Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Puppy Genocide (Part One)

This will be an extremely self-absorbed entry. For this I can only offer my humblest apologies and promise solemnly that I will never again reduce myself to this decadent, narcissistic, disgusting and frankly extremely dull to read pursuit. However, in my defence, I have in the last couple of weeks a) managed to convince an otherwise perfectly intelligent and rational female that she wishes to spend the rest of her life with me and b) managed to convince otherwise perfectly intelligent and rational examiners that I have the remotest malnourished microbe of an idea what in the name of Jean-Francois 'supremely pretentious git' Lyotard postmodernism is. A resoundingly awe-inspiring achievement I'm sure you'll agree.

Unfortunately, as I am repeatedly reminded, for me and those of my ilk to achieve a semblance of comedy and entertainment value in these entries we have to be incandescently angry about something, not placidly content. Acquiring a fiancee and a high 2:1 is about as conducive to scythe-sharp wit or entertaining sardonic asides as a vicious mass genocide of cute Andrex puppies in a vat of boiling hydrochloric acid. Rest assured, however, that I will endeavour to do my best with the limited material at my disposal.

The engagement run itself is possibly the most stressful, health-shattering, psychologically torturous activity humanly imaginable. Compared to asking your future in-laws for their daughter's hand in marriage, a marathon is the equivalent of walking briskly from the kitchen table to the fridge. I present for you below a guide based on my own experience of how this process can be expected to unfold:


26th May 2005, 7:30: In my commendable, respectable, honourable and intensely, spectacularly idiotic desire to follow gentlemanly protocol, I have steeled myself to seek permission from Dani's parents before I ask the favoured female herself. Fortunately, as a consequence of having the odd redeeming feature in my otherwise utterly loathsome and despicable character I have been invited to their abode on a night before Dani returns from university, apparently providing the perfect opportunity. However, as the evening unfolds I learn to my consternation that this is only the perfect opportunity if I am as far from being sober as is humanly possible while retaining the ability to speak at least slightly cogently. An almost impossible and unheard of compromise between hardened sobriety and crazed paralytic drunkenness. Damn.

8:30: Double damn.

9:00: Bollocks.

9:30: Double bollocks.

10:00: Triple bollocks.

10:15: Quadruple bollocks. By this point I have consumed my body weight in wine and cider and it has all been infuriatingly absorbed and nullified by my extreme nervousness. By this point I could probably inject concentrated methylated spirit by the gallon into my liver and pump blue cheese scented carbon monoxide through my nose into my lungs with absolutely no bloody effect. Clearly drastric measures are required. Such as asking the damn question without having to terminally damage my internal organs first.

10:30: Quintuple bollocks arse crap.

10:35: Observing my increasingly obvious difficulties, Dani's mother Elaine enquires if there is a problem. Commencing my reply with the less than assuring 'I have s-s-s-something to ask you' I finally manage a humiliating shadow of the imposing, confident and strident lecture I had intended to deliver. I will protect myself from further embarrassment by refusing to quote this shameful rejected-Chris-Martin-lyric of a disastrously pitiful speech verbatim, but suffice to say that if a team consisting of the unmarried green puppet son of unmarried green puppet parents from my previous entry (Yoda), Big Brovaz, The Streets and David Beckham were asked to compose a speech for a similar situation (frightening idea I know), theirs would read like the transcendent philosophical insights of Socrates combined with the masterful poetry of John Milton and the technical grammatical brilliance of P.G. Wodehouse by comparison. Even if read by David Beckham after having all his teeth knocked out.

10:40: They said yes. And seemed delighted. Most mystifying. What do they know that I don't? I sense a conspiracy.


2nd June, 3:00: As I have the aesthetic appreciation and cultured taste of a Basildon sewer rat, I have decided against the foolhardy plan of purchasing an expensive ring until I can seek advice from the appropriate female sources. However, even the quest for a prelimary and temporary ring is proving remarkably stressful. I have the dim recollection that Dani likes 'white gold', whatever in the hell that impossible and ludicrous paradox of a stupid English-literature-degree-esque contradiction is, but beyond this tenuous knowledge I know just as much as the next man. In other words, absolutely sod all, if not less than that. Entering 'H. Samuels', a purveyor of these mysterious goods categorised under the enigmatic term 'jewellery', I find myself surrounded by metallic objects that could be conceivably worn on a human finger. I commence the hardcore prevarication process.

3:30: Apparently 'y'know, medium' isn't a ring size. How in the hell are we males supposed to be able to ever become proficient jewellery purchasers with this kind of ridiculous mystifying complication awaiting us at every turn? Sheesh.

3:45: I purchase a 'white gold ring with cubic zirconia inset'. As opposed to a 'black silver ring with pubic slirconia inset' I suppose.

4:00: I finally stagger out of the shop clasping a box containing the aforementioned ring. Only one extremely minor task now remains.

Coming soon: Stage Three - The Proposition

Ed's Mood: Peaceful

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Coldplay - Fix You


Blogger bob said...

lovely, lovely, lovely. i love a good romance story, especially when it involves such sweat-inducing incidents as being within the realms of the mystical jewellery shop. there is a law which states that men must never know exactly what a female's taste in jewellery is.

looking forward to part two...although somehow i think i know how it turns out!

4:03 AM  
Blogger Sarah said...

It's so good to know there are still some hardcore romantics out there doing it all properly. You give me hope.

Congratulations, you two are a gorgeous couple :)

9:59 AM  
Blogger Chandler said...

Why thank you! Part two will be upcoming shortly - apologies for the slight graduation digression.

The female jewellery taste mystery is particularly irritating as the situation could never, ever be reversed. Men hate wearing all jewellery. Very straightforward. Slightly complicated by the existence of male chavs and their idiotic bling-bling accessories, but otherwise spectacularly simple.

12:33 PM  
Blogger Sarah said...


Sorry Ed but you know how I love to disagree with you :D

I know quite a few non-chav guys who wear some kind of jewellery and like it! In fact, there's a certain type of guy who looks great with those surfer boy necklace thingies. You know what I mean. Mmm, surfer boys.

10:17 AM  
Blogger Chandler said...

*is violently sick at nauseating image of musclebound surfer-chavs in disgusting skin tight lycra monstrosities and stupid effeminate necklaces striding along beaches whilst unfathomably surrounded by attractive and otherwise intelligent females*

Yeuch. What a curious gender.


P.S. And yes, my views on men with jewellery are extremely prejudiced. For this I make no apology!

1:18 PM  

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