A few weeks back, an 'old family friend' swung by for the kind of fly-in visit we all dread. At the time, I was alone in the house taking a bath, when all of a sudden the front door crashed open and I heard heavy footsteps pacing the downstairs. Naturally I panicked, leaping from the bath in a frenzied fit of screams and gasping like something out of a horror film, threw a robe on, and grabbed the nearest heavy thing I could find. It didn't seem to matter that I was only armed with a hand-painted wooden parrot (my dear grandma's latest 'gift' from her travels) or that I was wearing a pink polka-dot bath robe. I was pumped full of adrenaline and ready to bludgeon whoever had just barged in to my home to death.
You can imagine my relief - tempered with disappointment and a murderous urge - when, instead of a hapless burglar I found an old family friend slouched over the kitchen worktop. I use the word 'friend' loosely. He was an old acquaintance of my Dad's and popped over for lunch sometimes. When his giro wouldn't cash in. Before I even had time to open my mouth, he bellowed 'Put the kettle on 'Arry!', and shouldered past me in to the living room.
Meet Jed - a thirty-something chav with a face that looks as if it's survived one too many strokes. Imagine, if you will, Wayne Rooney merged with Ed Milliband, with all the sensitivities of the former and all the tact and charm of the latter! I am, of course, being sarcastic. There's nothing even remotely sensitive or tactful about good old Jed. A few months back, when I worried myself sick over an HIV test (suffice to say, I tested negative), he saw it pertinent to send me a text which read, simply: 'I hope u don't get AIDS and die, lol.' If you're not convinced by now that this is emphatically the sort of person I would wish to avoid, kill with fire, or just flat-out NOT have in my house, then ponder whether anyone who equates AIDS with laughing out loud is entirely sane.
Anyway, I digress. Now that you have a rather muddy but effective picture of the ever wonderful Jed etched in to your brain (and, let's face it, who wouldn't want to know this fantastic human being?) let's move on to the particulars of his fly-in visit. After I'd made him a cup of tea (purposefully leaving out the sugar) I joined him on the sofa, where he was complaining loudly about the lack of adult channels. I tried explaining to him that there's no logical reason for a gay man to have a wide selection of heterosexual porn channels on the Sky box, but he looked at me dumbfounded and scratched his testicles in defiance.
'You look like a right batty, mate. Who's dressing gown is that? Your mum's?'
'No Jed, it's mine. I didn't really have much else close to hand when you let yourself in.'
'Haha! You look well queer mate. Is that offensive? Queer?'
'Yes, a little. But it doesn't bother me.'
'Ah, it's all political correctness gone mad anyway.'
'Yes, Jed. Yes it is.'
He always did make me feel two feet tall. Once, at one of my Dad's 'birthday bonanza's' (read: a bunch of menopausal women and xenophobic lorry drivers talking loudly about football and 'foreigners' in the back garden under a poorly erected marquee) he accidentally closed a door on my face. As I sat cradling my broken nose on the floor and whimpering like the effeminate little 10-year-old I was, he towered over me shouting: 'Get up you pussy! It didn't hurt! Get up!'. Thanks Jed. When I've single-handedly snapped my nose back in to place and washed all the blood out of my gaping mouth, I'll drag myself up, open a beer with my teeth, fart and go slay a local virgin. Is that man enough for you? Is it?!
But the magical thing about Jed is that he always manages to make himself look just that little bit smaller than everyone else, no matter how tactless or insensitive he is. Like a child who hurls insults at you from across the road, you can look over at him and feel a smug sense of satisfaction that you've got more than a single brain cell. Jed only ever had two, to my knowledge - and one was pushing the other in a wheelchair.
Back to the living room. So I've just had my house broken in to, an order barked at me, and my dress sense insulted, all in the space of less than 5 minutes. I now ventured to ask him the obvious.
'So what brings you here? I haven't seen you in ages.'
'Just thought I'd swing by. Was on my way up to see a bird anyway.'
'Oh right. Anyone special?'
'Nah, just some tart. She puts out though!'
'That's not very nice, Jed.'
'Bovvered mate? She cooks for me and everything!'
'Why don't you cook for yourself?'
'You what mate? That's like keeping a dog and barking yourself!'
Ah, homophobia followed by sexism. I darn't ask him his opinion on Osama Bin Laden. Instead, I resolve to keep quiet. Top Gear's now on, and he's laughing loudly at nothing in particular. Do I go upstairs and change in to something less 'queer', or do I remain seated? I choose to remain seated and stone-faced, hoping that that will convey the relevant message: I'm in the middle of something and you're inconveniencing me. Please leave, you colossal jack weasel. Of course he doesn't pick up on this, having about as much knowledge of social cues as Charlie Sheen.
Looks like I'll just have to sit here and put up with him. He'll be gone soon, I hoped. No, prayed. After what seemed like an eternity of obnoxious laughter, ball scratching, finger sniffing and Neanderthal-esque comments about some 'big titted bitch' he finally dragged his sorry carcass of my sofa and left just as abruptly as he had arrived.
'Cheers for that 'Arry mate. Was nice seeing you.'
'It was, wasn't it. Bye now, Jed. Take care driving. Wouldn't want you to have a bad accident now.'
And there you have it. Jed, if I'd known you were coming I'd have baked a cake...