J-Dog gives the scooby on the newer members of the Leap office. She’s so, like, witty.
There are a few new cast members in the office today. One of them, our PR Cheerleader who’s going to save the world as well as our sorry asses, is actually female. The other isn’t. I enquire whether he has a nickname. “An ex-girlfriend used to call me Superman Horse Penis, if you want to use that.” I’ve shortened this to Penis to make it easier for everyone to remember. I know he’ll thank me.
Penis and Sarcastic Chris have disappeared into the Editing Fridge to finish off a video, leaving the rest of us in our lounge-cum-boardroom of an office. Seriously, It’s like working in a bizarre hybrid of The Apprentice and Wife-Swap. Space for work, and a separate space for domestic altercations to be played out over cups of tea. I wonder what Martha Lane Fox would say about it? Apparently, when pitching lastminute.com, the only question her male investors had for her was “what happens if you have a baby?” I propose that the next home furnishings addition to the Leap Anywhere office is a birthing pool.
It could double up as a Jacuzzi.
Only 10% of men wash their hands. I’ve waited in a bathroom and counted it myself. Before they kicked me out (granted I only needed a hundred specimens to formulate my statistic, I just got a little greedy) it struck me (not the bouncer), why oh why do so many public bathrooms require you to pull the door to escape into the fresh air?
As one of the few fellas who do wash my hands, there’s nothing worse than knowing that a certain stranger’s particulars are on the particular handle you just grabbed. Surely it makes sense from a safety point of view as well. Say you’re pinching off a proverbial, when suddenly last nights fiery vindaloo manages to set the porcelain throne alight? A door that gives way under the momentum of half a dozen semi-dressed men is a far faster escape than the alternative.
From today I am never leaving the house without my trusty screwdriver. No hinge will be safe from my reversal revolution.
So I just got home from a night in the pub with my male friends. The usual anecdotes were delivered. Some involved women. Others involved specific parts of their body. But all of them were firmly rooted in the classic world of male behaviour i.e. shy of a few bones to beat one another with, we pretty much walked the same slightly hunched circles our forefathers did.
However, something unusual happened afterwards. Instead of grabbing a greasy kebab, we grabbed eggs. Instead of asking for added mayonnaise, we asked for red peppers and tomato. In fact, I just spent the preceding hour putting together a six egg omelette for all to share come morning. A great, healthy way to start the day? Absolutely. Hyper organised? Most definitely. A gentle slip into the precipice that marks my decline into middle-aged senility? I can’t even remember.