shack that these delusional marketing ploys reached a new nadir. Suit was out back going over the numbers (which must have all been either zero or negative) and I was stood out front. The food court was as bare as I had ever seen it. We hadn’t had a customer in half an hour and there were now maybe one or two people left sitting at tables. Suit called me back to the office.           

“Luke,” he said, handing me some flyers, “go and hand these out.”           

“But Mike,” I started.           

“To young people! We want the young crowd in here.”           

I took the flyers and went out the door to the food court. There were well over 100 tables littering the open-plan layout and not a single one was occupied. The food court was completely empty. For the first time I had ever seen it this way. There weren’t even any cleaners around since everything had already been cleaned. Somebody behind the counter at McDonald’s saw me with a handful of flyers and I met their eye. I shrugged.

I went back and told Suit that the food court had completely emptied out. There was nobody to give these flyers to. There were no potential customers. He came out to the tills with me to check for himself. He seemed calm, passive even.           

“Well, Luke… Summer is statistically the worst time for selling hot-dogs.”           

Of course it is Mike. Of course it is.

Around this time I had a friend’s party to attend in the affluent climbs of Godalming. My ex-girlfriend would be there, and although we’d broken up a while back and were on perfectly civil terms I still had some neuroses about making sure I turned up looking the epitome of well-being and success, like I had to prove I was capable of living my life well without her in it. But I had no time to change after work and it was a shitty South West Trains service where it seems compulsory for all the toilets to be filled to the brim, to the very millimetre, with dark amber urine, so I didn’t fancy getting changed in the lavatories either. The upshot was I had to turn up the party, late and bedraggled with bloodshot eyes and stinking of pissy trains mixed with undercooked meat, still in my condiment-spattered baseball gear, attracting gawks and uproarious laughter from the chilled-out gregarious party goers drinking around the pool. Whilst I had a bag of clothes to get changed into a drink was thrust into my hand before I had the chance and so I spent about half the night in my ridiculous get-up, which at one stage had near enough a whole bottle of rosé wine spilled over it.

I woke up hungover the next morning and had to go straight to work still in my pinot grigio’d uniform. Happily Fat didn’t seem to notice that I stank of stale wine, or if he did he didn’t mention it, he was far too busy blustering about in a sort of lazy panic knocking things over and tripping up on power cables. Fat relied heavily on his slimmer, smarter, suited business partner, so on days like this when Suit wasn’t around to quietly inform Fat that his flies were undone or he had his hand in the George Foreman grill again there was the unmistakable shared feeling that absolutely no one was in charge. During Shack’s early period the couple were nigh on inseparable but these days, either as there wasn’t enough custom to keep them both busy or, more likely, they could no longer stand the sight of one another, Suit and Fat alternated when they oversaw proceedings. Shifts with Suit were dull but calm; shifts with Fat were chaotic but funny.    

The main benefit of only having Fat supervising was that he was often so distracted by his own myriad problems that he couldn’t keep tabs on you. Luke, Peter, Lucy and Eva were all working on this day when both my clothes and brain were saturated with wine, and as I knew Fat would doubtless be occupied with his tie caught in a shredder or having dropped his car keys in the bain-marie or something I was able to slink out to the staff bathroom, perch myself on one of the toilets, and have a little snooze using my baseball cap up against the cubicle wall as a pillow. It wasn’t the most comfortable nor the most dignified of sleeps but in my ailing state I was thankful for it, plus I was getting paid to do it, albeit a mere pittance.

Unfortunately of course to minimize staff costs the Mikes sent almost everyone home after the lunchtime rush had diminished, leaving only one person to man the tills and one person slapping the food together. Despite clearly not being fit to work I was the delegate left to serve customers, watching enviously as Peter, Luke and Lucy merrily packed up and bounced off home. The remaining hours dragged; there was nothing to do, no one besides overworked Eva to talk to, and without anyone else to watch the tills I couldn’t even sneak out for another lavatorial siesta.

Somehow I made it through to the end of the work day without falling asleep on my feet or vomiting into my hat. With just 5 minutes until closing time we were all occupied with the general mundane groundskeeping like mopping floors, filing receipts, binning mountains of unsold produce, etc, that was necessary before we could shut up shop after yet another unprofitable day. Fat had set himself the easy task of checking the temperature of the 2 freezers with a little digital thermometer – as long as they measured minus 18 degrees centigrade or less then things were fine, and all the expensive Ben & Jerry’s miniatures would keep until morning.

A customer approached just as I was finishing stacking trays, a youngish, inquisitive type who’d never seen us before and was curious about what we sold. I explained the basics of what we offered, what was good value for money, and what she should definitely stay clear of if she valued her sense of taste, and she actually seemed impressed and intrigued, as if she were about to take the bait and make a purchase. But it was difficult to concentrate on securing the sale as I could detect Fat just beside me becoming increasingly exercised, and just as the girl was about to open her mouth to order something I heard “oh my God Matt, look!” bellow from my tubby manager.

I twisted a pained smile at the customer as if to assure her this was just the way we did things at our unorthodox little food outlet, muttered “just one moment!” to her and turned to see Fat thrusting a small red box at me with a screen that read ‘1’.

“One!” Fat yelled. “One!”

For a moment I thought he was brandishing a calculator and had only just realized that numbers existed. I stared at him with my heavy, tired eyes, not even trying to disguise my contempt.

“Sorry.. what?” I managed.

“The freezers! The bloody freezers! They’re at 1 degree! Plus one!!”

He was fidgeting and gibbering like a madman but I managed to gain from him that clearly both our freezers had bust and all the stock inside was melting. “OK, so what do we do?” I asked.

“I don’t know, we’ve got to.. come on we’ve got to..!” he spluttered, before desperately waddling to the freezer, wrenching the door open, and scooping two dozen pots of ice cream into his cradled arms. Instantly he began dropping them, each container making a quiet, hollow schlop noise as it hit the floor and burst open. I honestly thought he was about to cry.

“Come on Matt, grab the rest!!” Fat ordered.

“But I’ve got a customer..” I explained, gesturing at the patiently bemused girl watching all this unfold.

“Oh leave her!” he shouted. “Who cares about her?! All our ice cream’s melting here! COME ON!”

I shrugged apologetically at her and wrestled the remaining tubs into my grasp. Fat was nowhere to be seen but I easily found him by following the trail of spilled ice cream he left in his wake. He was in the central store room shared by all the food chains in the court, dumping what little ice cream he still held into the main freezers. The front of his shirt was soaked and he was beet red with exhaustion, but once my supply of Ben & Jerry’s was safely stored away as well he looked up at me with genuine happiness. For once, without Suit’s supervision, he had successfully resolved a problem. He’d been quick-thinking and resourceful, and probably saved them £100 in what would otherwise have been spoiled goods.

“Thank God for that,” he said. “Good work, Matt!” I smiled at him wearily, my head pounding – all that running and carrying had catalysed what was an abating hangover. Just as I was about to wander back to see if, amazingly, that customer was still there awaiting service, Fat frowned and murmured “wait there one second…”

Slowly and pensively he lowered the thermometer into the industrial freezer where our ice cream now sat. He must have been concerned that whatever had tripped the power to our freezers had also affected the Friary’s main one, something I found doubtful as no other fast food managers were running out here to save their defrosting foodstuffs, and besides you could feel the iciness emanating from it even with the doors shut. There was surely no way this freezer could be defective as well?

We stood in the supply closet uneasily, waiting for the thermometer to adjust to its new surroundings and register a temperature. Fat would have willingly sold a testicle at this point for that thermometer to now read minus 18. He retrieved the device from the ice box which contained all the Ben & Jerry’s, and we both leaned in to see the read-out.

One! One degree!!” Fat roared. “All the freezers are at plus one!! What do I do??”

He hauled all the ice cream out again and held it in his sweaty grip, running around impotently for somewhere cool he could store it, looking like a grief-stricken mother clutching her miscarried foetus. I could feel my hangover pulsating through my body. My baseball shirt was blotted with day-old wine and my trainers covered in melted Phish Food. My lower back ached from sleeping sitting upright on a toilet. Having never had a job before, I couldn’t even be sure these weren’t the same symptoms to be found from all employment.

So there I was, there in the supply room of the Friary Centre. Watching a fully grown man clutching gallons of ice cream to his breast, howling like a wild animal. The pathos of this would stay with me for an eternity. I knew I had to leave this job, it must have been intensely psychologically damaging to have to technically consider this creamy beast of a man an authority figure. How had I found myself in a position where this guy was in charge of my salary??

Fat looked at me again, the confused look of a dog lying on a veterinary stretcher. “What do I doooooo???” he yelled again.

We found out the next morning, when Suit was in, that it was the thermometer that was broken, stuck on 1. 

That evening saw Luke and I in Rubix, our student union club. We were both so densely fatigued from our pitiful job that even a dozen Jägerbombs each couldn’t perk us up. Just as we were staggering back to the bar an attractive Fresher girl wheeled around and cried “hey, I recognize you guys!”

Luke and I smiled at one another. We were often being identified as the hosts of a series of videos on YouTube called Will It Post?, where we filmed the surprisingly entertaining process of posting ourselves things that have no right being posted, such as a cactus, a hard-boiled egg, a used pregnancy test etc, sans packaging just with our address scribbled straight on the item wherever there was space, to see if they returned. It became strangely popular, and fans would not infrequently ask us for photos with them.

Since our constant hangovers had eclipsed making episodes for the last couple months our level of celebrity was down so it was nice this girl recognized us to let us know we were still on the radar. We were used to the patter by now so smiled and expressed our gratitude and told her “keep watching Will It Post?!” and went to walk off, but she just frowned and said “eh? Will it post? What’s that? No I recognize you from that food place in the Friary! Selling sausages yeah? Shit is hilarious!” Luke and I shamefully acknowledged that that was us, and the girl told her crowd of friends who promptly burst into hysterics. “Mate, where’s your baseball outfit??” one particularly punchable-looking lad yelled, further inflaming the cruel laughter. What with yesterday’s pool party this was now the second group in as many days to physically point and holler with laughter at me. Kid Cudi’s Day ‘N’ Nite song came on again as we two young adults wallowed in the ignominy of our employment. The queue for the bar was too long to get any more Jägerbombs so we dejectedly sidled home, besides, we had sausages to sell come morning.

It was becoming tiresome, this Shack malarkey. To think that six weeks and three measly pay-packets had come and gone on the back of a joke application was staggering. I would never be one to dismiss any type of work, having had some other vile employments in my time, Shack was actually a step up from some. But I wanted independence from the monopoly that Shack held over my time; never being assured that I would have a full shift, and thus a full days pay, but still being contractually obliged to remain without plans for that period in case Fat had another harebrained scheme that required me to do something humiliating. I was tired of it and wanted freedom. I sensed Matt did as well. 

Money didn’t come easily to me (except during term-time when I would be saddled with debt in the form of student loans) so I knew that I couldn’t just quit and expect to continue having fun. We needed a plan to make a fast buck. I had some success in eating and drinking through a combination of carefully structured complaints and praise aimed at companies just small enough that they might respond with free product. It worked surprisingly well, especially with Italian restaurants, well-known high-street chicken restaurants and purveyors of delicious strawberry cider. I enjoyed these spoils for a while and also took to raiding the bins of various supermarkets and shops. The Co-Op had a wildly enticing selection most nights; éclairs, butter, rolls… always lots of rolls. While this kept me in food I will still going to be lacking, once I parted ways with the Mikes, a source of strong drink. 

My finances mirrored Luke’s. You can’t really build a nest-egg when you’re working for less than £5 an hour and most times that you turn up for work you’re swiftly sent home again. Worse, the tenancy at my student house had expired and I couldn’t move into my new one for another month; ordinarily I’d return home to Reading and spend my summer there but my contractual ties to Shack meant I had to temporarily find somewhere in Guildford to stay. If my Shack pay hadn’t been so insulting I might have lodged in a B&B for that time, but with the wallet-crumbs the Mikes disdainfully tossed me once a month there was no way that was viable, I couldn’t even afford a hostel.

Thankfully my friend Sasha was moving back to Wales until the Uni term began and gave me permission to squat in her room until she returned. I turned up gratefully on the day she left carrying nothing but a rucksack of baggy clothes and my temperamental laptop to find that she had stripped the room practically bare, all the bedding was gone, all the towels, even the curtains. I found a sheet in the spare room covered in indecent mucousy stains to wrap around me at night, and rectified the lack of curtains by covering the windows with a collage of Bob Marley posters appropriated from the living room. The window was East-facing, so every morning the Sun would beat onto my grotty bed illuminating Bob’s huge, burbling, stoner face, until the heat relaxed the blue-tack sufficiently for it to lose its adhesion and send the posters plummeting down onto the wood flooring, kicking up an explosion of dust into my sleepy miserable face.   

This groundless nomadic lifestyle might suit you if you’re Jack Kerouac and your main daily concern is what U.S state to get laid in that night, but when you have to serve the public with an ostensibly genuine smile on your face under the authority of a halfwit who resembles the very pigs he sells it all becomes just too much. Luke and I agreed there must be another way, so after work we put our entrepreneurial minds together and concentrated on dreaming up a get-rich-quick scheme.

Myself and Matt hatched a plan to invent a small business selling t-shirts. It was going to be a revolutionary affair and, in the sunshine with bellies full of cider, we actually saw ourselves potentially making a fair old bit of cash. Idealistically we mulled over print designs and dye styles, fantasising about selling them on Brighton’s seafront to legions of tourists. Going over the numbers in our heads in the back garden of Matt’s squat; all of the numbers a lot more optimistic than what Suit must have been staring at.

All throughout this time I would go to work at Shack, but I stood motionless at the tills, envisioning myself making a steady income and spending it all on warm Fosters and miniature cigars. Suit’s daily exclamations of statistics in relation to monthly hot-dog sales were getting to be a depressing bore and the customer base was miniscule. Kebab Express reopened its shutters (it had been a temporary closure) and Suit said with derision: “It’ll never last.” and he folded his arms. The future of Shack was most uncertain and we, the employees, expected a maximum of two or three more months before it went under and Fat ate all the stock in some kind of misguided protest. Quitting would be the perfect way out into a life of ease and self-determination. Matt and I even decided that we would quit while Peter Cryer was on holiday so that he returned to work and was miserably the only person still required to dress as a baseball player out of our immediate friends.

Early one Sunday Luke woke me up by way of text, my phone erupting into a deafening spasm against the hard wood it lay on. I jolted upright, my natural reaction to this foreign bed I was sleeping in, and clattered over a tower of empty cherry Tango cans beside me, they being my go-to hangover cure at the time. Bob Marley smirked maliciously at the scene unfurling before him.

Luke’s text was to alert me that today we began our ascent to affluent T-shirt magnates. I was to meet him by the lake on campus for some experimental research, and I was to bring a plain coloured T-shirt that I “didn’t mind ruining”. Clutching an old green shirt and some breakfast beers I met up with Luke who was carrying a bottle of bleach, and with a cheerful perfunctory warning to shield my eyes he started splashing the chemical all over my T-shirt which lay on the ground. “This will dye the shirt” he explained, “to create a really cool, trippy pattern.”

To his credit, the bland T-shirt was soon decorated with a white kaleidoscopic spiral and did indeed look better for it. It was of such a good quality that when I wore the top out that evening people refused to believe that Luke and I had created such a garment. With just a small investment in some plain shirts and a drop of hydrogen peroxide our potential seemed limitless, right up to Tuesday of that week, when the bleach splatters had begun to slowly corrode holes in the shirt’s fabric. Luke surveyed the tattered T-shirt forlornly. “Maybe we should think of a different way of dying them,” he said, slightly nasally, and arms crossed subconsciously in an eerie reproduction of Suit.

The T-shirt business would ultimately be both a success and a failure. We called it Latthew Hose Independent Retailers, or something stupid like that. We settled on Tie-dye t-shirts and would sell them online and in Guildford, as well as to our friends, but the dream of travelling to Brighton to sell them on sun-bleached seafronts was never realised. We started small and I put an order in to a wholesaler for around 20 t-shirts (all medium) and we bought some dye, which was actually extortionately expensive. A glorious day was spent, looking back without nostalgia at our time at Shack, dying the t-shirts while drinking away another summer afternoon. It was a promising start and, even though the designs were probably 80% terrible, we thought we would be able to sell them.

However, like most of the heart’s desires, things soon turned to shit. We had sold about half the stock (the good half – the other ten were poorly dyed and just looked like all-blue or all-red t-shirts) and we had some money with which to buy more t-shirts. The plan was to buy extra stock and sell them. With that next batch of money we would divide it between buying more stock and getting drunk and eating Wetherspoons mixed grills. Our plan almost went well apart from a disaster involving a lift in a friend’s car to Wales that never materialised. We had to spend the Latthew Hose cash on train fare. Leaving nothing left for t-shirts.

Needless to say, after this our momentum died. We had no enthusiasm for the t-shirt game in which we had been somewhat profitable; our loans would soon be coming in and the money situation could be deferred for another year. I suppose, as our zeal for t-shirts faded in much the same way our enjoyment of Sausage Shack deteriorated you might say that the moral of this story is that nothing is ever as good as it first seems and that we’re all doomed to fail and be unhappy. Or there is no moral and it was just a bunch of stuff that happened.

Luke had sent the probably not even fraternally related employees of Brothers cider a complaint letter pretending he’d found an odd white residue floating atop the last batch he bought, and they’d been good enough to send an entire crate back by way of apology. We mirthlessly dove into this crate and every other alcoholic fluid in Luke’s room, sitting amongst piles of unsold T-shirts and piles of undistributed Shack fliers. The place was like a shrine to our idleness.

After both slurring our hatred for Shack the whole night long we agreed that the next day we’d definitely quit. We’d both escape on the same day and if we could do so without telling Peter then maybe we could pass off the whole terrible couple months as just one elaborate practical joke. Normally I succeed in forgetting everything when I drink but this was such a significant pledge that “I quit” was on the tip of my tongue instantly upon waking. It was 8am, I had to be at Shack by 9 but having never had a job I was completely ignorant to the notion of handing in a notice and guessed I could just phone Suit, tell him to stick his shitty under-paid job in the bain marie, and go back to sleep for 12 or 14 hours.  

The Mikes had given us their personal mobile numbers in case we ever needed to get in contact, naively assuming a couple of jackasses like Luke and I could be trusted with them. This came back to bite them when us two, drunk and a little high at the Greenman Festival in Wales, the one we were forced to exorbitantly travel to by train as Luke alluded to above, amused ourselves for hours by calling Fat and Suit simultaneously on different phones and then putting the receivers to one another to hear the confused conversation. “Hi this is Mike” “Oh hi Mike!” “Hi Mike!” “..how can I help Mike?” “Sorry Mike?” “How can I help Mike?” “But you called me Mike…” “No, you called me Mike” “Mike no, I’m certain it was you, Mike, who called me, Mike, Mike.” “….” “….” “You’ve lost me Mike.”

Suit’s number was at the apex of my ‘most called’ list therefore, but this was not a time for practical jokes. He answered “Michael Whittaker” in his imitable nasal tone.

“Hi Mike, it’s Matt” I groaned down the phone. “I’m afraid I can’t come in today, actually I have to quit, because I have a dissertation to do so won’t be able to commit time to working at Shack. Thanks for all the experience though!”

This sounded a comprehensive enough soundbite in my head but Suit was having none of it. “No you’ll still need to come in today. And we’ll talk about your future shifts when you get here. Thanks Matt.” And he hung up.

I left the call just as employed as I had been 5 minutes ago, and ran to be sick in Sasha’s toilet. My drinking had been so excessive the night before I was vomiting blood and papery shreds of stomach lining, not the ideal candidate to be working at a food station that day. I buttoned up my baseball shirt with blood-stained fingers, my eyes furiously locked with the papery ones of Bob Marley, appalled that I’d let my life become this.

I quit by text. One morning that I had no shift (I didn’t want to completely screw the Mikes that day) I text Suit and gave him some falsified information about having to work on dissertation and it was final year and it was all very important. It was three messages long and, I think, very sincere. If you discount the fact that it was a text. Once it was sent I was relieved, I thought that this whole thing was finally over and I could do something else; hang up my spatula as it were. But soon after sending, a text came back from a completely unemotive Suit. “Fine Luke. Still need you to finish out the week.” Crap, I thought. My last shift was something that I don’t remember. Suit gave nothing away about how he felt about my quitting. He just seemed determined to make sure that August, although a statistically poor month for hot-dog sales, was more successful than June or July. He said goodbye and I promised that I would pop in from time to time, when studies allowed, of course. On my way out Fat accosted me and said that he needed the baseball shirts back and reiterated that they were very expensive and had been imported from America. I thought what a bad idea that had been. I gave him the sweaty shirt covered in yellow pork water and put my hoodie on over my bare chest. It wasn’t ideal but at least it wasn’t a Shack uniform. Fat’s wife said nothing to me. I asked if I could have a Chicago Beef for the road and Suit gave a soft hiss from his pursed lips and informed me that I could not.

I left the food court and the shopping centre with the itchy inner-fabric of my hoodie against the flesh of my abdomen. I didn’t look back at that place once; I just kept going for a future that I was sure would be both excellent and other positive adjectives.

Somehow I managed to keep my shirt. I still have it in my wardrobe now, 4 years later, as a reminder of my first job and the impotence of employment in general. I’ve had many ludicrous jobs since: solar panel salesman, garden furniture catalogue writer, restaurant critic, administrator in both a mental asylum and a sperm bank, but nothing compares to the fleeting time at Sausage Shack. It left me with such a defined contempt for authority figures, and perplexed scorn at anyone, at any level of their career, who treats their job with anything other than mild indifference. Now as I sit behind a desk in a suit selling advertising to reluctant clients I can’t help but feel a synonymy with standing behind that counter in a puddle of coffee, sour cream and Fat’s spittle, dressed as the New York Yankees, handing out soiled sausages to gullible passers-by, wishing the hours away until I could go home and drink as much as my minimal paycheck permitted. You never truly progress past the misery of your first job, you just grow older and number. You’re still dressed like an idiot somewhere hot and hostile to your olfaction, upselling goods you yourself wouldn’t touch for love nor money, slaving under some vacuous and false slogan like “It’s all good!” At least the motley Shack had soul.

Peter Cryer was pleasantly disturbed to arrive at work one day and hear from Suit that Luke and I had quit. “You’re not going to give me this rubbish about quitting because of your dissertation too are you?” Suit asked sternly. Peter assured him he wouldn’t and then, 2 days later, did precisely that. He was replaced by two airhead teenage girls, making the staff all female with the noticeable exception of the Mikes (lanky homosexual Harry seemed to have dissolved into absolute obscurity some weeks prior). On Pete’s last day he reported a rabidly excited Fat proclaim that with the new swing towards an all-girl workforce he’d taken the liberty of ordering them all new uniforms. Employees would no longer be attired as baseball players, they would be cheerleaders! Cheerleaders with breast-hugging, navel-exposing tops and labia-glimpsingly short skirts. And yes, these uniforms were mandatory. Lucy and friends giggled with sultry excitement but poor Eva, the middle-aged drudge who worked round the clock with a quiet but dignified diligence, dropped her pot of onion flakes in horror. She left soon after that dress-code announcement, leaving just Suit, Fat, their increasingly unsupportive wives, and four 17-year-old cheerleaders who spent all day texting, standing under the big neon word “Sausage”, selling toasties.   

Three months later Shack was gone, a gaping hole in the side of the Friary food court, no evidence it had ever been there but the odd shred of the Stars & Stripes bunting that adorned it, the lingering narcotic smell of microwaved frankfurters, and the haunting echo of their slogan in the wind. It’s all good. It is alllll good.


From left: Suit, Peter, Matt, Luke, Fat, Kaiya, Eva, Lucy

Missing you already

“Do Craigslist’s ‘Missed Connection’ ads really work?”

Craigslist seems a lot like the much cooler but less wholesome older brother of Gumtree, a fraternal relationship beneath the stern parents of eBay and Amazon who keep chiding them not to talk to strangers. Originally localized to America, Craigslist now covers 27 separate areas of the UK and acts as a locale for the glib sales of vacuum cleaners and virginities side by side, all posted anonymously so as not to compromise any sort of professional identity.

Most conceivable goods and services can be found offered up somewhere on Craigslist, however there is one section which stands alone as by far the most strange, addictive and hauntingly beautiful. Reading it has become something of a slight personal obsession; as opposed to staid product descriptions it’s more akin to a fractured soap opera, people almost selling scraps of their souls rather than chintzy tat or an opportunity to listen to a terrible band.

This is namely the Missed Connections zone of Craigslist, an esoteric form of personal ad for anyone who has fallen in love with someone they’ve glimpsed on the bus or passed in the street or any such scenario where they’ve lacked the time, opportunity or backbone to approach, make conversation and ask for a contact number. The average Missed Connection comes with the specific time and place of the encounter, description of this beloved person, and the suggestion of some form of tryst. Here is an example posted just today to illustrate the concept:

Now let us consider the conditions that have to be met and the planets that have to align for such an enterprise to be successful. First, the love interest in question has to be aware of and regularly check these Missed Connection listings, already quite a niche and unknown Internet tidbit to find yourself browsing. Then they need to recognize themselves from the description, some of which are phenomenally vague – “you have blonde hair”, “you’re medium height”, “you were wearing shoes”, etc. The person also has to be single, and in addition not freaked out that someone treated the brief eye contact shared on the number 8 bus as an unbreakable bond of affection and lust so strong they were forced to track them down online, indeed that needs to be a quality they’d look for in a partner. Only if somehow against infinitesimal odds this chain of coincidences runs unbroken are we at the stage where two people are aware of one other, the same as two people first meeting at a bar for instance – they still need to find eachother mutually interesting and attractive and only then might a relationship bloom.

It seems an absurdly unlikely wherewithal to start dating someone you were probably only admiring to prevent yourself having to look at piss-streaked public transport floors or the big, sad, bloodshot eyes of buskers. This whole concept of coolly-connecting-instantly-with-a-stranger-in-a-public-place-and-falling-in-love is galvanized by Hollywood with uplifting arty films like ‘Before Sunrise’ where an innocuous conversation between a guy and a girl on a train begins some hopelessly poignant romance.

I’m sure Missed Connections’ existence does help people cope with their monotonous daily routines by imagining maybe they’re in a romcom, and falling for a randomer who shares their commute seems the sort of thing that’d set the film’s kooky, quixotic, life-affirming adventures off. Maybe they’re not just twice-divorced Darryl Thomas from I.T, maybe actually they’re Hugh Grant or Paul Rudd and actually everything’s going to be OK. When of course everyone else on the tube or bus aren’t necessarily deuteragonists awaiting recognition in the sitcom script that is your life, they’re trying to get to work and ignore the guy that keeps staring at them.

Advertisements on the tube hardly discourage this either, with plugs for Match.com over-exciting the imagination of travelling singletons.

The ingrained notion that buses and trains are really just loud, moving single clubs seems to have clouded just how improbable Craigslist’s Missed Connections really are, so much so that various other sites have originated to provide the same service – MissedConnections.com, ISawYou.com and LoveinLondon.net are all designed to help Londoners track down the one that almost accidentally brushed against them once in a smelly tube carriage.

London newspaper ‘Metro’, distributed free every weekday to be listlessly read on the way to work and trodden into station floors as a tabloid pulp come evening, even has a section titled ‘Rush Hour Crush’ where people can mail in to have their commuting romances published and hopefully read and reciprocated.

Missed Connections, then, are clearly quite a popular concept and some people obviously take them very seriously. I even found one woman whose search for a suited man she’d shared a smile with was so desperate she’d posted on every Missed Connection site available:

But do these Missed Connections ever work? I asked the woman above, who’d been pretty comprehensive in tracking down her man, and she reported back to say that in her case no, “I don’t think that the person who messaged me back was the one I meant in my text.” Are these even designed to work, or do they just act as an outlet for the shy and beta to appease themselves by saying “well, at least I tried!” Whilst there is the odd reported case of a relationship spawning, either by Metro submission or Craigslist post, it’s such a rare and incredulous event that it usually makes the news, and if a dating method creates a couple so infrequently that whenever it does it makes headlines can it really be classed as functional?

To determine the success rate, if any, of Missed Connections, I decided to run a series of tests. I could find no evidence of any other documented studies of this sort so as far as I’m aware these are unique in that respect.

Firstly, for a better insight into the minds of the people who post such ads I decided to reply to some pretending to be the elusive missed romance described. Statistically, in America it least, the vast majority of Missed Connection posts are men searching for women (m4w) at 59%, followed by m4m at 27%, w4m at 13% and w4w filling the final 1%, so to increase my chances of getting a response I created a coquettish female alter-ego by the name of Abbey Davies and replied to some Missed Connections.

It was hard to find any common denominator in the responses I received. On one hand an Indian gentleman called Naz offered to rape me after replying to his ad, stating “get yourself dressed up and meet me tomorrow to let me have my way with you…  Central line… tomorrow afternoon, Liverpool Street”, whereas the discourse generated from replying to Trevor’s ad was cringingly charming:

I wanted to gauge the personality of those who wrote such adverts to help when it came to writing my own Missed Connections ad, but with no one character type defining the average poster I reasoned I’d just have to improvise. My plan was to have a meander around London and surreptitiously photograph one male and one female, then splash them across every possible online platform associated with tracking down Missed Connections to see if I had any success whatsoever in finding them. Here are the pair in question; most likely I will never really know who you are but I’m afraid you have been exposed to an extensive unwilling media assault, so sorry about that.

The respective Craigslist ads I posted looked like this:

In addition to hunting them online I also submitted their descriptions to the Metro’s ‘Rush Hour Crush’. I did this over the course of a weekend, and as neither appeared in Monday’s copy I assumed they’d been discarded as not interesting or soppy enough to be featured. So imagine my surprise when Tuesday’s copy had both my ads, and not just that, but I’d won a toothbrush!

I allowed these various posts to germinate for a while but my search for the blonde girl, taking the form of a ten-a-penny m4w listing, seemed to blend into obscurity and produced not a single response. However my w4m pursuit of the Muttley man happily produced a more lucrative return – I wordlessly received this picture from one Michael B:

and one unnamed conversationalist went along with some exquisitely odd sexual arrangements:

Most promising of all was the message from ‘fun85’, who wrote:

I tried desperately to follow this lead up but after his inaugural mail I was never to hear from him again, and the anonymity Craigslist offers means I couldn’t even track him down via his e-mail address. I fear I scared him off like a nerdy deer.

I realize of course he could be bullshitting; the only fact I have to work with is that his distinctive T-shirt is allegedly from M&S, and my thorough research into this claim has come up inconclusive – the only thing I have learned is that it actually reads “The Mutt’s Nuts” rather than “The Mutt’s Mutt” as I originally thought. However I want to believe that the sender really was the paunched Hanna-Barbera fan I saw on the train, and he stopped replying simply as he found the situation too weird, particularly when I sent him a picture of the inside page of Tuesday’s Metro where Abbey’d offered to be his human pitstop.

It seems apparent then that for Missed Connections to work the person written about has to be flattered or excited or have some semblance of positivity about the experience, or instead of a relationship there’s going to be at best confusion and at worst a court order. Muttley-shirt, were it really him, seemed to devolve from happy surprise to the gnawing realization that this was all a bit strange, so I wanted to see if this was the usual reaction; if so, this million-to-one matchmaking method is surely doomed from the get-go.

To find the specific people referenced in Missed Connections and inform them that someone had written about them online proved an interesting but not impossible task, as some posts refer not to strangers bumped into on random commutes but actually at the love interest’s place of work. These ones sort of puzzle me – if you know where they work, then you can go and ask them out; that’s not a missed connection, that’s a known connection, a fear-of-potentially-unreciprocated-affections connection.

So I collated some of the London Missed Connections posted within the last month that specify where the target was employed, printed them out and aimed to physically hand them to the love objects described. I intended to find their reaction and contact the original posters to let them know how it went, and I maintain this was a nice thing to do – the anxiety in finding out exam results is always worse than the actual knowledge of them, and likewise it’d be better to put these Craiglisters out of their misery rather than them checking their emails every half hour and getting crushed by disappointment every time there’s no response. I was going to force these people into facing up to their possible romances whether they liked it or not, as some glum, administrative cupid in a hoodie.

The day started poorly. I intended to begin with this ad, posted by a woman who’d been served by a guy at a red food stall on Golborne Road whom she wanted to get to know. Seeing as the odds of him searching for himself on MissedConnections.com were extremely minimal I thought I could be the middle man here, but having walked the entire length of the road in question the only food stall I could find was blue and even that was unmanned.

Likewise I couldn’t be sure I was in the same Lloyd’s Pharmacy branch as described in this m4m ad, so I just shelved it next to some tampons for someone to find.

My third attempt though I was feeling more confident about. The ad, which has since been removed, read simply:

To the lovely male barista at AMT Balham – w4m – 25
You will never read this anyway, so I can be crude.
I would do you like a truck.
What’s up with the ring on your finger though?

I headed to Balham station and the AMT was easy to find.

I love that as a photo, so much chaos hanging in potential, I think I might submit it to a gallery of some sort.

I ordered a coffee and as the female worker pottered about making it I asked if she usually had a male co-worker with her. She reported she did, a man called Tom who wasn’t in that day. I explained the situation and she promised she’d pass the Missed Connection on to him, seemingly very enthused.

I was on quite a high from this positive interaction as I worked my way to Dulwich Village, my last port of call for the day. This ad has also been removed since I told its creator it’d been personally delivered, but it originally read:

i want to kiss you once! You are so cute – m4w
you work at Gail’s Bakery – I know I am too old for you but you would be amazed of how good a kisser I am

This one I was slightly more reserved in handing over due to its paedophilic overtones, but regardless I marched into the exorbitant artisan bakery clutching the sheet confidently.

There was only one conceivable worker the post could have been aimed at, a young brunette with a ponytail whom I made a beeline for. I handed the note over with some flustered explanations and her face was a picture of perplexed nausea. Upon my asking if I could snap a photo of her holding it to send to this mystery older guy her response was unequivocal, pushing the paper back into my hands and firmly stating “no, no one here wants this, not me, not anybody. Please just take it and leave.”

So it was a mixed bag of emotions I faced when informing people they were someone’s Missed Connection. When I returned home I messaged the original posters to tell them I’d printed out their respective ads and handed them to the people they’d referenced, and our Balham AMT mothertrucker replied with surprising good cheer.

I’ve played around a lot with Missed Connections over the last couple weeks, both responding to them and creating them, and it’s hard to come to any definitive conclusion as to whether or not they work. The girl at Gail’s Bakery reacted to her personal ad as if I were trying to thrust a dead dog into her arms, and there are clearly a lot of pretty unpleasant people who seem to have misread the topic as Missed Copulations.

However if there really did exist an Abbey Davies with a craving for man-children in tight ‘Wacky Races’ tops, then on a surface level that Missed Connection worked, and he’d simply been spooked off by my incessant demands that he send a facial photo to certify it was really him. Even if he hadn’t replied, Abbey’s Inbox was plenty full of suitors claiming although they weren’t the male in question they’d love to get to know her more, and as proven by portrait artist Trev some of them are clearly decent people willing to go to quite admirable lengths for girls they don’t even know.

When I began work for this article I was all ready to trash Missed Connections as useless, but weirdly the success rate seems to be slightly higher than you might expect. I think it tends to strike a chord with both wan romantics and incredible perverts, the two extreme ends of the dating spectrum separated by the normal people who ask each other out in real life, and considering males and females in both camps religiously check Craigslist and also post every time they make eye contact or brush someone’s arm on a busy tube, finding likeminded soulmates via the site makes statistical sense.

I don’t think there’s any fear of this replacing conventional asking out, be that through text or spoken word or uneasy tacit assumption after a night of drunk sex, but it’s not quite the hopeless love lottery I once thought. From the feelers I put out there, even if you transpire to not be the original person described it still creates a discourse between two people presumably single, London-based and sufficiently desperate for a relationship to be looking on Craigslist for one, and I’m sure there exist regular couples that work with even less in common than that.

Bloody critics

“What do vampires think of the Twilight franchise?”

As a child I once went to a Halloween party dressed as a vampire, and took some pride in my choice of costume. I had a cape and a set of fangs and was liberally spattered with fake blood which I tracked all over the host’s beige carpet; I kept pretending to bite people and a couple times actually did. This, however, was a good few years before an American author by the name of Stephenie Meyer awoke from a dream with a concept for a novel that would birth the Twilight series – 4 books which combined have sold over 100 million copies worldwide. Nowadays any boy who wants to go as a vampire to his friend’s Halloween party probably has all the box sets of ‘Glee’ and wears meggings to his school’s non-uniform day.

I cannot think of any feared mythological figure whose identity has been so battered by popular culture than that of the vampire. In my youth vampires were construed of as all genuinely nasty exocannibalistic maniacs, the paradigm of which was the star of Bram Stoker’s novel ‘Dracula’. The vampiric protagonist, Count Dracula, was based on Vlad the Impaler, an indisputably unpleasant man. His favoured activities, as documented in visceral Tsarist pamphlets, included:

roast[ing] children, whom he fed to their mothers. And (he) cut off the breasts of women, and forced their husbands to eat them. After that, he had them all impaled.

Compare this to the behaviour of the Twilight generation’s archetypal vampire, Edward Cullen, prone to staring wistfully out of slightly misted windows with eyes deep wells of infatuation and woe, and you have a sense of how tepid and effete this new Hollywoodized vampire model is. The vampires I grew up with didn’t want to find true love, they didn’t want to be “understood”, they wanted to bust your jugular vein open and mess, you, up.

This new strain of vampire that’s more likely to be broody than bloody has arisen because Twilight, at its core, is really just a tale of troubled and forbidden love for teenage girls to pine over; the fact that one half of this fanciful relationship is vampiric is really just happenstance to prevent the story being too banal. Seeing as it wouldn’t work out between seventeen-year-old Bella Swan and the slavering, murdering blood-fetishists that vampires used to be, we now have sensitive, caring introverts with exquisite cheekbones who sparkle in the sun. This identity has leaked into other examples of, to quote a legitimate genre, “vampiric chick-lit”, such as ‘The Vampire Diaries’ and ‘The Southern Vampire Mysteries’ on which the TV series ‘True Blood’ is based.

This crippling of the traditional vampire concept, just to maximize revenue through the conduit of fanatic teenage girls, doesn’t sit right with me. Vampires should be the embodiment of pure evil; real people have actually been publicly executed due to vampiric suspicions, particularly during a period of hysteria in Eastern Europe known as “The 18th-Century Vampire Controversy”. As little as 10 years ago, Malawi governor Eric Chiwaya was stoned by a mob of citizens accusing the government of colluding with vampires. Vampires should be feared, not coveted.

But who am I, a mortal norm, to judge how vampires should be portrayed? How do actual vampires feel about this shift in public opinion? Are they bitter and embarrassed at how Twilight has represented them, or pleased to have this new image that makes them the desire of girls the world over? Naturally, I would have to ask them.

You may question my ability to interview supernatural beings, but there do exist many popular groups of people who call themselves vampires and occasionally amass to discuss all things vampirical. One such example is the “London Vampire Meetup Group”, which assembles on the first Thursday of every month. Clearly to find some answers to this query I would have to attend one such meeting, under the guise of a new member.

So on a fiercely hot Thursday evening I pulled on my blackest, densest clothes – I didn’t know the dress code but I couldn’t imagine I’d blend in wearing tie-dyed shorts – and set off to Camden to find this bar. I’d been able to find very little information about this group online, so had only the vaguest idea of what I might be walking into. I kept neurotically imagining the opening scene to the movie ‘Blade’, where a witless human stumbles into a club of vampires and is soaked in blood that pours from the sprinkler system, undead revellers around him whipped into a savage frenzy, fangs bared.

The place looked reasonably normal from the outside, at least:

Inside it was quite a baroque environment, a little darker than the average pub but aside from that the aesthetics revealed little about the nature of its patrons. My prediction about the dress code was accurate, with everyone in black apart from one guy boasting a bright red mohawk, wearing a blood-red sweater vest with “LUTHER IS OUR GOD NOW?” written in permanent marker on the back.

I ordered a beer and looked around. A few people had prosthetic fangs, there was a lot of esoteric gothic clothing and a couple crossdressers stood about. Annoyingly everyone seemed to know each other, which I suppose was inevitable from their monthly meet-ups, but it did mean as the newcomer I felt about as alienated as is humanly possible. I propped up the bar and tried to get drunk enough to socialize with these members of the occult.

After a couple pints I managed to strike up conversation with a DJ called Mark, who had an interest in vampires but was mainly here to accompany his extremely vampiric girlfriend. I awkwardly broached the topic of Twilight, to which he made a disgusted face and shook his head, dismissing the franchise as “shit”. However I gathered from our subsequent conversation about Stanley Kubrick that he was something of a film buff, and disliked Twilight more due to its watery, prosaic plot and jaded directing rather than its reflection of the vampire world. For a more trustworthy consensus, I’d have to ask one of the group’s regulars.

A further two pints later I found myself speaking with a woman named Carla, whose devotion to the vampire clan was clear both from her funereal garb as well as her explanation of how she’d spent the last six months of her life.
“I’ve been trying to enter a coven, y’know, a community of witches,” she told me cheerily. “I’m studying Wicca at the moment to hopefully be ordained into its second tier. I just hope I can please my High Priest!” I smiled blankly at her and continued pounding back lager.

Eventually I managed to steer discourse towards Twilight and was faced with the same repulsed mien Mark had exhibited. She included True Blood and The Vampire Diaries in her all-encompassing condemnation of how pitiful modern-day vampires were. It was clear she was a fan of vampires’ dark, barbaric side, as she spoke excitedly of how the media should really portray them as bloated corpses with their skin rotting off, the polar opposite of the beautiful, chiseled Cullen family served up by Twilight.

It seemed pretty evident that this group, united by a fandom of classical, menacing vampire folklore, would obviously be averse to anything which trashed the traditional idea of Dracula in such a way. This group had been around since long before Twilight’s conception, meeting monthly under their organizer who goes by the name of ‘Thunder’. I managed to snap a shot of him early on in the evening whilst pretending to take an innocuous photo of my Budweiser.

After speaking with Carla he appeared alongside me at the bar. “Are you the one they call Thunder?” I asked him, sneaking onto the list of Top 10 strangest introductory sentences of my life thus far.

Thunder was a very pleasant and strikingly normal man who explained about the group to me whilst nursing a Guinness. He apologized for the small turnout, even though at around 50 vampires present it was busier than I expected it to be, and also apologized for forgetting his fangs. “It’s very remiss of me,” he said, with genuine shame.

It was an interesting and enjoyable chat, but I was here to speak about Twilight. I managed to work it into conversation and Thunder palpably winced. “When Twilight first came out,” he explained, “we were swamped with 16 year old girls who all wanted to join. Not only is this an 18+ group, but their idea of a vampire is a bit different to ours – that was fairly annoying. I don’t think you’ll find any Twilight fans here.”

I thought that statement would comprehensively settle this question – I wanted to find out whether vampires liked Twilight, and the leader of a vampire association unequivocally said that no, they do not. However, he then went on to say “as a group we’re not really vampires as such, we’re just huge fans of vampiric culture and literature. We don’t engage in any blood drinking, that’s for ‘sanguine vampires’.”

It was indeed niggling me that the group, for all their black clothing, arcane appearance and insane beliefs did seem very happy and gregarious, not really how I imagined vampires to be. And if they didn’t actually drink blood, could they even be considered vampires at all?

I returned home from The Elixir Bar a little drunk and did some research into the sanguine vampires, or ‘sanguinarians’, that Thunder mentioned. These are real people who actively drink blood, believing it’s necessary to maintain their physical and mental health. They don’t just binge on rare steaks and black pudding, they actually have personal blood donors who donate whatever blood they can spare for sanguinarians to glug back in order to stay fit and healthy. The forum Black Swan Haven (black swans being vampiric lingo for a non-vampire that sympathises with vampires) is an online community where sanguinarians can find donors in their area and prospective donors can offer up their blood for anyone who would like a sip.

Having scoured the forums and with my wits still cloudy with Budweiser I rattled off an e-mail to a vamp who stated he was looking for a donor, asking if we could meet up and hesitantly offering a slurp from my veins should that be a requisite to us meeting. He declined the blood I proposed, saying he was after a long-term donor rather than just a one-off sample, however he did agree to meet me. So a few days later I headed to Kent, to meet up with someone I’d met on the Internet, on a blood-drinking message board.

His name was Bryce, a tall, quite nasally vampire who met me from Kent station one evening; it had to be evening of course, as Bryce is strictly nocturnal. We headed to a pub, more specifically the sort of venerable old tavern occupied solely by elderly men, where the only female was the barmaid and even she laboured beneath the following sign:

Bryce began to tell me about his life as a vampire. He’d been drinking blood for the past 4 years, beginning with animal blood which allegedly tastes disgusting and moving onto humans’. His usual dietary requirements were 250ml of blood a month, so sort of like a period in reverse, but if possible he’d like to drink a lot more. Thankfully when I met him he’d fed 2 weeks ago so his cravings were minimal, if not I imagine I’d have been a lot more on edge throughout our meeting, terrified I’d get a papercut and he’d misconstrue that as me serving up a liquid lunch.

His claims became more and more outrageous as the evening continued. He told me he also associates with a vampire called Amy, some psi-vamp pranic energy leech who can make you pass out with just a stare, and a charismatic guy named Oliver who seems determined to fulfill all the Dracula stereotypes, even down to his having a crippling allergy to garlic. Bryce declared he could smell people’s blood from a distance away and from that determine whether they had any illnesses; I proffered my wrists and he gave me the all-clear, the first medical checkup I’ve had in years. On occasion him, Amy and Oliver will go to a Brighton club that caters to vampires to try to scope out the freshest morsel on the dancefloor, getting drunk on tumblers of whiskey mixed with human blood.

If I’m honest it was quite a lot to take in, particularly as apparently him being a vampire meant his alcohol tolerance was exceptionally high and admittedly it was quite difficult keeping up with his drinking rate. I was knocking back a seemingly endless amount of ale, aware that I had to get a train home at some stage as I wasn’t overly keen on being stranded in a county where the only person I knew considered me a canapé. You can see my eyes are tinged with slight drunken concern in the photo I took of the two of us:

Thankfully I was still lucid enough to remember my purpose for being there, and eventually succeeded in bringing Twilight into the conversation. Bryce if possible was even more hostile to the franchise than the London vampires. “Oh I cannot stand it!” he decried, “it’s absolutely detestable.” When I argued that surely the series had made him incredibly popular with the girls he riposted that Twilight’s representation of vampires is unrealistic. ‘Real’ vampires don’t glitter in the sun, they blister and develop hives, and vampirism does not necessarily make you an automatic touchstone for brooding chivalry.

Bryce even reported that since Twilight several people had asked him to ‘convert’ them, much like Bella requested from Edward, as having been romanticized by the media a vampiric life is now viewed as extremely attractive. But not only is that impossible, it’s an incredibly deluded and stupid wish – if you’re a teenage girl and you can’t find a boyfriend, there’s a whole host of possible explanations more likely than the root of the problem being that you’re not a vampire. You could be emotionally stunted, or a deeply unpleasant person, or just plain hideous.

The vampirism Bryce exhibits is almost certainly just an acute form of anemia, with the odd blood supplement boosting his iron levels and providing an autonomic endorphin release that makes him feel alive again, combined with a dash of light sensitivity and a huge side serving of psychosomatic confusion and general madness. True vampiric life then, as seen from my trips to Camden and Kent, consists largely of either dressing up or being ill, none of the intense lust and bewitching enigma Twilight insists upon. The vampires I’ve met seem to be largely quite introverted, there’s the odd outgoing one like Oliver or Thunder but overall I suspect they want to be left alone and try to have a fairly normal life, not put on a podium and forced to live up to the infamy of the incredibly sensitive hypersexualized vampires everyone knows from Stephenie Meyer.

This pushing of vampires into the public limelight can actually be a danger to them. They are at heart just a bunch of goths and anemics, not undead monsters or revenant killers or corporeal evil, and yet there are some people so delusional they actually see it as their mission in life to hunt and kill these ‘vampires’. I always thought the profession of vampire hunter was just a fictitious one to base a film or TV show around; from Buffy to Blade, vampire hunters are always hugely watchable and celebrated protagonists because they’re ridding the world of sin with puns and gratuitous violence, and also because they’re either a hot blonde or really cool black guy. So imagine my surprise at finding out vampire hunters actually exist, and you could enroll their services of vampire disposal from their base in North London.

The “only vampire elimination specialist in London” states on their site they “have first hand knowledge of dealing with these blood sucking vermin.” Their services include vampire disposal, vampire deterrents, and post attack counselling.

The world is completely fucking mad, and you can never leave.

I was eager to get in touch with John Michaelson, the site owner and original London vampire hunter, curious as to his opinion of Twilight. It’s surely a sign that business isn’t great that the only contact information available on the company’s website is a link to John’s MySpace, so to try to converse with him I had to make an account. I didn’t feel he’d be likely to reply to a cheery, bright-eyed figure in a Hawaiian shirt so instead I created a profile for my emo alter-ego Matthias Grumhorn.

MySpace is now so redundant it’s no longer even possible to send messages to anyone, and hence sadly I was never able to touch base with John. If I had to make a prediction, as a man who makes a living slaying vampires and actually writes the words “vampire hunter” on his income tax form, I very much doubt Twilight would be one of his favourite films. It seems that whether we be human or vampire, blood-guzzler or superstitious naysayer, whatever our differences we are united by our one common belief that Twilight, be it in novel or film format, simply isn’t very good.

Don’t drink and blood drive

“Can you get a blood alcohol content so high you legally require a liquor license to donate it?”

A Bloody Mary cocktail consists of vodka, tomato juice, Tabasco sauce, and not, to my eternal disappointment, a shot of blood from an alcoholic, who may or may not be named Mary.

When you drink alcohol it’s absorbed by your stomach and small intestine and dissolved in the water in your bloodstream, and it’s this blood that then ferries your drink eagerly around the body, like a swarm of haemoglobic club reps, up to your brain to make it crazy and down to your liver to make it sad. So surely it’s logical to assume that siphoned off and chilled a stein of booze-infused blood would make for an acceptable tipple?

Whilst at University, facilitated by the quantity of spare time studying English Literature provides with its meagre 5 hours of lectures a week, I drank a fairly obscene amount of alcohol. My main liquid vice, as shared by most quasi-alcoholic University students, was Jägermeister, the 35% digestif referred to colloquially in its motherland of Germany as “Leberkleister”, or “liver-glue”. I would partake of this horrible drink so frequently and in combination with so much orange Red Bull mixer that of a hungover morning bowel movements would more resemble having poured a can of tinned peaches into the commode.

During and after some of the more debauched nights of Jäger consumption, I’ve suspected my blood must still be so alcoholic that if quaffed or transfused or otherwise inserted into a light drinker or teetotaller they’d feel at least a bit giddy. I’m sure I can recall donating blood in a hungover state before – if the bag of my arterially-brewed hooch were to then be hooked up to someone under the age of 18, would that be akin to supplying alcohol to a minor? There’s a £5,000 fine for that! Keen to avoid such a penalty, I decided to find out if such an event were possible.

Blood alcohol content (BAC) equates to the amount of alcohol, in mg, present in every 100ml of blood. To have 80mg of alcohol per 100ml would give you a BAC of 0.08%, which is the drink driving limit for the UK and much of the world – the equivalent of knocking back a couple pints of ale. At this level your blood has about the potency of non-alcoholic beer, which is never labelled as 0.0% proof as there’s always some small amount of residual alcohol remaining from the manufacturing process. Alcohol-free Beck’s Blue, for instance, is still listed as 0.05%.

Indeed for a drink to be legally considered as alcoholic at all UK legislation states it must be at least 0.5%, which would classify it as a “low-alcohol drink” so long as it did not exceed 1.2%. Consequently, for your blood to be perceived in the eyes of the law as an alcoholic drink it must have an alcohol content of 0.5%, necessitating you reach a state of inebriation over 6 times the drink drive limit and attain a BAC which most charts agree wanders lazily into the realms of coma or death.

However, these proud zeniths of blood fermentation are possible to obtain and even survive. There are several reported cases of people registered with BACs of 1% and higher, admittedly usually taken at the scene of an accident they can’t remember and just preceding a Biblical hangover. About the highest ever recorded took the form of a South African man who was pulled over whilst driving along the Eastern Cape, and found to have a blood alcohol content of 1.6% in addition to 15 sheep crammed into his Mercedes-Benz which he’d stolen from neighbouring farms. Unsurprisingly, this man was arrested.

Obviously drinking that much is not something you should or could do frequently, however the fact the man survived and even had the lucidity to arrange over a dozen sheep in quite a small space makes me consider that maybe there have been times where my own blood alcohol has spiked into similar territory, making it less blood and closer to shandy that’s running through my veins. The unnamed sheep-smuggler certainly proved it’s possible to have blood that’s legally classed as alcohol – if he were to round his night of drunken farm pillaging off by giving blood, at 1.6mg of alcohol per 100ml and the average blood drive bag holding 470ml his donation, were you to drink it, would be the equivalent of a tequila shot.

So with the potential for alcoholic blood confirmed, what are the legalities of donating it at a blood drive? Could that be considered supplying alcohol without a license, which can come with a £20,000 fine and/or six months imprisonment? If the police find you handing out your bags of bloody moonshine are you expected to keep them quiet with a “couple ventricles-worth on the house for you fine officers”? I went about finding a) if it’s possible or necessary to obtain a license for this activity, and b) whether you’re physically allowed to donate blood when you’re that plastered anyway.

To apply for a liquor license you have to go through your local council, for me that was West Berkshire. Some research indicated I required a Temporary Events Notice, or a TEN, because I only intended to donate alcoholic blood once at a single localized event, rather than trying to turn my heart into an actual pub. This license costs £21 and must be acquired 10 working days before the event; to procure one you must e-mail the licensing division directly. “You must send a copy of the TEN to the police at least 10 working days before the event – if you apply online, the council will contact the police for you” it reminded me as I composed my mail.

I asked sincerely if I needed a one-time personal license were I to supply blood at a BAC of 0.5% or higher at my local blood drive. I also mentioned that although I was aware there would not be a financial transaction in handing my alcoholic blood over, I would almost certainly consume the tea and biscuits they provide after a blood donation and that might be viewed as an exchange of commodities. Their response was curt, dismissive, and bright blue.

It seemed fairly unequivocal then that unless you plan to sell your blood booze to the black market or some college vampires who want to party, you do not need any form of license. However I wanted to test the practical side too – namely is it actually feasible to raise your BAC to 0.5% and stagger your way to a blood drive, and even then will nurses allow you to donate? With the help of an online BAC calculator, the charmingly titled ‘R U Pissed?’, I calculated that drinking 933ml of whiskey (37 units worth) over the course of 5 hours would just about get my blood to the concentration of a low-alcoholic beverage.

The site, which calls itself an ‘online breathalyser’, uses your age, weight and height against what you’ve been drinking and how long you’ve been drinking it for to work out your BAC and let you know whether you’re OK to drive. At a BAC of 0.04% it tells you “you’re feeling a little tipsy”, at 0.05% “leave it an hour or two before you drive” and at 0.08%, “get a taxi!” I wasn’t flooded with confidence at the message it generated for the 0.5% I sought:

Still, it was my journalistic duty to cover this story, even in the supposed face of certain death, so I bolstered my whiskey collection and set about turning myself into a human distillery.

This test actually took two attempts to get right. The first saw me drink the right amount of alcohol but in an even shorter space of time than the 5 hour period I’d set myself, meaning I got absolutely, inhumanly twisted. I left the house but didn’t make it to the blood drive, lost my keys along the way and somehow awoke late afternoon in bed covered in scratches and spooning the house’s mailbox I’d drunkenly torn from the wall brackets.

So for my second try, one week later, I resolved to take my time a bit more. I was drinking Bells, not my favourite scotch but certainly one of the cheapest.

Bright and early I awoke and immediately poured myself a stiff one. I knew from my previous failed attempt I had a morning of not particularly pleasant drinking ahead of me – necking 40% alcohol at such an early hour feels more comparable to taking medicine. It may have been more palatable if I had a drinking partner, but it’s difficult to find anyone who will join you for a quadruple scotch on the rocks at 9am on a Wednesday morning.

At the precise moment of taking the above photo a text rumbled in from the blood centre to remind me not only of my appointment but also that supplies of my blood type were low.

This became even more intriguing – if my blood was currently scarce it had less chance of sitting in a warehouse to ferment and was more likely to be whisked off straight to a hospital to start getting a car crash victim intravenously tipsy. I began to grow concerned that my blood might not get checked for alcoholism en route and actually cause somebody harm, but thankfully whiskey helped me quell these fears and I soon found myself approaching the litre’s end.

I managed to stagger to the small community church where the blood drive was occurring, and clearly took some pictures which I don’t really remember taking.

Stumbling through the doors I found myself standing before a mass of silent, austere, charitable faces, all seated towards me, so I felt like I’d reeled onto stage during an ill-rehearsed school play. A blood drive is not the sort of place where it’s cool to be drunk – it can give you the edge at a house party and is downright mandatory for a night of clubbing, but with 40% of A&E patients admitted due to alcohol, it’s hard not to feel somewhat ashamed to be swaggering and tottering about in front of a crowd clutching their collective arms who’ve just given the very blood you’ll inevitably need one day from trying to climb up a statue while wasted.

It was such a surprising and serious scene to behold I panicked and wheeled around, lurching into the nearby toilets. As I did so I could hear laughter behind me, the bunch of donors clearly tickled by their assumption that I’d suddenly lost the nerve to give blood. Or, alternatively, it was because I’d drunkenly headed into the ladies toilet by accident.

I adjourned to the gents to compose myself and headed back into the hall to end up speaking with a nurse named Carol. Somewhere between my stumbling about, reeking of scotch, and bumbling into the women’s restroom, she could sense something was awry.
“Matthew Rose. Blood” I managed.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her jovial tone tinged with suspicion.
I told her I did and she flicked through the pages of her schedule to find me. “You’re due at quarter past 2, yes?” she continued.
“No it’s Matthew Rose!” I reiterated.
“Yes, I know,” she said patiently, and then “are you hungover?”
“Nope!” I declared with proud truth.
“OK..” she said, as I stifled a burp. “But, do you think there may be some alcohol currently in your system?”
For some god-damned reason I put my hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eyes with heart-breaking sincerity. “I think that may be the case,” I told her.

At hearing this Carol said she had to check with the head nurse to see if I’d still be allowed to donate, leaving me holding onto a table for support and bathing in the glares emanating from the assembly of donors. I earnestly had no idea whether I would be allowed to give blood in this condition or not. The council certainly didn’t seem to object, maybe this happens all the time?

When Carol returned however it was with the news that there’d be no giving blood for me today, despite my assurances to her that I didn’t require a TEN to donate it. She told me it would be too dangerous both for me as the donor as well as the recipient, and with that I was left to stagger home, almost getting hit by a car along the way.

So no, a liquor license will never be necessary to donate blood no matter how much you’ve had to drink. Regardless of the procedure not being a transaction and hence not in your local council’s jurisdiction, alcoholic blood is simply not wanted or needed at a blood drive. When someone is recovering from liver cirrhosis the last thing they need is a bag of blood with the same impact as a tequila slammer.

I don’t mean for this article to exude an anti-alcohol vibe, alcohol is a fantastic liquid, but even the stoutest fan of stout must concede that alcoholic blood can be trouble. I awoke from my first attempt with inexplicably tattered arms and my second having narrowly avoided being smashed by a car, not to mention the countless other injuries attained from drunken exploits over the years, and the last thing I’d need if one of these landed me in hospital would be yet more alcohol in my system. Donating alcoholic blood isn’t a licenceable activity simply because it’s a bad idea and nobody does it. Let’s instead give blood whilst we’re sober, so we can get the pure, non-alcoholic artery-juice we need for when we do drink a bucket of daiquiri and try to leap an entire set of escalators.

0Q – Part 1

“What happens if you get every question wrong on an IQ test?”

IQ, or Intelligence Quotient, has been deeply ingrained in mass society as a cut-and-dried indicator of how clever someone is. If someone has a higher IQ than you, then it’s considered a mathematical certainty that they are smarter, and thereby they can do all sums faster, have a much richer vocabulary, and fix all their own electronics.

‘Test the Nation’ was a show which, between 2002-2007, would air annually on BBC1 and constituted a couple hours of interactive IQ tests you were encouraged to take part in at home so you could calculate your own Intelligence Quotient. It was hungrily taken in by households across the country to be discussed around the water cooler the next day, usually after everyone had rounded their scores up to the nearest 20.

I suppose the attraction that led to its nation-wide popularity, as well as its being commissioned for 6 successive years, is that it’s nice to have a quantifiable figure for something as intangible as whether someone is quite bright or, as you’ve often suspected, pretty dumb.

However I think for the generally naïve public to know their IQ can be dangerous, especially when they believe it’s a precise measure of their brain’s output all because a professor has talked about left vs. right hemispheres and grey matter and psychometrics and other encouraging academic lingo, and on the BBC no less. If the show had been filmed for Channel 4 it would almost certainly have been more frothy and light and irreverent, no doubt presented by Gok Wan wearing some fashionable, avant-garde mortarboard, and so viewers would have been more flippant about the results they came out with.

The concern with the BBC variant is that for its majority it’s reasonably studious and austere, hosted by cold, sober people like Anne Robinson. So if your average desk-jockey admin assistant, who does the odd sudoku in ‘The Sun’ but generally lives a fairly unscholarly life, tunes in to ‘Test The Nation’ and emerges with an IQ of above 130 (or 148 if using the Cattell III B scale), he’d consequently believe unquestioningly that he’s in the top 2% of the country and eligible for Mensa, likely leading to him getting ideas above his station. Even if they haven’t botched the test and their IQ really is that high, it still doesn’t mean they should leave their comfortable office position at Generic Finances Inc. to start practicing eye surgery or apply to NASA lest their incredibly advanced cognitive powers go to waste.

The truth is that your IQ is really a pretty redundant number. It’s a measure of very innate, subconscious intelligence, and doesn’t necessarily provide the skillset required to reattach a retina or determine how fast a manned spaceship should leave a launch-pad. When Mensa members assemble they only play word games and make the odd witty remark, they’re not trying to find the Higgs Boson particle. For instance Shakira, the Colombian singer-songwriter, supposedly has an IQ which makes her eligible for Mensa, and she’s not contributing works akin to King Lear or Candide, she’s submitting that she’s “not looking for cute little divos or rich city guys that just want to enjoy, but having a very good time and behaving very bad in the arms of a boy” (She Wolf, 2009).

Almost all experts of neuroscience and pedagogy know IQ can be used as a general indicator of how well your brain plays ball, but as a definite calculable measure of mental capacity it’s pretty pointless. Yes, with an IQ of 120 you’re probably more switched on than someone with an IQ of half that, but not necessarily brighter than someone with an IQ of 119 or 115 or even 100. Just earlier this year 16-year-old Essex schoolgirl, Lauren Marbe, was reported to have an IQ exceeding that of Einstein or Bill Gates. She is described as a “ditzy” teenager who loves “fake tanning, blonde highlights, manicures,” as well as her favourite programme, TOWIE.

Society’s faith in the purportedly fool-proof IQ system will almost certainly mean Lauren, by dint of having a higher IQ than Einstein or Gates, is regarded as therefore being smarter than those two, but that’s just not necessarily the case. We should not expect a Microsoft competitor from this girl, and whilst I’m sure she’s just ace at working out the next in a series of abstract shapes, we shouldn’t favour her ‘reem’ theory of relativity over old Albert’s.

To demonstrate how unreliable IQ tests are, before someone puts this giggly Essex girl in charge of NATO or finding a cure for cancer for her to doubtless drop a fake eyelash into, I want to take a test and try to score an IQ of 0, or to get every question wrong – the two can be mutually exclusive. Consider the following:

Answering every question incorrectly in an IQ test would merit a score of 0% and hence, it would be reasonable to assume, an IQ of 0. However an IQ of 0 would equate to being brain dead, and to have had the mental ability to lift a crayon and circle some answers, albeit all wrong ones, you must have some IQ, there must be some synapses still flaring in the mound of neural dog food sitting in your skull. It is complicated by the fact that IQs are charted on a bell curve:

With 68% of the population having an IQ between 85 and 115 there are plenty of comparable results and so an Intelligence Quotient can be measured very specifically, but in the 0.2% of people with an IQ of above 145 or below 55 there is too little data to ascertain any definite number – you’re just referred of as having a vague IQ “over 145” or “below 55” and it’s presumed you’re either too clever to care or too stupid to understand.

Consequently the result of an IQ test can be contextual to the average; you can technically get every question wrong and still score an IQ of, say, 44. But I’m not happy with this as a compromise when it concerns the metrical currency of our human intelligence. After all, if every question wrong can mean an IQ of 44, what would an IQ of 43 mean? I even read that if the law of averages plays against you it’s possible to take an IQ test and emerge with a negative IQ, which I’m sure we can all agree as a concept is an absolute mindfuck.

To try to resolve this issue I took a number of online IQ tests, attempting to clear them all without a single correct answer. As you might imagine this is actually fairly difficult as you have to know the right answer to every question in order not to choose it, as well as terribly counter-intuitive to spend 10 minutes cooking your brain working out that the answer to a question is b) 6 and then selecting that the correct answer is instead c) 50. Here are my results:

The Guardian IQ test: This is a 25 question test which measures your IQ against your salary to determine whether you should rightly be getting paid more for your job, precisely the reason why I deemed these tests to be futile and dangerous, and why the admin assistant we mentioned earlier would surely end up weeping having accidentally blinded someone or stranded several people on the Moon. If you do well in the test, you’re rewarded with the message:

Having been actively encouraged to quit my job just because I know what a Fibonacci sequence is and what a cube looks like, I tried the test again trying to score as low as possible. The first time I scored an embarrassingly high 4/25, leaving me with a cleverness coefficient of 0 sugarcoated by saying at least I was being paid the right amount.

The second time I managed to score 0/25, producing a more brusque message:

I left the Guardian test unsatisfied; their “cleverness coefficient” seemed wildly skittish and didn’t go anywhere towards telling me what my actual IQ was, simply whether I should leave my job or not.


– IQTest.com: 38 ‘True or False’ questions in 13 minutes. “If you take longer, you will be penalized, or if you get through the test in less time than thirteen minutes, your score will be increased” it states, meaning having rattled through the test in half that time I then had to wait a further 7 minutes before submission to squeeze every drop of idiocy into my test result.

Annoyingly the results had no measure of how many questions I’d answered right or wrong, but I was fairly confident that I’d got them all incorrect, and my IQ came out at 19, which signifies profound mental retardation. I was also offered a graph and a certificate which proudly displayed my significantly deficient IQ in case I wanted to hang it in my study, for $9.95.

I’m sure there’s probably a lot of money to be generated from people’s belief in IQ tests and subliminal intelligence boosters and other such purchasable dross; money that you probably won’t even have since the Guardian told you to quit the fast-food chain you worked at and apply to be an anesthesiologist instead. I still wasn’t happy with my result; if I scored 0/38 and earned an IQ of 19, what did an IQ of 18 mean?


– IQTestExperts.com: This one comprised of 30 questions with a 15-minute timer counting down alongside. I almost certainly answered every one wrong and still came out with an IQ of 54, which according to the Stanford-Binet Intelligence Scale is only ‘mildly impaired’.

I had to enter my e-mail address to progress to the screen which showed this score, and I’m reasonably certain this was the source of a hijacker who changed my account password a few days later. The IP address traces it back to Hanoi in Vietnam. I would recommend double-checking your account security before taking this test.


– BBC IQ test: Thus far all online IQ tests had really done were tell me to resign, ask me for money, or try to sell my details to the Vietnamese, scoring me with a plethora of different IQs seemingly picked at random and placing me anywhere between forgetful and vegetative. I had confirmed that at least sites don’t attribute a flunked test with an IQ of 0, they’re aware that you need some cognition in order to pick an answer at all, but besides that they all seemed to disagree on what IQ to give me. If IQ classification is as steadfastly valid as it’s made out to be, you would have thought the same score would have been generated each time; surely the esteemed and extensive quiz used on BBC’s ‘Test the Nation’ would put this matter to bed?

The test takes a long, long time to complete, presumably as it’s pulled straight from a show which has to fill 2 hours of airtime. Different sections flex different abilities such as memory, logic and reasoning, and it seemed a pretty solid test albeit a little overly entertainment-focussed what with some sections titled “Spot the missing celeb!” etc, probably why some periodicals critically panned the programme as just a glorified “quiz show.” Particular segments like the visual tests took some pondering as I’m relatively colourblind, whilst others like the vocab section I obviously ravaged, and ultimately I finished with a triumphant score of:

Now this must be clear evidence that IQ tests are fundamentally skewed and untrustworthy. This plainly states that scoring 0/70 in a test, the lowest conceivable mark, still represents an IQ of 70, which is only just considered below average. This was the very test televised and undertaken by millions of people, the test that influenced whether people thought they were perhaps too overqualified for their jobs, and probably not a far cry from the test that exalted Lauren Marbe as being more intelligent than Stephen Hawking. This is today’s Twitter feed from Lauren, does it strike you as the utterances of someone who could keep up with and maybe even correct some of Stephen’s gravitational singularities theorems?

I don’t think the lines “where’s my tan gone?” or “come my party, safeeee” have ever rumbled from Stephen Hawking’s speech synthesiser.

The IQ tests I’ve completed thus far then seem to be just as inaccurate as I suspected. A score of 0% should be a universal baseline that all tests agree on, and yet my supposed IQ has varied from 19 to 70, from brain dead to just simpleminded, it’s all very confused and unreliable. No wonder people can take these tests and achieve vastly contorted results that render them twice as clever as Isaac Newton whilst they sit ‘lol’ing heartily at Keith Lemon from their bookless, poster-coated bedrooms.

However, I concede that these are all online tests, some that appear to be the guise for scams at that, so inaccuracies are almost to be expected. The only way to really gauge the consequences of spectacularly failing an IQ test is to take a physical one, namely the supervised, pen-and-paper test that determines whether you are eligible to enter the UK Mensa society. Only by avoiding a single correct answer in an exam of that calibre am I to find exactly what happens if you get every question in an IQ test wrong, and possibly prove that as a measure of intelligence an IQ score is negligible.

I will book my Mensa IQ Test for the near future, deliberately flunk, and report back to you with my findings in Part 2…

Business biscuits

“Can you purchase business cards printed onto savoury crackers?”

This isn’t a proper article as such, just something I stumbled across which tickled me so I thought I’d briefly write it up off-the-cuff.

Every business is, supposedly, always on the hunt for better and more efficient ways to resolve customer queries, and on that basis a lot of business websites are now equipped with ‘Live Chat’. In addition to phone and e-mail, ‘Live Chat’ is a way of contacting a company with questions or issues – you are put through to a one-on-one conversation with a ‘chat representative’ reminiscent of Skype or the nostalgic wonder of MSN.

‘Live Chat’ is becoming quite prevalent on company sites and people clearly find it helpful, but I simply don’t know how anyone is able to use them without being drawn towards winding up the delegate you end up speaking with. I could have the most pressing matter in the world and I still wouldn’t be able to resist taking the envoy of Jacamo or SportsDirect.com or whoever on a wild goose chase instead for my own cripplingly juvenile entertainment, I think it’s the visual similarity to MSN that evokes memories of being immature and unruly and makes me powerless to not act like a tit.

This urge hits me strongest when I see ‘Live Chat’ advertised on a site that clearly doesn’t require it. If present on a site for a software developer or telecommunications company or government then this is understandable, as there’s probably plenty of questions to be asked and answered. What I find irresistible are ‘Live Chat’s offered by websites for startlingly simple business models, where what few questions anyone could plausibly ask would fit into a concise FAQ and it’s obvious the chat representatives staffing it are all sitting around with nothing to do, spending all day playing with yo-yos or plotting affairs. ‘Live Chat’ is probably not necessary, for instance, on a website selling garden gnomes, or aromatic tea, or business cards.

A while back I decided to look into getting some business cards. I do not have a business, nor do I wish to have one, but print supplier Vistaprint were promoting a ludicrously good deal of something like 250 business cards for £1, and I thought I could order a batch of these:

I had no idea what I’d do with them but they seemed like a nice asset. I could stick them around the house, hand them out to people on the bus, show one with drunk indignation to any bouncer who tried to kick me out of a club, whatever.

However I never submitted my business card order, I must have visited the Vistaprint website and distractedly wandered over to their ‘Live Chat’ instead. I only know this because I’m currently looking through old Word documents trying to scrabble together pieces of writing to add to my paltry Ideastap, and came across the conversation below. I have no recollection of doing this whatsoever, I may have been drunk, but it seems a conversation was struck up between chat representative Fauzia, and me, under my pseudonym of Chester.

Fauzia: Hi my name is Fauzia, How can I help you?

If your query relates to an existing order, please can you let me know your name and the order number?
You: hey there Fauzia!
You: my name’s Chester
Fauzia: hi chester
You: I’m new to the site and just had a query or two
You: I’m looking for business cards that make an impact, so I want mine to stand out
You: this is understandable, in today’s business climate, yes?
You: stand out from the crowd, make Papa proud, you familiar with that old saying?
Fauzia: mmm im not familar with the saying :)
Fauzia: but i understand you want to make pappa proud :)
Fauzia: so please let me know your question?
You: of course
You: we all want to make pappa proudest
You: my question was whether you printed business cards on any sort of material other than paper?
Fauzia: we do not print on any other material
Fauzia: other than paper im afraid
Fauzia: sorry about that
You: well how am I supposed to make my Papa proud with this??
You: I was thinking, and flag me down if my ideas are getting ludicrous Fauzia, of having my cards printed on an exquisite Belgian biscuit
You: which potential employers or business associates could devour after reading
You: NOW, if I provided my own biscuits
You: could you print on them?
Fauzia: unfortuantely not im afraid
You: why not?
Fauzia: sorry about this
Fauzia: we only print on paper
You: you’ve said
You: but I want to damn well know why you can’t print on a biscuit
You: you can print on watery mashed up stretched papyrus reeds?
You: but not on a lovely little biscuit??
You: sounds a bit crazy to me
You: doesn’t that sound crazy to you Fauzia?
You: because it does to me
Fauzia: yes it is very strange but im very sorry
Fauzia: we do not do this
You: what about savoury crackers?
Fauzia: we are sorry we do not do this on savoury crackers
Fauzia: we just print on paper
Fauzia: sorry about that
You: have you ever even tried printing on a cracker though?
Fauzia: no we dont do anything with food
You: so you’ve never even attempted it?
Fauzia: no because we are only digital printers
Fauzia: that print on paper
You: AHA!
You: so you’re rendering it an impossibility
You: before even trying it
You: ‘no man can’t land on the moon’, ‘no we can’t have wireless Internet’ and now, in 2012, ‘no we can’t print business details onto a savoury cracker’!
You: the trend is unmistakeable
You: this is what I propose
You: I come to your business this weekend with a variety of biscuits, crackers, and thin meats
Fauzia: Is there anything else I can help with?
You: and we undertake some printing experiments on them
You: what do you say Fauzia?
Fauzia: im sorry i am in the UK
You: as am I!
You: perfect!
Fauzia: if you were to bring them no one will do anything
You: where are your offices based?
Fauzia: http://www.londonprintbrokers.com/printed-biscuits.html
Fauzia: try this place
You: oh my God you’ve actually found them..
You: I don’t really want biscuit business cards Fauzia, I was just having a friendly wind up before placing the real order!
You: who would want biscuit business cards??
You: what a ludicrous notion!
You: they’d become soggy in the pockets in meetings, birds would try to steal them, stupid
You: no, in all seriousness, what I want are business cards carved into bars of soap Fauzia
You: where are we with that?
You: Fauzia?
You: Fauzia?
You: Fauzia?

I found this old transcript just today and decided to chase up the link Fauzia sent over, 18 months after the original conversation took place. With the constant need to generate ideas for this blog I was sure there was something I could do with baked business cards, which I could then tie in with some grander, overarching, contemporary topic to make it appear like proper journalism. Handing out bizarre business cards, trying to stand out from the crowd, saturated graduate employment, yeah I could probably stretch a story out of that.

It took a little investigation as the link she sent no longer works – London Print Brokers has changed its name and apparently had a cyberpunk makeover and is now ‘Optimus 2020’. I tipped them an e-mail, politely inquiring as to whether Fauzia’s information was correct and I could start chiselling my contact information into pretzels and soap and whatever I fancied.

Hello there,

I was given your information by my friend and business associate Fauzia. I understand you offer, or at least used to offer, a service in which a business card could be printed onto a cracker, or savoury biscuit. My query is whether this process could be replicated on other materials, namely soap. My aim is to have 2,500 bars of soap etched with my business credentials by the end of this fiscal year, which I can hand out to potential partners & investors alongside comments such as “I’m the best bar none” and “drop me a foam-call sometime”.

Please get back to me as soon as is convenient,

Many thanks,
Mr Matthew Rose

Their response was prompt and unambiguous.

Curse you, Fauzia…

Taking down notes

“What do you have to draw on a note of money before it becomes unacceptable?”

There’s always an element of risk withdrawing money from an ATM. It lacks the same potential for danger as say, base jumping, certainly. But there is always the prospect that the person behind you may be a capable thief after a glimpse of your PIN, or your card is about to be quietly and irretrievably swallowed by the smug, faceless machine in the wall. And what quality of note are you about to procure? Your £10 is just as likely to come out as a crisp, brand new banknote as it is a chewed nub of ink-stained pulp, crumpled and withered and barely recognizable as something with a value.

A while back I requested £20 from a Santander machine and received two £10 notes that sadly had both been used as notepaper. One had “86 + 37 = 123” scrawled across it, and the other a thick, black streak of ink lengthways down the middle, as if it were in mourning. I’m sure you too have been dispensed money adorned with similar lazy scribbles, but for someone in a near-constant state of financial demi-apocalypse such as myself, I was displeased to see what few banknotes I possess blemished in this way. I’d be rightly annoyed if an unknown figure strolled into my bedroom, pulled my Monopoly set out of the cupboard and started defacing that fake paper money in such a manner, let alone my real, hard-earned tender.

I was actually slightly anxious in spending the note coated in a tar-like smear in case a cashier declaimed it marred beyond acceptability. Thankfully it was approved and the vandalized note returned back into the economy, to eventually replenish another cash machine and slightly rankle someone else withdrawing money further down the line.

Considering the cyclical nature of money I found it curious that defacing it, particularly in today’s economic toilet, didn’t come with greater repercussions. Back in the agricultural epoch when material assets constituted currency and people would trade an oxen in return for a jug of milk or first-born daughter, it would surely not be acceptable to offer a calf with “86 + 37 = 123” seared into its flank. Yet in the civilised urbanity of our modern age such behaviour now seems acceptable, and barely registered. I was intrigued to see just how far this system could be pushed. Were there any limits in place? Could you brand a note with near enough anything and still use it in a face-to-face transaction?

I started small, just testing the waters. I had done no background research at this stage so was completely blind to any possible illegalities I may have been committing. The afternoon following my thought-provoking morning at the Santander machine, I bought a Sharpie and on one side of a £10 note wrote in clear block capitals:


My apologies but I do not have a photo of this inaugural marked note, as at the time I didn’t expect to be making a habit of this. Rest assured all further examples of inked currency come with pictorial evidence.

I headed to IKEA with the intention of using my new sullied money to buy a lamp, hoping the worker serving me would be Swedish and hence have a slightly laxer translative grasp of the withering put-down I was handing them. Unfortunately the woman serving me was comprehensively English, and a more miserable, sour-faced ambassador for flat-pack furniture you could not imagine. I tried to buoy her up with some jocund small-talk as she scanned my lamp, just in case she did see what I had written on the note, and actually that wasn’t alright, and I had vastly underestimated this all entirely. Job-mandated employee amiability has its limits, and the distance stood away from a worker behind a till is never greater than the distance their extended fist can achieve.

However, my money was simply snatched impatiently and thrust into the cash register without a second look, leaving me faltering and slightly disappointed and stuck with this lamp I didn’t really want. For someone whom Lady Luck frequently pours buckets of slurry over, I was astonished the affair passed so smoothly and assumed the cashier simply hadn’t noticed the text blazed across one side of the note. Working somewhere as busy as IKEA you must have to handle thousands of uniform slips of cash every day, so of course not every note is going to be carefully scrutinized, the queues that amassed would be biblical. I reasoned the only way to properly gauge the fallout from vandalizing money was to ensure the recipient noticed, so the next day I strolled to my local Co-op with this in my wallet:

The previous evening I’d tried to research the legal gravity behind scrawling over UK currency, and as with most issues that I seek to personally resolve, the Internet was neatly divided on the matter. Some people, referencing decades of experience working in banks and bookmakers, were flippantly dismissive, claiming as long as you’re not counterfeiting or trying to change the face value of the bill you can write effectively whatever you like on them. Others, the more timid and I sense more submissive British citizens tremulously cried the practice was illegal and akin to treason. The Currency and Bank Notes Act 1928 was often quoted:

12 Penalty for defacing bank notes.

If any person prints or stamps, or by any like means impresses, on any bank note any words, letters or figures, he shall, in respect of each offence, be liable on summary conviction to a penalty not exceeding one pound

This £1 fine was raised to £25 in 1977 (Criminal Law Act, s.31) and then again to £200 in 1982 (Criminal Justice Act, s.46). So admittedly, facing the possibility of a £200 fine, it is excusable to view with trepidation the use of money as a sketchbook. What was unanimously agreed was that it’s a little precarious doodling on a note in any way that modifies, covers or affects the Queen’s face, on the same archaic basis that it’s technically treason to post a letter with the stamp stuck on upside-down. So to attempt to debunk this theory I transformed our monarch into the cigar-chomping, Trilby-topped cat you see above, and just so Darwin on the reverse side didn’t feel left out:

As you can see from the photo of our feline Queen the note already had some writing on it upon its withdrawal, specifically ‘180’ crossed out to read ‘150’, so I felt slightly more justified in adding my own artistic contributions as I handed the money over to the Co-op worker. He was a fraction away from instinctively stuffing it into the till before clearly the addition of all that black ink caught his eye, and he held the money up to the light to get a good look. I braced myself for his reaction but to my surprise he simply laughed and handed me my change. In surprised relief I started laughing too, blaming “that pesky Banksy” and then hurriedly walking out, accidentally leaving all my shopping on the counter.

For my next test I decided to push the concept of writing on money to its excess and absolutely obliterate a £5 note with text. For no discernible reason I decided upon all the lyrics to Cee Lo Green’s 2010 hit ‘Forget You’:

Once finished, the £5 was noticeably heavy with ink. That note would no longer be accepted in anything automated such as ticket machines or self-service checkouts. Indeed even the slightest of Sharpie markings skew the weight of the paper or otherwise confuse whatever means these machines use to evaluate what’s inserted into them, so the only way to reimburse a defaced note’s value is via human interaction. Consequently I approached a cashier in Waterstones intending to purchase a book with my Cee Lo pop verse, again a little nervous but bolstered by my successes so far.

The worker wasn’t happy. There was no way of not noticing the great swathes of text emblazoned across one side of the money I handed over.
“What’s this?” he asked irritably.
I told him “I think it might be that Cee Lo Green song”, but denied writing it myself and bluffed that I’d just had the misfortune of receiving this ridiculous piece of currency from a nearby ATM. The cashier held the note up and desperately tried to squint through the lyrics, until eventually conceding, putting the note in the till and completing the transaction.
“Bloody.. some people have too much time on their hands,” he muttered with a shake of the head. “Whoever did this should go to prison for it.”
“Yep..” I agreed half-heartedly.

Thus far I’d been able to pretend that the graffitied money I was using was the work of someone else and I was simply the innocent party stuck with it, so what would happen if I tried to pass off a note decorated with a personalized message to the very employee serving me, so there was no way anyone besides me could have vandalized it? My plan was to go to a store, espy the nametag of a worker behind the till, then write a message to them, referencing them by name, on the very money to be used in our transaction.

I had aimed to visit Topman to buy some boxers and carry out this caper there, however instantly there was a problem. None of the workers had any nametags in the conventional sense, instead they were wearing booklets hanging around their necks akin to the pamphlets that delineate stages and line-ups you see people wearing at music festivals. It was too difficult to see an employee name without actually reading a book strapped to their chest, so I made do with a physical description of one worker. As is necessary to be employed in and indeed enter some chains of Topman, he was wearing skinny jeans and had a Justin Bieber-imitation hairstyle so I crafted his personal message from that.

After some careful queuing to ensure I was served by the right person, my pants were bagged and I handed over the tailored tenner. The worker glanced at it, double-took, studied it a little harder, and then wordlessly handed me my change without an acknowledgement. Just as I was despondently leaving I heard him quietly mutter “interesting note.”
“Oh! Did you like it?” I asked, smiling.
“Loved it mate.”

It seemed like there was nothing my Sharpie and I could do to make our money unwelcome. I thought back to what little conclusive advice I gleaned from my Internet research, in that stylistic changes to a banknote are generally fine so long as you don’t alter the face value, and so the next note I attempted to enter into circulation toyed with this idea.

I scribbled my counterfeit £20 note and headed to Currys with the intention of buying something exceeding £10, then paying with the fake twenty and patiently awaiting change. I already anticipated this would be tricky – it was late on a Sunday when trying this, so employees would be at their most fatigued and joyless. Atop that I was excruciatingly tired, and my Topman boxers were uncomfortable. Stoically I approached the till with a memory card priced at £13.99.

The timid, soft-spoken worker opened the product’s security case and began fiddling around struggling to scan it correctly, eventually having to call another employee over, all whilst I stood bristling with awkwardness knowing I didn’t actually have enough money to buy this item, I’d just crudely drawn it to make it appear that I did. Eventually the problem of the unscannable memory card was settled and I was asked for “£13.99 please sir.”
I threw the note at the worker with a hasty yell of “what do you make of this?”
He read what was written on the note, smiled, and said “yep, we can accept this, no problem.”
My heart soared. I hadn’t even tried particularly hard in making that note look professional! A reverie of forever crafting my own money briefly opened up before me. Staggered, I couldn’t help but ask “what, really??”
“Oh yeah, that’s fine,” said the Currys worker. “If I could just have the other £3.99 please..?”
“Oh,” I said glumly, hopes dashed. “But did you not read what the note said?”
“Yeah, someone’s just written a silly message on it,” he responded.
I tried convincing the man, pointing at where the number 10 had quite clearly been replaced with a 20, however my arguments were let down by the fact that I still had black Sharpie ink all over my god-damned fingers. Upon realizing this I sheepishly left, without a memory card, and later used the same note in its capacity as a tenner to purchase a pint with no issues.

For my final act I went all out, planning to go to my bank to deposit £40 bearing the message “THIS NOTE IS FAKE. PLEASE CALL THE POLICE.”

I deemed this the ultimate test to discover the limits of defacing currency. Drenching a note in lyrics or drawing a party hat on Charles Darwin were interesting warm-ups but nothing ground-breaking, however if I could have notes accepted that aren’t just scribbled on but actually conveying messages questioning their authenticity, in a bank no less, surely that would disprove that any vandalized note of money could ever be refused.

Armed with my fake ‘fake’ money I visited my local branch, fusty and mirthless as all banks are, and strode up to a young bearded employee. I explained I’d withdrawn these from an ATM and they’d been written on in such a fashion, and so wanted to deposit them as I wasn’t comfortable using them in shops. At first he was frivolous, explaining this was just a case of someone messing around and so depositing them would be fine, at which I relaxed thinking this whole enterprise would be over a lot sooner than I’d thought.

But the more he thought about it, the more baffled he became – how could someone deface 2 separate notes of money that then both came out together from one ATM withdrawal? My story, I grant, was fundamentally flawed in that respect, and it did seem painfully evident that either I was the one who had written the message, seemingly for no good reason whatsoever, or that I was actually trying to pay exceptionally well-made fake money into my account.

He repeatedly struck each note with his counterfeit money tester pen, which basically resembles a yellow highlighter. If the money was indeed fake, the iodine in the pen would react with starch in the wood pulp of the paper, leaving a thick, black, incriminating mark. But the money was coming out clean each time, because it was real money.

The bank clerk excused himself and returned a few minutes later, now accompanied by the Head of Security. Whilst the original cashier had been young and amicable and shy, never once making eye contact, the security chief was old, militaristic and no-nonsense. His eye contact dug into me.
“Where did you get this? What bank?” he ordered.
I said I couldn’t remember.
What bank?” he ordered again.
I said I couldn’t remember.
He glared at me for a long time, before the two of them disappeared once more. I was reasonably nervous by this stage and had to keep wiping away the huge pads of sweat forming on the marble counter beneath my clammy hands.

Eventually the good clerk, bad clerk duo returned, asking for my online banking details so they could check exactly which bank’s ATM was responsible. Terrifyingly I realized I couldn’t actually remember if I’d withdrawn this £40 from one cash machine or two; if I had taken a £20 from each of two separate machines, then my story was decimated and I was doubtlessly the culprit. At the brink of almost vomiting with stress they informed me it looked like the money came from a cash-back transaction at Sainsbury’s, explaining the correlation between the two notes and mercifully permitting the money to be deposited and me to leave a free man. The money was in my account later that day and I heard nothing more on the matter.

I’ve always thought money, as the increment of human power, wealth and status, seemed awfully vulnerable – it can get stained, be torn, is utterly destroyed by fire and water. This is probably why we flinch slightly when a shrivelled nodule of money limps from an ATM rather than a pristine one, filled with concern that it’ll tear or disintegrate, or simply a cashier will frown at the balled-up gob of currency you’ve handed over and say “sorry, I can’t accept this.” This fear is deeply ingrained and understandable, fear that we will work and earn and yet our labours won’t be reciprocated simply due to a cash-point being filled with, on that day, tatty squibs of notes or money covered in various words and doodles.

However it seems that cashiers and bank clerks universally recognize how fragile a note of money is, and appreciate that as it circles around and around the economy it’s bound to pick up the odd scuff or scribble or Cee Lo song. I was originally anxious that a banknote marked in any substantial way would be generally refused, but with £40 boldly and clearly stating it was not £40 deposited into my account even through the cold glare of the Head of Bank Security, I can now state with a fair confidence that the Currency and Bank Notes Act, in regards to writing on money, is effectively obsolete and no longer recognized. And you can remain confident of that fact unless you ever see me in a newspaper being convicted for high treason, and imprisoned in the Tower of London.

Clean bill of health

“What is the going rate to buy a person’s health these days?”

A while ago I was informed by my friend Will of the existence of Flu Camp, a London-based clinical trial where one can be infected with the cold or flu virus, quarantined for 2 weeks as the disease soaks in and various treatments tested, then released with a huge compensation of £3,750.

Whilst I’d been aware of medical trials before I never knew they could be so lucrative, particularly for a procedure as harmless and temporary as being given a cold which is a commonplace factor of most of our winters anyway. And while the excessive sum of money offered may trigger suspicions that the vaccine tested is likely to cause spectacular organ failure or huge, uncontrollable head swelling the likes of which led to the aptly titled Elephant Man trials of 2006, I was told apparently it’s feasible because the cure is so effective it’s due to make a fortune when released onto pharmaceutical shelves.

Not only that, but being ‘quarantined’ in their research facility doesn’t equate to being suspended amorphously in a big tube of liquid but instead staying in your own rather comfortable room with free meals, a TV, PS3 and Wi-Fi. It’s essentially like staying in a nice hotel, except for the odd masked medical professional sporadically bursting in unannounced to drip a saline solution up your nose and ask comprehensively about the frequency and density of your stools. Cripplingly and eternally short of money, I instantly registered and waited to hear back.

Documented clinical trials have existed since around 1750, when scurvy was cured by administering citrus fruits upon willing test subjects, and the popularity of paid medical experiments has escalated ever since to become fairly prevalent today. Though as I suspected, and as was confirmed when I told people of my potential as a Flu Camper, the public is pretty divided on this issue.

Some, they who treasure their health and possess smoothie makers and Wii Fits and other such propaganda, regard medical trials with a confused fear – cash incentive aside, why would they undergo a treatment which deliberately infects them? These tend to be the sort with obsessively spotless houses, a fear of pathogens drummed into them rarely from scientific knowledge but more adverts for the likes of Dettol and Flash which anthropomorphically represent kitchen and bathroom germs as these malicious, quadrupedal monsters with gnashing teeth and sneering, seedy male voices.

Domestos’ depiction of the average microbe. Bacteria doesn’t even have a nucleus, let alone a brain. This one.. has a Kindle.

In contrast, some have an idealized view of modern healthcare that means whatever happens you can always have a fresh hand or lung or face transplanted, so why not make a bit of money from something that’s always going to be treatable? I’m sure being fairly blithe about your health helps too, much as I am, and hence I was pleased to be phoned just a few days after registering by a Flu Camp representative.

I was asked a rigorous questionnaire pertaining to medical issues and background, by a chap whose credentials I couldn’t help but doubt from his diagnoses of everything as “cool”, “sound”, “wicked” and “safe”. Overall I answered honestly, having to lie occasionally about whether I suffered from hayfever for instance, as if I admitted that every summer mucus gushes out of my head leaving a path behind me such as a snail might leave I assumed the odds of being eligible for a trial where they tested for such things would be bleak. I probably did lie in excess as the guy at one stage called me “the healthiest person he’s ever interviewed doing this job!” which I chuckled at as I tried to silently wipe my snivelling nose whilst leaning back on the balls of my feet to take the pressure off my hideously infected big toe.

Unsurprisingly with my apparent supernaturally good health I was told I could progress to having a blood test at their base, Queen Mary, University of London, which I attended a fortnight later. In a room with three other applicants a nurse named Lavender debriefed us, speaking of diluted cold and flu pathogens with the same grave-faced sincerity you’d speak of a leprosy pandemic or robot uprising.

It was immediately evident none of the other three volunteers were here to broaden the field of medical knowledge, or indeed for any reason other than money, presumably to be spent on more tattoos or maintaining questionable hipster haircuts. I’d assumed it would be solely the student demographic who applied and I seemed to be correct, though when I asked Lavender later she told me a vast range of people – respectable business workers, the elderly, mothers – have all been to Flu Camp to get infected for cash. I couldn’t deduce whether she was telling the truth or trying to convince me and/or herself that she was working for a company more ethical than one that gave students and the unemployed money in exchange for their health to then be spent on cider and cigarettes and other unhealthy things, all in the supposed quest to make people healthier. Whatever the case, when I tried to ask more she simply urged me to get back to filling out my incredibly invasive sexual health form.

A vial of my blood was taken and the upshot is that a month later I was disappointed to receive an e-mail stating my antibodies were either too low, or too high (they didn’t specify), to be considered as a Flu Camp specimen. So having missed out on the opportunity to sell my health at £12/h to a faceless medical corporation, I was now left with the hollow fascination of how positively eager and enthused I was at the prospect of getting ill for money. I could not believe my dismay at not getting the flu.

There must have been many who felt a similar let-down when told they were not suitable, and many others gleeful at the congratulatory e-mail that told them they were about to be brought into a laboratory and contaminated. Since when did so many people view their health as a commodity to be pawned off to research facilities? How many people need money so badly they’re willing to be poked and prodded and poisoned by billion-pound pharmaceutical industries for a crumb of data? To find out I decided to scatter some adverts for fake clinical trials around the Internet under the guise of fictional healthcare facility ‘CTULondon’, to see who replied, how far they were willing to go, and whether we should be worried yet.

I left adverts on the London-specific areas of Gumtree and Craigslist which read:

Hello, we need healthy volunteers aged 18 and up to take part in paid clinical studies carried out at our healthcare facility based in London. We conduct clinical trials ranging between 1-21 days; if you are eligible and decide to take part you can expect to be compensated between £500 and £4000.

By taking part in medical trials you are helping to find a cure for medical conditions that can affect millions, directly improving the standard of living. To apply please reply to this ad stating your name and age.

accompanied by a generic photo I found other clinical trials using, featuring a quote I later discovered was courtesy of automobile developer and proud anti-Semitist Henry Ford:

Gumtree, as seems to be the way with anything vaguely suspect or offbeat and hence anything I ever add on there, almost instantly took the advert down declaiming a breach of site regulations. Thankfully Craigslist is a lot happier having strange and usually very perverse content and so I think my advert’s probably still there now. It attracted quite a number of potential subjects, each of whom I replied to probing their willingness to be involved in a different form of trial. I stuck with the same template each time, changing the illness, procedure and respective compensation as I went – the whole template can be seen in the first conversation but after that I’ll just skip to the meat of the mail each time.

So, just what exactly is the average person prepared to do to be accepted into a clinical trial these days?


(I have deliberately excluded all surnames, contact information, and in one instance a facial photo, to ensure anonymity and stop me getting sued)

My name is Kristie and I’m 22. What are you studying, exactly?

Dear Kristie,

Thanks for responding to our advertisement for paid volunteers for clinical trials! We are currently studying acute neurological disorders, specifically headaches and migraines, with the aim of introducing a cure to the market by early 2014.

We are looking for volunteers to induce painless migraines upon so our vaccines can be administered and tested. They have already undergone thorough human testing but require mass studies before than can be introduced to the pharmaceutical market – that’s where you come in! At our healthcare centre in Hyde Park, London, we would cool your brain to around 27 degrees Celsius (only 10 less than body temperature), and measure the drug’s effects. It is quick, simple and painless, infact past trial members have likened the procedure to having a massage or an alcoholic drink after a long stressful day! We would need you for between 2-3 hours and can compensate you £1000 plus travel expenses (please bring proof of travel and bank details).

If you do come along please ensure you bring a current passport or provisional/driving licence (must be in-date), and a National Insurance Card or proof of NI number (e.g payslip, tax refund, P45) if a UK resident. Please reply to this email if this study sounds of interest.

Looking forward to seeing you

NB. This would not feel like a massage or swift tipple, this would put you in a state of clinical death. Kristie only had two objections though.

Will it be an issue if I’m not a UK resident? Further, would it be a problem if I requested cash?

I said that was fine and she was happy to go ahead.


Gina aged 41

We are currently studying perceptual adaptation of the brain, and looking for volunteers to wear a special pair of glasses for 3 days which will invert everything you see making them look upside-down. After less than 24 hours of wearing the glasses your brain should adapt allowing your normal vision to return. There will be no lingering side effects once you remove the glasses at the end of the 3 days. Are you are a glasses wearer currently? How would you rate your eyesight?

The inversion glasses will be given to you at our healthcare centre in Hyde Park, London. You would be compensated £1000, plus travel expenses (please bring proof of travel and bank details).

This is actually a real experiment carried out by a psychologist called Stratton in the 1890s, however I go on to make the test I describe a bit nastier than the symptomless experience Stratton reported.

Hello! Yes I would like to do this trial & I am a local lady so have all the documents that you mentioned, I have been prescribed glasses for reading but theres not a hugh diffrence in wearing them whilst reading for a short time so hardly ever wear them.

I have no fear of seeing upside down for a spell, I have always had a great eyesight seeing writing far away that others can’t but must admit of late it is not as it was, but Im not overly concerned, perhaps they are just a little tierd.

Have been totaly honest about my eyesight hope I still fit the criteria you are looking for ?

My real name is Lorraine sorry for the cloak n dagger but some adds on craigslist are not genuine & there are a few crazys out there, so I have learnt not to give my real name until I know it is real company.

Dear Lorraine / “Gina”,

Yes we are pleased to inform you your eyesight does fit the criteria we are looking for, but we ask you not to wear your prescribed reading glasses for at least a week preceding the study as it may skew the results. We will be in touch in the very near future with a list of potential dates for you to attend our healthcare centre.

We should inform you for the first 24 hours of wearing the inversion specs it is normal to feel motion sickness, nausea, and slight panic. A very small percentile of previous volunteers have also been involved in road accidents due to the disorientation of the new upside-down perspective, and there have also been minor cases of suicidal ideation and divorce associated with this study. It is our obligation to inform you of this and we hope you are still interested in taking part?

Her sarcy response:

Hello I did respond this morning saying I would like to do the trial ?

Even at the risk of suffering an upside-down suicide Gina’s keen to be involved and continues to e-mail asking for details.


Instead of sending his name and age this subject opened discourse with a completely blank mail, I only knew his name was Bal from his e-mail address.

We are currently studying epilepsy, with the intention of releasing a more effective remedy for this disease to the market by early-mid 2014.

Currently we are looking for healthy volunteers to attend a study at our healthcare centre in Hyde Park, London. Once there you would be bombarded with strobe lights at differing frequencies and lowered into a medically-controlled epileptic seizure. Once under, our cure can be tested and you will gently be revived. The whole procedure is painless and takes less than 30 minutes. For this we can compensate you up from £1100, plus travel expenses (please bring proof of travel and bank details).

We can I come to the clinic?
How much will you pay me ?

Our studies are running throughout July, and we can offer compensation of £1100. Some volunteers have suffered hallucinations after the procedure – nebulous phantoms floating through walls, emaciated faces of deceased loved ones hurtling through their field of vision, etc. Assuming you are OK with this, shall we book you for a study in the next week or two?

Im very interested



Im Imogen, 18 and interested in being a part of your trials.


We are currently studying global cognitive abilities in the brain, with the hope of finding a cure for dementia, particularly Alzheimer’s disease.

Currently we are looking for healthy volunteers with no history of mental illness to attend several studies at our healthcare centre in Hyde Park, London. Our studies would involve administering a simple injection into your arm which would temporarily slow your neurotransmitters, after which we ask you to take part in a series of memory tests. There are 4 individual studies, each 1 hour long and each involving a progressively stronger strain of the bacterium, so whilst in the first study you may not be able to remember obscure facts, in the fourth you may struggle to recall your own name. This can be disorientating but is always temporary with no side effects, and hundreds of volunteers have taken part and been happy with their involvement. For this we can compensate you up from £3500, plus travel expenses (please bring proof of travel and bank details).

Lovely to hear from you,very interested in taking part in your study. Though I am not a UK resident(rather Australian) so I hope I can still be of help. No history of mental illness so that’s alright.
Hope to hear from you soon,

Yes you can still volunteer as an Australian citizen so long as you have an in-date passport. We are looking to be running trials throughout July, are there any specific dates you cannot do? Until then, we advise you jot down any salient details about yourself (home address, contact number of friends, allergies) to bring along to your appointments and act as a reminder should the memory loss pathogen extend past the hour long test. It is advisable to alert any close family and friends that you are having this procedure, at the risk of leaving one of the 4 trials still temporarily amnesic and not being able to recognize them.

I’ll be avaliable any date after the 13th.Are the 4 hours on the same day or spread over a few? Passport is still in date so all is well. Will do,thanks.

Imogen coolly offers to sacrifice her memory for payment, rather naively assuming she won’t forget about the £3,500 once the trial ends. Again, this one still e-mails badgering for specific dates she’s allowed to come in and get brain damage.


I would like to express my interest in the opportunity to volunteer for paid clinical trails as advertised on the Craigslist (London) website.

My name is Dale and I am male aged 37.

Yours sincerely

We are currently studying the potential effects of drugs on erectile dysfunction, with the intention of releasing an over-the-counter pharmaceutical by early 2014.

We are looking for healthy male volunteers to take part in a study at our healthcare centre in Hyde Park, London. The study would involve getting and maintaining an erection for a 10-15 minute period whilst the drug is tested; it is painless and has no side effects. We would ask you to repeat the study a further 2 times over the following 2 weeks – each time it would last no longer than half an hour. For this we can compensate you up from £1000, plus travel expenses (please bring proof of travel and bank details).


Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.

This study is of interest to me. I have never owned a passport or driving licence, is there any alternative proof of identity that I can bring with me (i.e. birth certificate)?

Many thanks

Pleased to hear the study is of interest to you. We would need two alternative proofs of identity, a birth certificate can certainly be one, and we accept most forms of picture I.D.

We are obligated to inform you some male volunteers struggle to perform during these studies. You will be expected to maintain an erection whilst male doctors pace around you scribbling down notes and fitting you with electrodes, which can be off-putting for some volunteers. Just a warning that if you cannot keep your erection for the full time during all 3 studies you will not be eligible for compensation. Hopefully this study still remains of interest to you?

Hello again,

I am free throughout the whole of July and will be able to provide two alternative proofs of identity, one including a picture ID.

As I am sure you will understand I am concerned that I will be able maintain an erection for all 3 studies in the situation you have described. I hesitate to ask whereabouts the electrodes are fitted!

Many thanks

I told him they’d be fitted onto his head.


Paul is certainly my favourite of those who applied, and furthermore was by the far keenest, still sending unrelenting mails asking, imploring, for this trial to go ahead.

I would like to take part in your clinical trials.

I am male, 63 years old, 6′ 2” tall and slim. Very fit with no health problems.

I look forward to hearing from you with more details.

Thanks for responding to our advertisement for paid volunteers for clinical trials! We are currently studying the potential beneficial medical effects of Oestrogen on men, with the intention of utilizing this hormone in future remedies for coronary artery disease.

We are looking for male volunteers to take part in a study at our healthcare centre in Hyde Park, London. The study would involve you coming in once a week for 4 weeks to be administered low dosages of the female hormone Oestrogen. This can create a slight change in voice, body hair loss, fatigue, and tenderness of the breasts, however all these effects are temporary and will cease when the month’s trial is completed. For this we can compensate you up from £3000, plus travel expenses (please bring proof of travel and bank details).

Paul’s reply was very eager, even including, apropos of nothing, a photo of his chest.


Thank you  for your reply. I am into health issues so I am very interested to take part but would like you to answer the following questions.

What sort of change in voice would I experience ? would it be more female sounding ?

What level of fatigue would I experience ?

I have attached a photo showing my chest which as you will see if flat. Would I just experience tenderness of the nipples and around the nipples or would the breast area start to become more developed during the test ?

Would I experience any change to the penis / testicles ?

Would you do tests on me with regard to coronary artery disease ?

You mention compensation up from 3000 pounds so might it be higher.

I spend much time in Spain and I am not a UK resident. I am British.

Do y have any time plan as to when you want to do the test.


Thank you for your reply and the attached photo of your torso. We will answer your questions as best possible.

Your voice may change in pitch slightly, however this is not always the case. You may also find yourself saying or wanting to say certain things that you would consider out of character. The fatigue can vary from mild to chronic, and you may also see some loss of muscle mass. It is possible that your breasts would become more developed, however if so this would be temporary and quickly disappear once the study had been conducted. Your penis and testicles would almost certainly grow smaller, as would your Adam’s apple, however again this is temporary. More would be said concerning genitalia at the healthcare centre, and we have some pamphlets and other literature on that.

The only test we would need to perform with regard to coronary artery disease is a simple blood pressure test.


Thank you for your reply and the information. As long as it all goes back to normal after the study has been conducted I would be willing to take part. I assume that you want to observe how different males react to the study and if it is helpful I could attend the centre as often as needed over the 4 weeks.

Can you give me a contact number land line preferred so I can call you to discuss and arrange. Also the address of the centre.

You mentioned loss of body hair. I do have more body hair than in the photo I sent but like many males I prefer to remove it. I could let it grow for the study if you wanted to observe how much hair I loose. The hair would be on my chest between and around my nipples and a total mass covering most of my belly. At present the hair is from my navel to the pubis.


I think Paul’s my favourite largely because I was simply incredulous when he replied willing and seemingly enthused. I would have doubted there could be any financial figure you could set on convincing a male 6’2” senior citizen to start a course of genital-shrinking, nipple-puckering female hormones, and certainly not a figure less than the £3,750 he could receive if he just agreed to getting a cold instead!

In slightly over a week I received 21 applications, of which I replied to the first 13. As you can see around half were willing to go along with whatever brutal symptoms I threw at them, the remainder didn’t reply to the inaugural mail. The only subject I really scared off was Krystal.


Sent From My iPhone

We are currently studying the affects of diet on the circulatory system, with the intention of releasing a cure for mainstream heart disorder by early 2014.

Currently we are looking for volunteers, preferably non-smokers and non/light-drinkers, to test a drug that reduces high blood pressure and potential heart risk. We would painlessly administer you with this vaccine at our healthcare centre in Hyde Park, London, and measure your blood pressure. Then for the following 2 weeks we actively encourage you to drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, eat foods high in fatty acids, place yourself in stressful situations, and other such situations which are known to raise blood pressure (a full list will be provided at your meeting with our healthcare assistant). After 2 weeks we ask you return to our healthcare centre where another blood pressure test will be taken. For this we can compensate you up from £1500, plus travel expenses (please bring proof of travel and bank details).

I’m very interested.
What day would I need to be at your clinic?
Sent From My iPhone

We are pleased that this study meets with your interest. Currently we are looking to be running trials from early July onwards. During the 2 week period of keeping your blood pressure elevated, would you be willing to engage in recreational drug use if our healthcare centre provided you with them? This would mean the addition of a simple 10-panel urine screen drug test on your return after 2 weeks.

Drugs such as?
Sent From My iPhone

We would provide a small quantity of a steroid or alkaloid substance should you agree to including drugs in your 2 week period. Most likely it would be a small amount of legal benzoylmethylecgonine (cocaine). Does this sound like something that would be of interest?

No, sorry.
Sent From My iPhone

I compiled all the applicant data my coke-pushing, erection-monitoring highly unorthodox healthcare unit received in its week of existence and the results were actually surprising. Of the 21 applications only three were from males aged 18-24, the market I thought clinical trials would be most popular with. There were four applications from males aged 24 and above, and seven from each of the 18-24 and 24+ female categories.

So with more overall potential subjects aged 24 and above, my theory that clinical trials are purely for impoverished students who want drinking money has neatly been thrashed. This makes the trial trend even more worrying than I thought – if it was just students clamouring to sell their eyes and pulses to make ends meet, at least they will eventually buck their loan, get a job and become financially stable. What does it say about society’s chances if even the middle- and old-aged are compliant with debasing themselves so?

Even though you never asked, you can now never escape the knowledge that some adult men who should be at home carving the chicken for their loving wife and 2.5 children are instead working out the best way to traverse London to get to a cold, sterile laboratory and have electrodes suckered onto their erect member, for money. And for that, I almost apologize.


You cannot eat an English degree, which is a terrible shame. Despite my toy Uni accolade, being paid to write has so far mostly eluded me in life leaving me broke and hungry. This is not a metaphorical hunger to succeed or impress my peers, it’s an actual, physical, belly-rumbling hollowness. But I am determined that something I write can and will, and sort of must, eventually earn me a job, or some money, or some bread.

There are two main skills I’ve accidentally garnered over the years. The first is spurred on by a dangerous curiosity in matters most people would be happy not knowing. What happens if you drink 100 cups of coffee in one day? Do most cannibals bite their nails? Can you hypnotize a hypnotist? etc. Once intrigued and if I can’t find a satisfyingly conclusive answer anywhere, it is almost second nature to personally find out myself, usually to a point of reasonable obsession and not at any unnoticeable physical and financial expense.

I once pondered for instance whether in today’s hyper-preservationist society, where the WWF constantly reminds us of the dearth of pandas and jaguars in our suburban middle-class lives and the pandemic of veganism continues to spread like cholera, if it were possible through any and all means to eat one of every animal. Not content to leave the answer at “probably not”, I amassed a generalized list of the main 172 species squatting on our globe and began to steadily work through the insane taxonomic menu now stuck to my bedroom wall. From exorbitant slivers of crocodile in some grandiose London eatery to barbecuing a mouse in my back-garden I sampled 46 different creatures in 3 months before relinquishing the project mainly due to lack of money.

I jotted these various taste tests and trials down which you can read here if you like, although this was a few years back so it’s pretty puerile and crude and garrulous stuff and essentially a sort of Channel 4-brand of writing as opposed to the BBC of syntax I strive for today.

In a similar vein during a period of watching too much afternoon television I became curious as to how difficult it is to win a gameshow, and also the pedigree of folk who apply to be on them. Naturally I became too engrossed in the idea to not find out and so began a sequence of excruciating televised ventures, from forcing the Masterchef judges to endure my horrible, horrible cooking to achieving some pitiably low score on Countdown.

If it interests you an account of my uncomfortable experience on BBC 2’s Eggheads can be read here, but this is more than enough reminiscing. There have been countless other matters I’ve maniacally pursued in search for closure, flippantly disregarding massive debt if it means getting to appear on Britain’s Got Talent or savouring a fresh zebra salad.

My second aptitude is conducting various ruses and general devilry on the Internet for my own amusement, at which I’ve grown fairly proficient. Since first going online and realizing the anonymity and scope for troublemaking it offered I’ve had innumerable different e-mail addresses and Facebook accounts for the vast crew of fake personas I’ve brought to life. Amanda Davies ensnared the licentious unfaithful males of Facebook. Chester Oswald baffled the greedy profligates who responded to his Gumtree ad as a lonely and eccentric 86-year-old seeking an heir. I’ve pretended to be casting agencies, dominatrices, and for a short spell, Justin Bieber, so by now have a decent amount of experience in wreaking online acrimony.

This thing called a WordPress, then, I hope to fill with various articles, experiments, ploys and diatribe that put these two skills to good use, sometimes simultaneously. My attention span can be pretty short so this’ll be a place to store lots of smaller, short-lived ideas rather than constructing a blog around one big mission only for it to fall into half-built disrepair when either the journalistic trail goes cold or I lose interest, removing the possibility of lone fans stuck Miss Havisham-style checking on a daily basis the account of a project I abandoned months previous.

The more I write I figure the larger the portfolio of quasi-respectable work I can amass to eventually coyly slide onto the desk of someone in charge of giving writers money. Essentially I’ll be posting nuggets onto here ad nauseum, trying to filter out the dross and pump the better stuff into this Ideastap, also freshly created today, for prospective employers to peruse and hopefully one day say “that boy, that boy there, he deserves to eat.”

If you want to use anything written here or have me write something for you, particularly if it involves money or general sustenance, you can contact me at mattrose171@gmail.com.

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