I am a big fat phony

Right now, for example, I am at my desk busy tapping out an email to a colleague about something I don’t give two shits about, even though I am giving the distinct impression that I do. Soon I will attend a meeting with my boss, during which I will simulate being interested in what she has to say, even though she bores me rigid. I’ll nod and agree and make notes as if I fully and most assiduously intend to comply with her wishes, but in fact I’ll have no intention whatsoever of doing so.

On the weekend, I’ll take my son to a football match and pretend to the other dads that I am interested in the game. I’ll make small talk with them about guy’s stuff pretending that I’m one of those dads who’s adept at small talk, even though in reality I am hopeless at small talk, despise it in fact, especially about guy’s stuff. What even is guy’s stuff anyway?

Then I’ll go home and pretend to be interested in my newsfeed for a while, even though there is nothing that I find more boring than the news. In a state of torpor, which I will cunningly disguise behind a veneer of bonhomie, I will more than likely suggest we, the family that is, go for a walk. I hate walking for the sake of walking, but I’ll make out like it’s the best thing in the world. My kids will moan about us going too far or my wife will complain that I am walking too fast or the dog will shit somewhere it’s not supposed to shit, all of which I will laugh off as if I am the most easy-going person that ever walked the planet, when the truth is I will be seething, absolutely seething, with rage.

Later on, I’ll watch a movie with the family and go through the motions of appearing to be absorbed, but in fact I’ll be counting the minutes for it to end.

Once it’s over, finally, I’ll suggest to the kids it’s bedtime. I don’t actually care if they go to bed, but my wife is a stickler for their so-called routine, so I pretend that I am too. My kids will complain vociferously and deploy delaying tactics and I will feign getting angry and then I’ll bribe them with a bedtime story. Suffice to say, I’ll make out as if nothing gives me greater pleasure than the act of reading a bedtime story to my transfixed kids, but it will be as much as I can do to even finish the thing, which, like every other goddamn bedtime story, will be so generic and so laden with indoctrinating maxims that it will almost certainly make me want to vomit violently. I will not vomit violently, of course, because I mean that in the metaphorical sense.

Once the kids are asleep, I’ll go and sneak a few shots from one of the bottles I’ve secreted around the house, pretending to myself that these bottles are not hidden to avoid detection by my wife, they’re merely placed in tactical locations to make the consumption of the odd shot here or there more convenient. Then I’ll go and watch some more TV with my wife who will ask me inane questions about whatever we’re watching and I will answer with the utmost patience and civility even though I am thinking literally the whole time, stop with the fucking inane questions, why can’t you just watch the programme like a normal person. My wife will go to bed and ask me if I’m coming up and I’ll pretend not to have heard her, then she’ll ask me again and I’ll say, I’ll be up in a bit, although I won’t be, of that you can be quite sure.

What I will be doing, as soon as I can hear the house reverberating with my wife’s snoring, is having myself some more shots, probably about five, then hotfooting it into town. I’ll take a cab for this purpose. The driver will almost certainly witter on about something and I will give the impression that I am interested, even though I will be secretly wishing he was a deaf mute. I’ll get dropped off at the club by the burger joint. I’ll buy the largest burger with all the trimmings and eat it whilst telling myself I am not fat on repeat. I’ll probably spill sauce on my shirt and think fuck it, who cares, even though I will be disgusted at my slovenliness, appalled to the very marrow of my being. I’ll then enter the club, having jumped the queue by bribing the doorman. Bribery is no big deal, I’ll tell myself, everyone does it, but I’ll be thinking, bribery is probably the single biggest cause of the present-day anomie that pervades society through and through.

I’ll go straight to the dancefloor and rave as if I were twenty years younger than I actually am. I’ll be like, raving is a form of self-expression and it matters not one jot how old one is, even though I’ll be feeling distinctly self-conscious in front of all the teenagers who are eyeing me suspiciously. I’ll probably get chest pains at some point because that’s what happens these days when I exert myself. I’ll ignore the inner voice warning me I am about to suffer a massive stroke or an even more massive heart attack, and blithely carry on doing the rave moves that are my stock-in-trade.

If I’m lucky (or not as the case may be), I won’t have a stroke or a heart attack. The lights will come on and the music will stop and the teenagers will be frightened at the haggardness of my visage. I’ll run out of the club immediately, get the hell away from those judgmental fuckers. I’ll find a bar that’s still open, slam some shots, more than likely get into a conversation with some drunk. The drunk will be bleating on about the country going to the dogs, about how it’s being overrun by foreigners who are taking all our jobs, sponging off our benefits system etc. I’ll nod and very much make as if I concur with the drunk, but in fact I’ll be thinking immigration is, as far I can tell, great for the economic and cultural vitality of this so-called nation of ours. I’ll be thinking: bilious, ignorant people like you ought to be lined up and shot, preferably in the genitals.

I’ll knock back a few more and then I’ll visit a brothel. I’ll tell myself it doesn’t count as cheating on my wife, technically. I’ll pick out a buxom blonde and go up to her room, which will smell of sweat and semen and stale smoke. She’ll take her clothes off and I will be thinking, please, please cooperate. But my penis won’t cooperate. It will be as flaccid as a piece of string and I’ll have to apologise to the hooker, explain it’s not her, it’s me. Which, I will think to myself, is a rare example of the truth and my mouth connecting. I’ll ponder that as I am walking the streets. Shadowy figures will approach me asking me if I want this or that. I’ll wave them away dismissively, but eventually I’ll succumb to their entreaties and wind up in some drug den chugging on a crack pipe. My brain will go haywire and although I will remain conscious, I’ll have no memory of whatever I do next when I wake up in my bed. The alarm will be tasering me and I’ll be flailing and shit. My wife will say: turn the fucking thing off, will you! I’ll meekly comply, even though I’ll be thinking, why can’t you do it, you lazy, controlling bitch. I’ll immediately berate myself for having this unwholesome thought, even though deep down I know that my wife is a lazy, controlling bitch and that if I had any balls, I’d leave her. I’ll turn the alarm off sighing plaintively. I’ll get into my crumpled suit, look at myself in the mirror and think: oh my god.

Cut to: me back at my desk typing the email I referred to in the first sentence of this shambolic short story.

I delete the email and start again. I write something cryptic, a dark-undertones kind of thing with hints of incipient madness. I deliberate with myself for a moment, but then I think fuck it and I press send. Suck on that, I think to myself.

I attend the one-to-one with my boss and she does that thing where she cuts me off as I am speaking, asks me to get to the point. I make the point as succinctly as I can. She shakes her head, tells me she’s not interested in the point I am making (in so many words), that she’s too busy for such trifles (intimated by a facial gesture). I say, hold on a goddamn minute, what makes you think you can speak to me in such a derogatory fashion, huh? My boss looks visibly shocked by my (gross) insubordination. Good, I think. I proceed to explain to her that she bores the fuck out of me continuously with her inanities, but that unlike her I have the good manners not to appear bored. In fact, I say, I have only ever expressed interest, albeit feigned, in the interminable waffle that spills from your lips. Well, no longer! I say. From now on, I’m calling a spade a spade, got it? I nearly append bitch to my question, but I manage not to (that would be going too far). My boss’s face looks like a milk pudding. Her lips are quivering and almost certainly she is on the verge of tears. Good, I think. We’re done here, I say, and then I swagger out of the meeting room like a pimp or a rapper, you know the trope. I go back to my desk, put my feet up on it, and glare at the sycophants in my team. Fuck you, my glare is saying. It isn’t long after that, of course, that the henchmen from HR come to fetch me. They escort me off the premises and I feel this tremendous surge of relief rising up in me. It’s so strong, it shoots out the top of my head and up into the sky. You can’t see it because relief is invisible, but it’s up there all right, fanning out across the city.

I wander around town aimlessly, kill some time, then I meet my friend for a drink at the pub we always go to at the allotted time each week. No sooner has he taken a sip of his pint, he launches into a full-blown me me me monologue. I neck my whiskey. I wait for the alcohol to enter my bloodstream and then I hold a hand up. Stop, I say, stop the monologue. What do you mean ‘monologue’? my friend says. What I mean, I say, is that you only ever talk ‘at’ me about yourself. You never ask me how I’m doing or show any interest in ‘my’ life. Shit, I’m sorry, my friend says, I really am. How ‘is’ your life going? he adds. Not great, I say, but I’m making changes. Making changes? says my friend. Yeah, I say, but I don’t elucidate. After that, me and my friend have the best conversation we’ve had in years, maybe ever.

After however many shots of whiskey, which I don’t chastise myself for consuming (being an alcoholic is, I’ve realised, totally fine), I go home. My wife wants to have sex as soon as I step over the threshold. I say I’m sorry, I’m not in the mood. Maybe later. My wife looks upset and I feel a tenderness towards her, a pang of something I haven’t felt for years. I’m really sorry, I say. It’s okay, she says without conviction.

The next day I wake up, turn off the alarm clock and go back to sleep. I am awoken again by my wife. The kids, she says, they’ll be late for school, quick! I say it doesn’t matter if they’re late. What do you mean ‘it doesn’t matter’? What I mean, I say, is so what if they’re a bit late? In the grand scheme of things, I add. My wife looks at me as if I am a nihilistic nutjob, gets out of bed, rushes downstairs where I can hear her rounding up the troops. Come on she keeps saying, you’ll be late if you don’t get a bloody move on! I go back to sleep.

It's the weekend now and I take my son to the football game. It’s not a very interesting game – goalless, no discernible pattern to the play, just a bunch of kids running around like headless chickens – so I surf the interweb for a bit on my phone. One of the dads tries to engage me in conversation, but I refuse to talk about DIY projects, cycling, football, meat or any of the other subjects he proffers. In the end, he gets the message and leaves me alone. I hear him whispering about me to the other dads, who keep on stealing glances in my direction. Again, I get that tremendous rush-of-relief sensation. It’s so palpable and strong that I have to lie down on the side of the pitch. One of the dads comes over and asks me if I am all right. Never better, I say.

I go home with my kid in tow. I am about to scroll through my newsfeed when the thought occurs to me it’s the last thing I want to do, so I turn my phone off. I notice my wife is frowning, so I ask her what’s up and she says, nothing. I say it must be something for her to be frowning like that, but she just flat-out denies she’s frowning. We don’t go for a walk. My wife proposes that we do, I can tell it’s been bugging her that I haven’t, but I say I’m not in the mood. Not in the mood? she says. Are you feeling all right? Never better, I say.

Nighttime swings around and we, the family that is, gather in front of the TV. I select a movie that my wife immediately complains is age inappropriate for the kids. They’ll be fine, I say, besides, there’s no such thing as age inappropriate. My wife shoots me a stern look. What’s got into you? she says suspiciously. I pull a facial expression that says: nothing. But then I think, no that’s a lie, so I say: I’m making a few changes is all. What changes? she says. You’ll see. My wife harrumphs and we all settle down to watch the movie, which has zero sex in it and hardly any violence, although the characters swear profusely throughout.

After the movie, I make no attempt to get the kids into bed. My wife gets annoyed. Why aren’t you putting the kids to bed? she asks. I don’t feel like it’s a big deal if they stay up, I say. But what about their routine, my wife says incredulously. Routine shmootine, I say, winking at one of my kids. My wife says, fine, I’ll bloody do it then, shall I? Suit yourself, I say. My wife puts the kids to bed and calls down to me from the landing. They want a story, she shouts. So? I shout. So, get your fucking lazy arse up here and read them one. Why can’t you do it? I shout back. Why can’t I do it? she shouts down. That’s what I said, I shout back. My wife doesn’t respond to that. Half an hour later she appears in the lounge. What the hell is wrong with you? she demands. I shake my head, make a facial expression that says: there is nothing wrong with me, I’m merely asserting myself, it’s not something I’ve been very good at over the years and I think this has had a deleterious effect on my psyche. My wife flashes a facial expression back that says: don’t be so fucking melodramatic. Fine one to talk, I think. My wife sits down on the plush armchair and points the remote at the TV, selects a crime drama. I hate crime dramas, but I give it five minutes to see if this one will break the mould. It doesn’t. In fact, it’s about as generic as they get. It's not my cup of tea, I say, I think I’ll head out. Head out? says my wife. Now? Now, I confirm. Where to? she says suspiciously. I was thinking a nightclub, I fancy throwing some shapes. You want to throw some shapes? she says disbelievingly. Actually, yes I do. What’s wrong with that? I say indignantly (apologies for yet another adverb, I know it’s considered bad form, but I just can’t help myself). My wife looks at me for a long time, as if weighing something carefully in her mind. Then she says: fine, I’ll come with you.

I don’t try to dissuade my wife. I want her to come with me because – and this comes to me in a fork-lightning flash of insight – I love her at the end of the day. I always have done and as far as I can be certain of anything, I always will.

I love you, I say. My wife flashes me a coy smile, a smile I haven’t seen on her face for going on fifteen years. Immediately I feel horny. We have sex then and there and I really enjoy it, no faking whatsoever, not even the orgasm. I think my wife does too. I’m sorry for being a nihilistic nutjob, I say afterwards. It’s okay, she says. But is it really?