Loosen Your Nuts, Kevin Banks: The first book in the Kevin Banks saga

By Andrew Paul Denial

A hilarious look into the mind of a young male as he pursues the lust of his life, Karen.
Incidents and accidents (thanks, Paul) beset him, many alcohol related.
Will he get to speak to her? Will he survive Bazz and Smartmart? Will 'The Editor' ever offer useful advice? Why is there an Angel on the cover?
The answers to all these and fewer are within this 'lewd, rude and crude'

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497578159

Book preview

Lot

Chapter One

Her dark brown eyes looked straight at me, bulging slightly, small wrinkles all round. Bizarrely, they bulged more as I stared, transfixed.

Just what the hell are you doing here? demanded the dark chocolate voice, over 70% pure cocoa.

Bitter chocolate, no sweetness.

The unblinking eyes wobbled gently from side to side as she stood, delicate hands on wide hips, feet in small puddles on the hard floor. Even in my pissed-up state the eyes appeared wider apart than I remembered. They protruded more and seemed to move independently of each other. The bathroom light behind her Amazon body created a soft halo around her wet hair. I was viewing her in ultra-high definition. The downy hairs on her arms were individually lit as if by a golden sunset.

Her legs, smooth and shining, were exactly the right length, proven by the fact there were no gaps between her ankles and aforementioned hips. I am no doctor or physiotherapist, gastroenterologist or haematologist. I haven’t the brains or the patience or the staying power to study for years without end. I haven’t earned or bought an ‘ist’, ‘ician’, or degree first class from the University of Fraudtown, U.S. of A.

But it was obvious, even to a Neanderthal like me, that she could be held up as a perfect example of the female of the species Homo Sapiens. Possibly even as a perfect example of whatever those clever Anthropologists will call our next stage on the evolutionary ladder. Her skin was perfect, every square inch hugging her delicious curves, bumps and dimples, without creases, sag or discoloration.

Will you PLEASE stop drooling at my tits?

Her anger caused the firm brown buds of her nipples to protrude even further. I had the greatest difficulty not to utter giggling words such as chapel, hat or pegs. Just as well, my pathetic life would likely have been painfully terminated at that moment.

Whah? I jolted back to reality, swaying slightly and blinking in what had suddenly become the harsh corridor light.

Shorry, shorry my love.

My developing erection sighed, waved in resignation and disappeared down Frustration Road to CelibaCity, G.B.

Gormless Bastard.

You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you? You stupid, selfish TWAT.

At’s a bit harsh, Delilah my treasure, I slurred out, grinning inanely and giggling.

My, my, myyy Deee liiii laaahhh..

Editor: I always preferred the piss-take version by the Alex Harvey band rather than the angst-ridden intense Tom Jones offering.

KB: Hi, Ed. Are you going to keep interrupting throughout?

Editor: Think of it as constructive criticism rather than interruptions.

KB: We’ll see.

My brain, befuddled with cheap vodka and several pints of bitter, not necessarily in that order but well mixed and absorbed, thought this was funny beyond wit, beyond wry, beyond mere life-and-soul-of-the-party. Drink does that. It distorts reality, reason and time.

Herbert George Wells, HG as we posturing intellectuals know him, wrote of fictional time travel way back in 1896.

Most sober people can tell you, however, that time distortion does not require a gleaming mahogany and brass sleigh, nor a Doctor Who ‘Time and Relative Dimension in Space’ craft. Copious quantities of alcohol laden drinks purchased from pubs, off licences, corner shops or twenty four hour supermarkets have precisely the same effect. They also have the benefit of being relatively inexpensive, relative to a Tardis at any rate, and they are blended in many assorted flavours and colours. They are also very easily consumed.

At this point it should have been obvious to any observer from the planet Pzxtemltptymin that I was not particularly welcome in what had, until eight months ago, been my own home. However, I was not from planet Pzxtemltptymin, although in drink I would often struggle to tell you from which particular planet I had descended, just thirty five years prior. Notwithstanding my rib-tickling, genius stand-up comic repartee, my faux pas proceeded to reach greater, lower heights.

Editor: Depths?

KB: Thanks, Ed. Is that an example of your ‘constructive criticism’?.

I endeavoured, as the world’s most competent exponent of the Twisted Warp of Alcohol Time, to drop my bundle of keys into my trendy worn blazer pocket. The ‘Cotton Trader’ jacket had been purchased from a local charity shop for a ridiculously bargain price. True, it had seen better days, the arms were too short on me and it refused to part with some very suspect stains. But it enhanced my self-deluding new-old-student-casual-couldn’t-careless-about-my-appearance-I’ve-got-intellectual-things-to-focus-on, look.

Or so I believed.

Teamed with the scruffy, worn desert boots, the too-long-in-the-sleeves-hole-ridden-sagging-at-the-neck jumper with the arms hanging over my hands and the Joe Cocker style tie-dyed grandad shirt, I looked less like an intellectual and more like an aging sad bastard. I had paid particular attention to the thick, shiny-kneed and baggy-arsed worn corduroy trousers complete with fluff-filled turn-ups and even more suspect stains, in a high IQ light burgundy colour.

I epitomised to all onlookers and my too-few too-polite friends, a drunken, pitiable wasted dropout trapped in a massive drunken early mid-life crisis. Sadly, this appearance was not an illusion as I am the aforementioned sad bastard trapped in that drunken early mid-life crisis. Appearances can be deceptive.

Editor: Yes they can, but not in this case.

KB: Thanks for your comforting reassurances. You can be replaced, you know.

Editor: Promises, promises.

Without any difficulty, thought or strife I unnecessarily set about proving once again what a sad drunken bastard I was as Karen, my estranged wife of twelve years, looked on.

Not estranged for twelve years, I already told you I lived here until eight months ago, with Karen. Please pay attention, I can’t explain everything in this story, we’ll be here forever. Unless you’ve got a TARDIS? No, I thought not, way too expensive for the likes of you.

You only bought the e-book or paperback version of this book didn’t you? Or is it the library copy for free? No cost involved unless you read very slowly and have to pay a fine.

Editor: Steady on, Kevin, don’t alienate your readers. Yet.

My misguided, inebriated intention had been to woo my beloved by proving that I had reformed. That I could be the lover of her dreams once more if only she could see through her prejudices and accept me for what I am.

Editor: Interesting delusion.

It seemed quite reasonable to let myself uninvited into the apartment this late evening. The world revolved around me of course, why would Karen be anything other than delighted to see me? I would be welcomed with open arms and hopefully legs, love and juices gushing. All would be well in the world of yours truly.

I had for once remembered to take the keys out of the Yale lock before closing the door, I believed gently, behind me. What a lovely surprise this would be for Karen. What a romantic bastard I really am.

Focussing as hard as I could on my actions, I flipped open the flap of my jacket pocket. Flaps are made to be flipped, it’s no accident the words are so similar and alliterate wonderfully. Flipping flaps. Flip flap.

Editor: That’s another people do in drink, they digress.

The keys missed my jacket pocket, largely due to my fumbling, numbed, anaesthetised fingers and clattered to the light oak effect laminate flooring. They skidded unbidden across to Karen’s puddles, puddles I would gladly have licked from her feet or any other part of that heavenly body. Hearing the distant jangle, I looked away from her orbs of paradise and searched, lost in the Twisted Warp of Alcohol Time, for my keys.

Spying them at her feet, I drunkenly decided not to attempt a complex knee-bend manoeuvre whilst inebriated. I simply bent at the waist and outstretched my right hand to support myself on the small light oak, semi-circular occasional table…

Editor: Why ‘occasional’ table? Surely, once a table, always a table?

…under the occasional mirror. It stood on a small, semi-circular hand-made Indian rug, bartered for and overpaid for precisely for this purpose in the Souk in Delhi. In happier, middle-class-no-children-so-we-can-afford-it holiday times. Visitors knew it was genuine from the second they entered the apartment because it stank - I think they still use bodily excretions to fix the colour dyes or something.

In the time honoured fashion of actors imitating drunks, I pushed it across the polished floor, my feet staying rooted to their spot. And lacking support, I fell flat on my face.

Heavily.

My nose, whilst never petite, had been until that moment reasonably straight as my genes intended. Face first contact with the hard laminate floor addressed my noble proboscis by breaking it with total impunity, separating the cartilage from the skull bone and tearing a wide gash across it in the process. I could not have suffered more damage from a straight left delivered in anger by Mike ‘bites yer ear’ Tyson.

The anaesthetising effect of alcohol briefly kept both the pain and understanding from my befuddled brain. I twisted my head around to look up from where I had impacted the floor. Karen’s legs, dripping water from the bath I had interrupted, soared majestically away from my lowly position at her feet. They were smooth, recently waxed and creamed and begged my eyes to explore their lengths and beyond. Being a near normal red-blooded male, my lust was instantly aroused. I ogled, my mouth watering, longing for a touch, longing to stroke their ivory smoothness.

Then I screamed.

The stirrings from my tingling, eight months abused but unused member once again waved mockingly and flew away.

The Twisted Warp of Alcohol Time ensured that Karen acted more swiftly than I did. Blood was already puddling around my head before the pain hit. She jumped backwards, trying but failing to avoid the blood spraying from my face.

Fuck, Kevin.

Whaaa? Aaargh! Fffnnbbll, blood shooting everywhere.

I tried to sit up but my arms weren’t functioning. The traitorous alcohol was numbing them but not my nose.

Bastard double-crossing bastard stuff.

Karen gave up trying to avoid my human not-Ridley-Scott-Alien-acid blood and crouched down to peer closely at my once classically handsome face.

Editor: More delusion.

KB: Probably, but self-delusion is always best, I feel. By definition it masks ones shortcomings and defects. In a deluded sort of a way.

Even through the streaming tears of pain my lust shone like a beacon as I took in the shining skin, the soft, shaped curls nestled in her groin, a teasing hint of her pink pleasure cave hidden by her now crouching position.

Her perfect breasts gently called to me, Kevin, Kevin, come to me, give me your hands.

I smiled. At last we were to join, to grind the night away in sweating pleasure, embracing all the fantasies of experienced, comfortable and selfless lovers. Each of us would care only for the ecstasy of the other. There would be no selfish satisfaction, no thought of self-gratification. We would wake in the early sunshine, replete, content with each other before planning the rest of our happy lives together. After breaking our fast, we would shower together, dress and then walk by the side of the park pond holding hands, laughing at the children and other animals. Then maybe a pub lunch before returning to our nest for more kissing, probing, licking and ejaculating sticky delights.

Kevin.

KEVIN!

For Christ’s sake, Kevin, give me your hands. You need to sit up. You’ll choke, you stupid prick.

Aargh, HUCK. BA..TA.D I couldn’t speak, my whole head was exploding in pain. Blood flowed, mingling with my tears and saliva. I was in severe danger of dehydrating.

Editor: I don’t think so, not after a minute or so.

KB: Now you’re a fucking dehydration specialist?

Hep. Hep bee. Plea. Hep bee.

I’m trying, you blacked out for a minute. You are such a fucking…

Hep bee! I began to sob, self-pity taking over completely.

I no longer had lust fuelled adrenalin pumping through me. Despite this beautiful naked woman being ball-achingly close, I now had no thoughts of pushing her down and forcing our bodies together right there in the hallway. I could die right here if I didn’t get help. Sounds dramatic, but that’s what alcohol does, it exaggerates and enhances and twists rational thoughts and feelings. Neither the TARDIS nor HG Wells’ time machine can do that. Score one more point for fermentation.

Kevin, stop it. Stop crying, you’re thirty seven years old, try acting like it.

Irhy hive. Mm irhy hive, ot irhy eaven.

What? Thirty-five then. Stop snivelling. Sit up and let me look at you.

Karen was talking to me like she would our two year old Goddaughter, Chrissy. I should have resented it, but I was so full of self-pity there was no room for anger. I tried to sit up without moving my head. A total impossibility, given that it was attached to my shoulders, although just now I wished it wasn’t. I half sat, half leaned against the wall, bleeding profusely down my designer ruined jumper and Pink Professor cords. (Light burgundy looks pink). My mouth was open, the only way I could breathe. It drooled a mixture of blood and alcohol-laced saliva which I kept puffing away from my lips. Unfortunately this blew it onto Karen and the floor.

Jesus, Kevin, I could swing for you sometimes. Why are you here? You don’t live here anymore. I was in the bath. I’ve had a bastard of a week, I just want to relax and have an early night.

Sobbing, I looked her square in the nipples.

Soyee, oh Goh, am so soyee. Hep bee, Haran.

It is so difficult to make sense, talking with a busted nose. Not to mention a mouth full of blood, saliva and snot which you don’t want to swallow. It makes you sound like some sort of demented drunken idiot, which of course I was at that moment.

You’ll need to go to A & E, the doctors will have to reset that, she said, nodding at my nose. What were you thinking? No, stupid question; you weren’t thinking, you were drinking. Again.

Chapter Two

I dragged my eyes from Karen’s love bucket, past her Malleable Mountains of Moan to finally rest on her sparkling eyes. Those iridescent blue eyes were what I had first fallen in love with when I saw her at the office coffee machine on the third floor. I couldn’t take my eyes off them as they sparkled in the fluorescent light. They had lit up when she smiled politely at me, waiting for the machine to vend her cappuccino.

Editor: Lying bastard.

KB: Okay, okay. Truth time.

Skiving again for half an hour, I had escaped my desk in Purchase Ledger: Accounts Payable on the second floor and walked the stairs slowly to the third. It was devoid of soul out here in the stairwell, but the grey concrete steps matched my mood and the echo from the bare utility-painted walls matched my empty head. I stood at the large window after the first flight of hard stairs. Resting my head on the cold glass I looked longingly out over the sunny rooftops to the green parkland beyond. Christ, I was bored. Day after day the same old grind.

Grind? I wish.

Sex starved at twenty, earning a pittance, stuck indoors from eight thirty to five thirty, thirty minutes for lunch, thirty years to serve. A whole-life sentence. Daydreaming, I heard the door open two flights down and trudged up the second flight, not wanting to be seen by a Prowling Manager.

As I emerged through the stairway door in Purchase Ledger: Accounts Inward, I gazed round the massive open plan office at all the other slaves quietly talking on telephones or shuffling endless computer printouts in front of huge beige monitors. The days of huge black flat panel monitors were years away.

Spying several older employees hunched over their work, I saw my life accelerate in front of my eyes. I realised with horror that I would become one of those grey employees.

Please God, help me.

I turned left from the stairwell door and walked purposefully towards the coffee machine. It wouldn’t do to be seen sauntering, there could be a Bastard Manager around to notice. I nearly stopped in my tracks as I looked the short distance to the hot drinks dispenser. My heart throbbed in my chest.

Editor: Heart? Chest?

KB: No, not my heart, my manhood. In my designer trolleys.

Oh, thank you God, I muttered under my breath.

What a treat. Friday afternoon and at last, something to enjoy. Proper, top tottie, eye candy extreme. My timing for once was perfect. She was walking to the machine, closer than I was. Tight grey V-necked cashmere top, very tight black skirt, dark tights or stockings? Please, stockings. Holdups will suffice if you can’t see your way to suspenders and wouldn’t we all like to see our way to suspenders, boys? Patent leather gloss black high heels, a pile of tractor feed green and white striped computer printout in the crook of her left arm.

My saliva glands were in overdrive, I could have been looking down at a plated juicy rare fillet steak with onion rings, fries and tomatoes. Maybe mushrooms on the side. A bit of salad for dressing’s sake. No sauce, that spoils the taste of the blood.

Editor: Get on with it, less of the food fantasy.

This was too good to be true, no rings on her fingers. Well-applied makeup, not too much, neat shoulder length clean, dark, shining hair.

The Angel had already pressed for her selected blend by the time I sauntered up, trying to look cool and uninterested, at the same time hot and interesting. Her focus was on the brown plastic cup on the dispensing tray as the hot liquid dribbled down. She was making sure it didn’t topple or omit the milk, a frequent occurrence for well frequented vending machines.

Standing perhaps a little closer than politeness dictated put me in a better position to ogle her firm breasts in the tight, low cut, baby-soft grey top. I prayed that I would see further down inside it when she bent down to take her plastic cup. I could, but I was immediately torn between leching her top tits or her bum in the sprayed on skirt.

Missing out on the frustrating pleasure of either of the visual delights would detract from this Friday treat. Equally though it would be too obvious, in front of nearly one hundred spies, to gyrate backwards and forwards to absorb both enchantments. Bare flesh won out and I lost myself in the exquisite view down her cleavage.

She was wearing a lacy top white bra with tiny light blue flowers edging the cups. It fitted perfectly, not baggy, not too tight. I felt sure I could see a tiny metallic clasp. Ah, front fastening, easy access. Light downy hairs dwelt in the valley like the shoots of new life in a dry gulch.

Editor’s note: Dry gulch? What a terrible analogy. Please revise this before publication.

These fantasies threatened to overwhelm my thin veneer of decency. My love rod stirred immediately, begging attention. The humming from the machine ceased and I hoped I had looked up at her face in timely fashion as she straightened up. I also hoped no one had seen me lusting so openly in the open plan office. No women, anyway.

Hello, she smiled, showing perfect white teeth and pink, healthy gums. No excess lipstick marred the shining white enamel, no lettuce from a salad lunch stuck between them. Another positive sign.

Editor: You are so base.

KB: Well, these things are important. They are to me.

I subconsciously ran my tongue over my own front teeth having eaten an egg and cress sandwich from my lunchbox. My actual plastic lunchbox, not my groinal nickname lunchbox. That would be gross.

Hmn?

I said, ‘Hello’, just a greeting.

Oh, yes. Hello.

It’s all yours.

I gulped. How could it be so hard? To look someone in the face, that is, rather than where I wanted to look, at those perfect love cushions. I felt sure there was an expression of blind panic on my face. Her perfume was soft, subtle and to my untrained nose, expensive.

All yours.

Her voice was like velvet, the invitation clear. ‘Do what you will, I trust you, I want you, I need you.’

This could not be happening. And of course it wasn’t.

Huh?

It’s all yours, the coffee machine.

I gulped again, my mind was in overdrive yet unable to deliver a witty comment, a wry observation, a killer line or even an opening gambit. It really is not easy for men to develop chat up lines when we have no skills, no training and in my case no social life.

Oh, yes, thanks.

Editor: Thanks? Thanks? You lame, useless, mush-brained sod. There are perhaps a quarter of a million words in general English use, and you come up with THANKS?

KB: I was distracted.

Editor: And socially inept?

She raised her left eyebrow ever so slightly, managing to convey a thousand words with the tiny gesture. All negative.

Editor: You see? Karen can convey a thousand words just with an eyebrow. You can only utter one word with your whole body. Doesn’t bode well for a relationship, does it?

KB: Fuck off, Ed. Does that convey enough?

Why can you not communicate effectively, human? Do you not like me? Can you not say anything to entertain me, so we can engage, develop a relationship, live together happily ever after, shagging our brains out at every opportunity?

I manage a stuttering response,I, er, ah, that is, erm.

You pathetic excuse for a virile young thing, talk to me or piss off out of my sphere of existence.

But I was tongue tied, smitten. Well, smitten implies love, but I was simply and emphatically in lust. Being unable to offer a worthy repost, my dreams shattered as she turned to walk away. She would leave my planet and disappear into the void. It was too late to say anything, I couldn’t call across the office, I would have looked desperate.

Editor: You were. Are. Desperate.

KB: Yes, I know I was desperate, but I couldn’t show it, could I?

I gazed longingly at her retreating bum, her Gluteus Maximus’ writhing against the thin material of her skirt. My fingertips tingled from yards away, willing my feet to move me closer. I strove to see the tell-tale Visible Panty Line which women hate but which all healthy men secretly adore. Why do we like to see it? I don’t know and I don’t care.

A psychiatric anthropological psychologist would no doubt expound some deep theory about mentally undressing, latent desire, a feeling of superiority, voyeurism. I like it just because I do. It gives me pleasure, it feeds my fantasies. It makes me horny, no big deal. In my mind there is only one thing finer than VPL and that is no VPL whatsoever. But thongs were not around then, and ‘the commando’ was still hiding over the time horizon.

I felt sure she caught me staring as she glanced back over her shoulder. I hoped I saw a coy smile, an ‘I know what you’re thinking, you lovely dirty bastard. Bring it on,’ type of a smile.

Editor: More likely a ‘leave me alone, don’t even think about it, you pervert’ smile.

KB: You’re a cynical bastard, you know that, Ed?

As I stared after my vision in heels, the papers she was carrying began to slip, ever so slightly at first, but then with a loud pile-of-computer-printouts-falling-to-the-floor thud, the pile of computer printouts fell to the floor with a thud, unfolding and cascading wildly around her feet. As she reflexively tried to catch them, the plastic coffee cup she was carrying in the other hand crumpled and its contents, the hot cappuccino, flew everywhere.

My second chance screamed through the fog of my mind, ‘Go, go ,go. Tottie in trouble, sort it out, pronto.’

Without a second’s thought, this veritable Sir Galahad set off across the office, intending to rescue his Princess and win her heart. Or maybe the heart could come later, after the unpicking of the chastity belt and ruin of her virtue.

To my knowledge no Knight in Shining Armour ever had to contend with outward opening office doors, the lucky bastards.

Editor: Yea, verily they wast lucky indeed.

KB: That’s a pathetic attempt at Olde Englishe, Ed.

Editor: Well you’re writing this crap. Allegedly.

KB: Piff off, scoundrel.

Editor: Backe to mye firste pointe. The only things the Knights had to contend with was disease, pestilence and hordes of screaming, starving, murdering peasants intent on overthrowing their rich Lords and usurping their power for the good of all and the establishment of democratic government.

KB: Selfish sods.

Editor: Oh yes, and there were dragons and orcs and wizards, witches and warlocks. They all had to be contended with as well. Every daye. Honeste.

As I half ran, half loped across the office floor to my damsel in distress, some vitally important meeting terminated in one of the side rooms off the main open plan office. You know the sort of thing, like an afterthought by the architect. A blue or red metal painted frame, glass walls with internal blinds for privacy and a beech door with a glass oblong viewing panel for no privacy. It sported a vacant-engaged sign, jammed in its slider so no-one ever used it. They just anticipated the interruption and apology from pressured Geoff as he burst in looking for the folder he thinks he left there this morning.

Are you sure? Yellow? This big? Papers inside? Shoot, the M.D. needs it for tonight. Board meeting, only copy.

Sweating, panicking, he retreats backwards with a sickly grey grin of thanks, sorry. Sorry.

Editor: Poor Geoff

KB: Yes, anxious since birth, he will die of stress-related heart failure. Soon.

The half dozen attendees were no doubt totally enthralled and engaged with the new tasks they had agreed needed carrying out to the increased efficiency of Purchase Ledger: Accounts Inward. Tony Robinson, eager to fit in a few more precious hours of meaningful, critical paperwork before leaving for the weekend, threw open the beech door without first glancing through the glass panel to check for passers-by. This of course totally flew in the face of ‘Health and Safety in the Workplace’ directives and the door flew totally into my face.

I didn’t see it coming, just as Robinson, team leader for the ‘Robins’ team, (how original and inventive) didn’t see me coming as he enthusiastically flung the large wooden obelisk outwards. The first thing I knew was a flash of light brown and a rapid deceleration caused by my contacting the opening door at some speed. This was followed by a sort of twisting, falling backward motion, then further contact. This time with the rough, office grade, off grey carpet tiles fitted on the poured, now set, concrete floor beneath.

Editor: Ouch.

KB: Is that all you can say?

I suppose I could be thankful that my face didn’t hit the floor, just the back of my head. I could be thankful that only the right side of my face hit the door rather than my nose because I was glancing to my left, towards my Siren. Thankfully, my Goddess didn’t see the contact, but along with half the office staff she heard the loud thump followed by the sickening, muffled crack of my head smashing on to the carpet.

I didn’t swear, I didn’t exclaim my surprise, I didn’t ‘oomph’. I didn’t do anything other than pass out. I was later informed this lasted around two or three minutes, seemingly a long time to be unconscious.

Also on the plus side, Mabel Ann Jenkins leapt to my aid. Fifty eight year old spinster and forty two years service with the company, Mabel was a valued founder member of the local St. Johns Ambulance service. I say she leapt, but in thanking her a week later when I returned to work following two nights in St.Aidens hospital for observation, she limped across the office floor to me, clearly incapable of leaping.

Editor: So you’re saying it’s doubtful that she leapt.

KB: You really catch on quick, don’t you?

She perambulated with a kind of exaggerated rolling sailors gait due to the dodgy, worn hip joint she had suffered for years. There was a loud smell of TCP about her. A strange choice of perfume, but I was too grateful to mention it to her face.

Another positive in this whole negative saga is that Karen, as I was later to learn she was called, did not laugh at my accident. Several other staff who saw the incident could hardly contain their mirth at my plight.

KB: The Lie: I could be magnanimous and kind and say that it was Friday afternoon and I provided a moment of light relief and merriment in their otherwise tedious lives. I could be magnanimous and kind and say it must have looked deliberate, some kind of staged comedic stunt-man joke. I could be magnanimous and kind and sympathise with the low I.Q. morons who find Mr. Bean the greatest comedy invention since haemorrhoids.

Editor: And The Truth?

KB: I can’t be kind and understanding; they are all just insensitive fuckwads who deserve a large dose of syphilis to visit their organs while a French Air Controllers strike strands them for four incurable years on a remote island, deep in the Pacific Ocean. Bastards all of them, let them rot from the gonads up.

Mabel took charge immediately, putting all her years of selfless training into action.

Keep back, keep back, give him air, she shouted all around as she hurriedly but without panic limped across the office.

Her shouts were unnecessary as no-one else was rushing to my aid. They were all crying with laughter or picking themselves up off the floor having nearly pissed themselves at the sight of yours truly spread-eagled and unconscious.

Haha, very amusing, fuckwads. Have you visited the medical section at Madame Tussauds and seen the latter stages of untreated venereal disease? Go fuck a monkey, Aids is only a small word.

I blinked. Tried to focus but couldn’t. I squeezed my eyes tight shut. Voices began to intrude. Shit, the pain. I felt sick, tried to roll over on to my side as if I was in bed.

Lay still. You’ve had a nasty accident.

Hnnhh?

Just lay quietly. Do you know your name?

Of course I know my name, it’s…it’s…oh no, I don’t know my name. Oh God, I’m brain damaged, I can’t remember my name.

Foh, uh, mnk.

I think we need an ambulance. He needs checking out in hospital.

Funniest fing I’ve ever seen, like something off Mr. Bean or, whatshisname, Hills. Benny, that’s it, Benny Hills. Shit, it was good. Better than the telly.

Nah, Some Muvvers Doo ‘Ave ‘Em. Frank Spicer.

I heard all this from the bottom of an echoing well about four hundred feet deep. I couldn’t remember what had happened, but sensation was returning, unwanted sensation. Pain. I tried to put my hand up to my face, but a small wrinkled hand stopped me.

No, don’t touch it, it’ll need a stitch or two, I think. Nasty bump coming up, ruin your good looks, haha.

Mabel no doubt making light of the heavy, disfiguring gash across my eyebrow.

Haha? Ha fucking ha? I’m dying here, bitch. Ow, that smarts. My face, my head is exploding.

I heard voices while my eyes were closed, others in the office. I was putting two and two together and then my door-as-a-weapon opponent piped up.

It wasn’t my fault, who can’t see a door opening in front of them? He shouldn’t have been running in the office. Not my fault. You’ll back me up, won’t you? I say John, you saw it? You’ll back me up, mate? It wasn’t my fault.

Then whose fault was it, tosser? The architect for designing open plan offices with glass cages with outward opening doors? Well actually, it is a stupid design, and certainly not the first or last by someone who trains for ten years or more to create a useful, efficient, solid design and then draws up plans for a shake-apart suspended footbridge or south-facing glass office with no shade, no opening windows or other ventilation.

A soft, caring female voice, filled with anaesthetic and balm floated into to my ringing ears.

Gosh, what a lot blood. I hope he’ll be alright.

It had to be my damsel, my darling, my lust bucket.

I tried again to open my eyes, to sit up, but I was instantly dizzy, a pounding in my head like my worst ever hangover after several bottles of rough red wine. Although a debauched malt whisky night runs it a close second.

Oh, God, that hurts.

But as I glanced through squinting eyes, I could see my dream crouching down as far as her tight skirt and high heels would allow. Incredibly, even through my pain and catastrophic blood loss, I could appreciate again the smooth voice and sparkling eyes.

Editor: Bollocks. Lying again.

KB: And the black stockings and tight jumper.

Editor: See, the truth is always best, isn’t it?

KB: And lacy bra.

I opened my eyes wider to stare again down her beautiful, mouth-watering, tongue-tempting cleavage. I even turned my thumping head further to try and glimpse up her tight skirt, to no avail.

She of course had no idea that I was charging to her rescue when my life threatening accident occurred. She could not know that my blood was spilled for her sake, that my possibly fractured skull was on her account.

Editor: A slight exaggeration, Kevin.

Mabel took charge once again.

Alright everybody, back to work. I can manage here. Nothing to see, is there?

I take issue, Madam. From where I lie there is plenty to see - my view is both enjoyable, entertaining and arousing. But I hope you can’t see that. It also, in my mind at least, holds promises galore.

What is your name, my darling?

Fuck off, you condescending bitch, I’m not your darling.

Editor: That’s a little harsh, Kevin, Mabel is only trying to help.

KB: I’m not your darling either, Ed.

Kevin. Kevin Banks. From downstairs, Purchase Ledger: Accounts Payable. I gasped. Editor: Gasped? Why gasped?

KB: For effect, Ed, for effect. I was trying to elicit sympathy rather than ridicule.

I said this looking directly not at Mabel, but into the deep blue eyes of the most appetizing woman, girl, I had ever seen. That week, anyway. I said it to let her know who I was, not for Mabel’s benefit.

Well Kevin, Kevin Banks, she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere by repeating me exactly, you’ve had a nasty knock.

I’m sure Mabel thought she was rehearsing for stand-up comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe. If so, she would need somewhat better material.

We ought to get you to hospital, she continued with authority, we’ll get you into the office here and get you a nice cup of tea, maybe a biscuit? She addressed this to Karen as a request.

As Mabel held my arms to help me stand, I immediately felt like I’d drunk about a half-gallon of scotch washed down with a gallon of beer. I grabbed out at the edge of the offending door for support as my legs tried to run away independently and in two different directions. Blinking my eyes heavily, alternately squeezing them shut then opening them wide, my brain slowed its attempts to explode my skull. I could still hear the occasional laugh from a couple of the morons in the office.

Ooh, er, Betty.

Fucking hilarious. Revenge will be sweet, fuckwads.

I shuffled with Mabel’s help into the vacated office and was led to the nearest chair. Trying to reduce the pounding behind my eyes, I leaned forwards and rested my elbows on my knees. Worse, far worse. I leaned back, looked up towards the suspended tile ceiling. It started to spin out of control.

Fuck, this was bad.

I closed my eyes again and just sat, trying to imitate a stone statue.

Editor: Does Sir Galahad have a statue? I must look that up.

KB: You really give a shit? You think anyone does?

Karen dear, would you mind fetching Kevin Kevin here a cup of tea?

Mabel, you need to quit with the stand-up until you get a new writer.

Did she say Karen? Progress, I had learned my beloved’s name at last. I could stop calling her she, her or damsel.

Editor: It is difficult as a writer to constantly refer to characters without using proper names.

KB: I’m glad you understand, Ed.

Editor: That’s not my name, you know.

KB: What is your name?

Editor: Paul Andrew Charles Ian Gary Thomas Richard Charlesworthy. My parents named me after all my Uncles.

KB: Okay. Ed.

A first aid kit had appeared beside me on the desk and Mabel rooted through the contents until she found a white paper packet which she tore open.

Ah, here we are, a head dressing, she relayed to me, expertly identifying the contents. Editor: Training does pay off, see.

KB: Yes, until you realise that printed in large red letters on the discarded paper packet are the words, ‘Head Dressing’.

How are you feeling, Kevin, dear? asked Mabel, trying to look deep into my eyes. Presumably so she could spot bits of my skull floating in the Aqueous Humour. Or looking for new material for Edinburgh perhaps?

Fuck off, MABEL, anything in there is copyrighted, MABEL. DEAR.

I tried to focus on Mabel the person rather than the TCP Queen.

Like I’ve just been hit by a door, I responded wittily.

This almost certainly guaranteed I would get better reviews than Mabel at ‘The Fringe’.

Well, I’m sorry to say you have been, Kevin. Don’t you remember?

Mabel’s response proved she had no sense of humour whatsoever. So who booked her performances in Edinburgh? Not Harvey Goldstein, for sure.

She spoke with not the slightest hint of sarcasm or comedic understanding.

Are you German, perchance? I asked, looking her in the eye and alluding