44. Woman B: Have a go on a guidedog

How many of us can walk past a blind person without experiencing an almost overwhelming urge to snatch their guide dog from them and have a go on it ourselves? It’s like with wheelchairs and stairlifts – what kind of world is it that only the disabled get to enjoy the benefits of a guide dog? A shit one, is the answer. I mean for god’s sake, they can’t even see it! These docile animals hold a special fascination for the sighted – so trustworthy and so highly trained they’re almost mechanical in their movements. Lovely little furry robots. We’ve all wrestled with brutish, poorly trained dogs who haul on the leash and refuse to understand they can’t mate with us let alone take responsibility for the human-puppy hybrids that would result if they could. And we all, I think, secretly want to see just what a really professional dog can do.

But if I’m honest, my desire to steal a guide-dog goes beyond curiosity. I have an impulse not just to try one out myself, but also to break its programming and return it to a blind person. I wouldn’t train it dangerously, I’m not evil. I’d just make it respond in slightly surprising ways to things like rap music or red hair or flares or snow. Show me a blind person who wouldn’t want to be notified of an approaching kerb by their dog walking sideways like a crab and I’ll show you a blind person who doesn’t deserve to see.

42. Woman B: Be a Princess

Like all little girls (and some little boys) growing up in the 80s, I imagined I would one day be a princess – or at the very least a lady. Small wonder then that my hero was Princess Diana, a woman who, by some supernaturally rare fortune, was both a Princess and a Lady – and as such definitely divested of magical powers. I fully expected to one day take over the role of Princess Diana (although of course I anticipated the job vacating in happier circumstances; there were more unicorns involved, fewer massive internal haemorrhages.) In the meantime, though, any princess would do. Because princesses are the epitome of ladylike, and little girls all want to be ladies. But what is it, really, to be a lady?

As a child I looked to the ladies I’d identified in fiction and the few teachers at my school who might be worthy of the title, and decided it had to do with taking the air, drinking the gin, putting on gloves to use the telephone and spontaneously fainting when the vehicle you’re traveling in goes above 15 mph. But how many of us nowadays remember to offer tea to household intruders, or put on our makeup before going to bed? Only Amy Winehouse.

Ladies just aren’t what they used to be – perhaps it’s our responsibility to try to revive them, or at least update them. Who can the five-year-olds of today look up to? We must set an example. My generation were lucky, growing up when we did – society reinforced our dreams of being a fairytale princess and one day marrying a William or a Harry. Now the young Royals have burst Hulk-like out of their velvet suits, apple cheeks giving way to those slack-jawed equine features as they reveal themselves to be the Sloanes that destiny had them down for all along. And in lieu of any credible princesses, today’s little girls must make do with Agyness Deyn and her parents, face transplant woman and Alistair Darling.

I feel for the kids of today, and for myself, because all those dreams are lost to me now, too. But on closer inspection, the warning was always there in the fables. Seems however beautiful or ladylike you are, it’s all about having tiny feet and not trying anything too adventurous. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are extreme examples – it’s hard to imagine a relationship based on near-death passivity lasting the distance once the girl’s awake. Must be almost like dating a different person. Cinderella’s husband married her for her tiny shoes and Dorothy had ladylike footwear, too, but when she got to Oz she realised (as we all do sooner or later) that no amount of daintiness can save you. In fact Dorothy learned the hard way that it’s all a big fucking con trick – there’s no such thing as magic, or princesses, and in real life castles are incredibly boring. I think we’ve all been there… You wake up one day, your family are dead and before you know what’s going on you’re standing behind a curtain with a dirty old man who calls himself the ‘wizard’. Nothing can relieve the essential burdens of deficiency we carry with us through life, except perhaps life itself. Christ. No wonder Judy Garland hit the sauce.

I know all this, I do. But some part of me still wants to be a princess. Even if it means having sex with Prince William.

41. Man A: Have sex with a pornstar

I like pornstars. I couldn’t name my favourite, because that’s the point of them: they’re not people, they are objects. They are barbie-dolls come alive. They are tits and pussies and bums and hair. And mouths. I shouldn’t forget mouths.

Of course, I’m not saying that pornstars are actually inhuman, as though they’re made of polystyrene or rubber or something – only that within the context of the role they fill (appearing in porn) I don’t think of them as human beings. I’m not interested in whether they have happy childhoods or what they think of communism, only in how many cocks they can fit up their arse at the same time. Quite a few pornstars have blogs nowadays, but I always avoid them because I’m not interested into realising that they are real people who I might disagree with (“Dear pornstar, I read with dismay that you’re so vehemently against foxhunting. I will no longer be wanking to your films. Yours, a disgruntled former fan”).

And I’d like to have sex with a pornstar because it would be like stepping into their world. A simpler, brighter world than my own. A world of shaky digital videos, cheaply rented flats with leather sofas and handy swimming pools. A world in which there are no sexual diseases or pregnancies, in which there is only recreational sex, without shame, fear or failure. I would be Dorothy wandering into Oz and blinking as everything magically took on technicolour. There would be very little conversation beyond basic introductions (maybe I’d offer to fix her washing machine) and suddenly we’d be having pornstar sex. The sex would be simple and mechanical as though we were puppets with strings to be pulled by the director offscreen. And after it had finished I would disappear in a puff of smoke and find myself back at home, wondering if it was all a dream.

I suppose another reason to have sex with a pornstar is to get my performances properly evaluated. Everyone likes to think that they are good at sex, but unless we have particularly cruel partners, we’re unlikely to get an honest assessment. And most men probably think that they’ve got what it takes to be a pornstar themselves. I can imagine middle-aged blokes watching porn and idly reminiscing to their youth, thinking “I was good. Very good. I could have turned pro if it wasn’t for my dodgy knee”. What better a way to prove to yourself that you’re good in bed than by having sex with a porn star? To be able to take aside your friends and point to a grubby MPEG of a blonde woman being fucked by five black guys and proudly annouce: “I did her. She said I was the best. My technique was unparalleled.”

40. Woman B: Go under general anaesthetic

As of last weekend, I can describe myself as someone who has been under anaesthetic. I had all four wisdom teeth out, an operation I was assured was as routine and relatively painless as a haircut (with a superior excuse for avoiding conversation.) And although I’ve been plagued with pretty much every imaginable side-effect since the day of the operation – including, if you’re interested, being sick through my nose yesterday – the actual anaesthetic part was genuinely blissful and something I really think everyone should have a ‘go at’ before they cork it.

It was all very strange. I was ravenously hungry, having fasted for 18 hours before I went in, so everything was a bit hazy and out of focus already. I followed the nurses into a room, where I was asked to lie on a tiny trolley-bed. The anesthetist was jolly, trying to put me at my ease without realising I was already feeling quite relaxed about it all and that, in fact, her efforts to calm me were in danger of making me feel more anxious. There was a sudden, painful jab in the back of my hand as the drip went in, and someone held a plastic mask over my face. “We’re just giving you some oxygen”. OK… why? And “You might feel a cold liquid creeping up your arm” – I did. It was horrible. “You’ll probably be asleep within a minute”.

The next thing I knew, I was awake, laughing. I’d been dreaming amazing, vivid dreams. I felt wonderfully rested, but wonderfully sleepy – and no pain. I realised my mouth was full of swabs, but I was trying to talk, I’m not sure who to. I didn’t really know where I was. The nurses said I’d been ‘a wiggly worm’ in the operation, and when I was taken back to the ward I was shivering, violently. They brought me another blanket. “I want to go back under” I said. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. For the rest of the day I walked around, slightly unsteadily, living in a foggy happy land where nothing could phase me. I slept a lot, but nothing came close to that wonderful sleep of unconsciousness.

The next day I decided I needed to be able to think properly again, and against hospital advice, stopped taking the immensely powerful pain-killers. Within 12 hours I had the migraine of my life. I’ve stopped being sick now and my mouth has almost stopped bleeding, so hey, things are looking up. If you get the chance to experience this amazing responsibility-abdicating switching-off of consciousness, I strongly recommend it. Just know that regular sleep will never be quite good enough ever again.

39. Man A: Invite Jehovah’s Witnesses in for a chat

 

Every so often the doorbell rings, and I scamper downstairs, blindly hoping that a sexy woman desperately needs me to have sex with her. Then I answer the door and am disappointed to find a middle-aged black couple, wanting to tell me more about being a Jehovah’s Witness. Being the polite man that I am, I never slam the door in their faces. I merely tell them that I’m busy, but I’m happy to read their literature. And then they give me a copy of The Watchtower and move on to harassing my neighbours.

I now have quite an extensive collection of issues of The Watchtower. I have read none of them. It’s not something I regret.

When I was younger and the Jehovah’s Witnesses turned up, I would try to get them off my case by telling them that I was Jewish. That was a bad move, because it gives them an opening to explain how Judaism is related to their own faith and then they never stop talking. I suppose I was naive in thinking that belonging to a totally different religion would somehow put them off.

The thing is, as I get older and lonelier, I’m increasingly tempted to actually let them carry on talking. We could be friends. Maybe I’d invite them into my flat for a coffee and biscuits. And I’d sigh a lot and talk about the emptiness of existence, and they would shake their heads and try to instill their faith in me. And then I’d give them a novel to read, or tell them about a new exhibition at The Tate Modern or ask if they wanted me to burn them a CD of my favourite MP3s. Before they left, I would ask them if they wanted to go for a drink, or spend an afternoon bowling in Finsbury Park, and they would edge slowly to the door.

I admire the fact that they want to save me, even if they are total idiots.

38. Woman B: Push someone into a swimming pool

Pushing people into swimming pools. Whenever I see someone falling into a swimming pool on telly or in a film it makes me feel like I’ve lived an incomplete life. How magnificent to be party to such a moment of unplanned classic comedy. Obviously it’s best to be the one doing the pushing, accidentally or (better) deliberately. I’m not so excited by the idea of being shoved unceremoniously into a vast container of cold water, then laughed at for ages by a load of strangers as someone plays a few comedy notes on a saxophone. It all makes you wonder how people made comedy films before Norman Wisdom, doesn’t it?

When I was about ten years old my friends and I used to wash my Dad’s car on the front drive. We used a hosepipe, which I remember my ten-year-old self finding really exciting for some reason, and whenever we got a bit bored, we’d aim slightly too high, or slightly too far to the left or right, ‘accidentally’ aiming the high pressure hose at a passing car. Only once was the window open, the victim an elderly lady being taken to hospital by her middle-aged daughter. And yes, the driver pulled over and gave us a talking to. She was a nasty old cow – what kind of (damp, angry) woman bellows at a (smirking, but undeniably red-faced) 10-year-old outside their own home? But it didn’t dampen (sorry) my need to soak unsuspecting strangers. If anything, it was the awakening of this oddly specific desire.

If I ever see that woman again (and I have remembered her number-plate) (from 18 years ago) and she’s standing near enough to a swimming pool, I’m going to push her right in. And her mother too. I’m going to laugh as they go in, the first one will be funny, the second hilarious – because people won’t expect my to push the granny in as well. Onlookers will watch in amazement as they see the idea cross my face. Nobody could be that cruel, they’ll think, as the old woman bends over the pool to check on her daughter, (drenched by me for the second time in twenty years). She’ll pause to fire abuse at me over her hunched, floral shoulder, then turn back to the younger, wetter woman bobbing in the water. I might apologise. Lay a supportive hand on that rheumatic back. And when I’m completely sure she’s least expecting it, that’s when I’ll kick away her stick.

37. Man A: Not get a tattoo

 

Nowadays everyone has a tattoo. Gone are the days when tats were the sole preserve of builders and gypsies at fairgrounds. From popstars to football players, accountants to lawyers, everyone is getting ink done. What will it be? The Maori war patterns? The Hindu proclamation of love? The ironic barcode? Not to worry. Whatever you choose, it will be suitably counter-culture and show that far from being a working stiff, you are in fact living on the edge and sticking it to The Man. Never mind that The Man also has a tattoo, and takes more drugs than you do. Everyone is a rebel.

I don’t mind rockstars having tattoos. Or gang members. Or pimps. That seems fair. But when I’m sitting on the tube and see some plummy Sloane girl who works an an events manager in Fulham and is baring her daring ankle butterfly tattoo, I have to roll my eyes to God and sigh.

When I was in my late 20s, I briefly contemplated getting a tattoo. I no longer had long hair or a nose ring, but I could show the world that I was still rock’n'roll! Except that I wasn’t rock’n'roll and I’m not now. I’m a pleasant, well-brought-up middle-class man, who gives up his seat on the train for the elderly. I’m not Iggy Pop, screaming obscenities, taking heroin and tearing up Detroit.

Not getting a tattoo is as rock’n'roll as I get.

 

36. Woman B: Get cancer

Alright, you’re thinking “that’s a bit much”. But there’s a good statistical chance it’ll happen to me, and probably you, too. Why not try to make it into something positive? We can’t control what happens to us, but we can take charge of our reactions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to start smoking or getting regular x-rays or eating burnt toast or using roll-on deodorant or whatever just to improve my chances, but there’s no getting around the fact that I’m jealous of people with cancer.

I envy the way they manage to confront one of the most horrifying experiences of modern life with ‘Oh but I VALUE each moment SO MUCH MORE now.’ It might be down to the morphine but it seems that, if you have cancer, the world is suddenly wonderful. The sun shines more brightly, your heart overflows with love and gratitude, and, as Paul Daniels might say if he had cancer (not wishing it upon him by any means) – every second counts.

As it is, I don’t really have any sense of urgency, love or gratitude in my soul. It’s not that I’m actively ungrateful, I prefer to think of myself as pending gratitude. Perhaps one day I’ll feel what they feel – the joy, the sorrow, the sun on my bald head. But for now I’m just an anonymous woman sitting in a cafe on a grey autumn day trying to come to terms, in my own way, with not having cancer.

35. Man A: Tell the truth in a meeting at work

 

Of all the compromises in life, work is perhaps the biggest. Five days a week, for eight hours a day, we have to spend our time doing things that frankly, we’d rather not be doing, surrounded by people we’d rather not be talking to. Admittedly, the alternative to work is normally doing nothing and being poor, which is also quite bad and has on occasion been quite detrimental to my mental health.

Some aspects of work I don’t mind: it’s good to get out of the house, it’s quite nice to catch up with people, and from time to time it’s nice to have some sense of purpose that doesn’t involve porn or maniacally scrubbing the floor. But the moments of pleasure hardly make up for the fact that most work is dull, stressful and soul-destroying.

Perhaps the most unpleasant aspect of many office-based jobs is meeting clients. With colleagues you can at least develop some rapport and throw in the occasional joke, whereas time with clients is mostly spent wearing a fixed smile and pretending to be human before you try to gnaw off your arm. In all honestly, I spend most meetings doodling into a notepad and looking like I’m taking notes, as talk of targets and delivery dates and end-user experiences flies by my ears. Every so often I perk up and try to say something vaguely relevant in order to remind everyone that I’m awake, but most of the time I spend wondering how and why I’ve ended up sitting in a meeting room, wearing a suit and tie.

More than anything, I’d like to be able to drop the facade that I care one whit about what the client is talking about: “I’m sorry. I haven’t been paying any attention at all. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about the project,” is what I want to say. “Did I just ask you about your weekend? I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer. I simply don’t care”.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to just stand up, yawn and walk out of the room as the woman with saggy boobs explains the unique hierarchy in her department and why deadlines for the new project are a political hot potato. I don’t care. I really don’t. Particularly on a Friday afternoon, when I’ve assured everyone I’ll be sending them that important email, when in fact I will immediately be going home and ignoring work until it is Monday morning. Please don’t leave a voicemail.

34. Woman B: Fit in

There’s a lot of emphasis, these days, on being an original. A one-off. It’s tremendously fashionable to raise your kids against the grain, as if forcing them to wear the full school uniform when no one else is will somehow encourage them to think for themselves, when in fact all it’s encouraging them to think is hateful thoughts about you. Those of us who were raised, like the poor kid in About A Boy (what’s a sheep go?) with the idea that it’s somehow better to be a leader than follow the herd, will know that bitterness and alienation is the only consequence of this kind of idealistic nonsense. Don’t tell your kids they’re special, and don’t think you are, either. You’re refusing the basic nicety that keeps the wheels of our society oiled. It’s vitally important for children – and adults – to fit in, simply in order to function in the world. If you grow up believing yourself to be different there’s a good chance you’ll come crashing down the minute you realise you can’t lead these sheep. Like Gregor Samsa you’ll look down and see that you’re a crackling voiceless monster, utterly dependent on others, too. You are what you despise. No one’s different. We’re all the same: eating, fucking, working, shitting beasts looking for ways to pass the time. We’re all animals, and we’re all going to die. Before you do, learn to fit in.