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.

33. Man A: Visit the cockpit

 

In airplane films of the 70s and 80s there’s almost inevitably a small, diseased child on a plane who is invited the visit the cockpit. The pilots tell him how brave he is and playfully tussle his hair. He asks if one day he’ll fly a plane and the pilots shoot each other a glance before telling him that if he works hard, he can do anything.

Well, I may be 33 and not suffering from a terminal disease (to my knowledge) but I’d like to be invited into the cockpit. I know that in these post-9/11 days, it’s highly unlikely that a bearded man would get invited up into the cockpit to gawp at a mystifying array of knobs and dials (“which one makes the plane crash?”) but I live in hope.

The thing is, if I ever did get invited into the cockpit, I don’t think I’d be able to maintain my facade of adulthood. I’d want to hold the pilot’s hand, maybe sit on his lap and demand a lollipop. I’d stare into his eyes, in a shameless attempt to bond with a father-figure, and I’d ask him whether I’d been a good boy. And then the whole thing would descend into horrible gay porn.

32. Woman B: Lie to score with someone

There’s something hugely appealing about the idea of sidling up to someone in a bar and introducing yourself with an extravagant series of lies, allowing them to issue freely from the tip of your tongue like the most wonderful fountain of invisible evil. Perhaps today you’ll be Yvette, a successful Parisian graphic designer with an exuberant charm no man can resist. You could do a lot of exasperated eye-rolling and make whistle noises with your pouty mouth as you downed shot after shot of neat bourbon and regaled your barfly prey with all kinds of delicious made-up crap about your imaginary life and boat trips on the Rhone. Or maybe you’re Rocco the Italian photographer (obviously some of these have an accent talent prerequisite). Perhaps you’re just yourself, but better – the version of you who got all the breaks.

The thing is, you can be whoever you like – your quarry will not know. In fact, if you play it right, they will never know. And even if they do rumble you as Plain Jane from Reading, you might find yourself forgiven. Everyone exaggerates aspects of themselves to appear more attractive; I think what we’re talking about here is part of the same continuum and I suspect most people – even those who’ve been fooled by a Rocco or an Yvette in the past – will understand that. Look at Shirley Valentine. Even she could laugh at the end, and she has a face like Paul McCartney so what does that tell you.

I haven’t yet had the privilege (as far as I know, of course) of meeting a real, top drawer cad who was prepared to lie himself into another personality entirely to get into my pants. But I have come across a few exaggerators over the years, those who say they’re ‘band managers’ when what they do is follow their friends around because they can’t play an instrument. Those who say they’re writers when they’re very much unemployed. Those who seemed self-sufficient and successful, but later turned out to be living at home, still taking hand-outs from mummy and daddy. And I have been known to withhold the truth on occasion myself. A handsome circuit comedian I met in a bar once tossed me the old “Do I know you from somewhere? Are you an actress?” so I parried with “No, I’m a model.” In another bar, another year, I told a journalist from FHM I worked for an art magazine when I was, in fact, the work experience kid. Which raises the obvious question of whether he really was who he said he was, too. I’ll never know. The fact is, no one finds out, and no one cares. Life’s path is so much more vivid and thrilling when we paint it with an amazing rainbow of lies.