Barry Jones’s Diary: Week One.

January 1^st 2006

Dear Diary,

Just had a crap. I’d write more but that was pretty much the highlight of my day.

January 2^nd 2006

Dear Diary,

No crap today. Maybe tomorrow.

January 3^rd 2006

Dear Diary,

Found a slice of pizza down the side of the sofa. It was on the good side of mouldy and a little bit stale but I could still taste the cheese.

Will most definitely be taking a crap tomorrow.

January 4^th 2006

Dear Diary,

Okay, this isn’t working out. I figured buying a diary might actually encourage me to do something with my days but… well, to tell you the truth I’m lazy. I’m not depressed, I’m not lethargic and I don’t have one of those medical definitions of lazy that lazy people like to wave around to make them feel like the laziness isn’t their fault - I’m just bone idle and proud of it. If I could crap through a hosepipe I’d have never left my seat on new years day, that’s the level of laziness I’m trying to convey here. You know… really lazy.

So I guess the best thing to do would be to just write down whatever comes to mind each day. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got nothing to say… I’ve got stories - not great stories, but they’d be better than a year-long catalogue of my bowel movements wouldn’t they?

I’m sorry I asked.

January 5^th 2006

Dear Diary,

Here’s something you might be interested in. I have a maid. His name is Boris. I call him my maid because it annoys him, he’s actually my butler. He picks up my shopping, arranges my prostitutes and does all the other butlery type stuff that butlers are supposed to do when they’re being paid to buttle. On the first Sunday of every month he sneaks into my bedroom while I’m sleeping and cuts holes in all my socks. He doesn’t mean anything by it… it’s just something he likes to do.

I’ve taken to hiding spare pairs of socks all around the house. I never go outdoors but I’ve got varnished wooden floors on the ground floor and I sometimes like to slide down the corridors and pretend that I’m ice-skating, which isn’t as much fun when you’ve got holes in your socks. I also like to turn the wooden coffee table over in the living room and pretend it’s a raft, but then I have to turn it back over and put everything back on it when I’m done, so I don’t do that as often.

Did I mention it’s my birthday tomorrow. I’ll be thirty-five.

January 6^th 2006

Dear Diary,

Would you believe it! Boris got me a pair of socks! I’d take it as a joke but he’s German. Maybe he’s decided to turn over a new leaf, or maybe he just wanted a better class of sock to sabotage, either way I said thank you and offered him a drink. He said his wife was waiting to be taken to the chiropodists so he put a pizza in the oven for me and left.

His wife died thirty years ago.

I celebrated the remainder of my birthday with a plump but pretty prostitute named Petunia. She gave me a discount… but not a very big one.

January 7^th 2006

Dear Diary,

Woke up to find fresh holes in my new socks. Boris must have snuck in early this morning. I was right about him turning over a new leaf though, he added a new twist this year by writing floppy-cock on my forehead with a permanent marker.

I must stress at this point that to the best of my knowledge Boris has never seen me naked… he must have talked to Petunia.

When I confronted him about it he apologised and offered to rub it off with a wire brush. I told him I’d rather wait for it to fade naturally. It’s not like anybody visits me, the only people I ever see are Boris and the prostitutes, and they’re paid to like me.

Got a call from my mother wishing me happy birthday. I told her it was yesterday and she called me an ungrateful retard and slammed down the phone. Apart from the time she locked me in a room with a carton of cigarettes to teach me a lesson, that’s the best present she’s ever given me. It’s not that I don’t like her (she’s okay), it’s just that I hate talking to her on the telephone – you never know what she’s doing on the other end. One time I’d been talking to her for about fifteen minutes… then I heard the toilet flush, and let me tell you that’s not the sort of image that goes away easy.

Oh crap.