I let myself in through the back door of ‘our’ paper-thin, red bricked, starter-semi in Thornhill. As the name of the suburb suggests, everything’s far from rosy. I stand in the kitchen and let the six Sainsbury’s bags I’m holding fall to the floor. I hear at least two eggs smash but don’t care. My denim jacket ‘n’ jeans combo is heavy from the constant drizzle that seems to have been following me around for some time now and the plastic handles have left purplish indents on my hands.

They hurt. A lot.

Through the plasterboards that do a terrible impression of walls I can hear voices.

“Goooooooo ooonnnnnnnn!!”

“Get in to ‘im!”

“Refereeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Oh joy, they’re watching football, or ‘the footy’ as they like to call it, some pointless match between two countries from the other side of the world no doubt. It’s World Cup time again, a time for us women of the world to unite as we play second fiddle to twenty-two men kicking a ball on the box. A very happy time for us, one and all. If only the game’s rulers could arrange a tournament every year instead of only every other…

My relationship with Jenko (you know you’re in trouble when you call your man by his nickname) has tumbled, skydived and hurtled from brilliant, through mediocre to bad in the space of three years. It’s now darkly nightmarish, like turning up to a wedding and someone else is wearing your ‘unique’ dress.

So, here I am in the kitchen; soaked, pissed off, lonely. Lonely in my own home with my ‘boyfriend’ in the next room!

How wrong is that?

I’m just standing here, my mind a mess, a big blank mess, with everything and nothing hurtling through it at once.

I want to go upstairs.

I want to have a bath.

I want to leave.

I take off my jacket and hang it on a hook behind the back door. I then look at the notice board above the breakfast bar (I was so excited to have a breakfast bar when we bought this place. Small things) at the photo of us, me and Jenko, in Tenerife a few days after we first met. I try to remember how happy I was, but can’t, as the reality of day to day life have obscured the joy with clouds; dark, threatening, stormy ones. As I look closer I notice that my face is obscured by something else. It’s a drawing pin. That says it all really.

I fill the kettle as a roar goes up from the front room. As the water warms I have to wash a mug from the sink, as he hasn’t done the dishes I asked him to take care of a few days ago. I won’t do them myself this time as he gets away with so much it breaks my heart, but not my spirit. Those days are long gone. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to realise that men are just pigs in disguise – they actually prefer to live in filth. Still, I won’t back down this time. I won’t.

I hear footsteps ascending the stairs which means it’s half time. How do I know that, I hear you ask. I’ll let you into a little secret. Men don’t piss during matches, just in case they miss some action which would lead to them feeling left out during the post-match analysis and therefore lead to feelings of inadequacy and foolishness. So, after knecking 5 pints before the match they stand/sit in agony during the first half, bladders at bursting point, waiting for the whistle. At half time, the toilets at football grounds up and down the country resemble the streets of Pamplona when the bulls are let loose. Of course, when watching a game in the comfort of your own home it’s even worse, as they drink continuously throughout the match. The same rule applies. No piss till halftime. Why do you think the whole crowd boos when the fourth official (live with them long enough and you too will pick up the terminology) holds up the board indicating how many minutes of injury time is to be played at the end of the half?

I brace myself for the inevitable half time beer run.

Things have got so bad between us that I’m actually sort of avoiding Jenko. Admittedly, it’s almost impossible to achieve this in a two-up-two-down box, but I still try.

I hear the fridge door open behind me, but don’t turn to see who’s there. I pour the bubbling contents of the kettle in to the mug that holds the pyramid shaped tea bag and smile to myself as Stan (Jenko calls him Satan, but there’s only one dark lord in this house… and he isn’t feline), our cat, pushes his fat ginger frame through the flap. I leave the tea to infuse and bow down to the true master of this house. I stroke his chin vigorously and he voices his appreciation by purring like a mobile phone on vibrate. I pick him up and cradle him like a fat child, rubbing his belly and talking in whispers.

“Hey Dani,” I turn to face the voice. It’s Stench, one of Jenko’s best mates and a permanent fixture in this house whenever there’s footy on, i.e., all the time. He’s crouched down by the open fridge, fishing for tinnies in a lake of dairy produce. The deeper he reaches into the fridge the more of his workman’s crack I can see. Let’s face it, it’s not a nice sight on a well-toned male model, so it’s positively hideous on an overweight, balding, postman! When he’s finished his alcoholic angling, he slowly stands and turns to face me. His eyes are red from the booze and smoke.

“Good game?” I ask. I don’t know why, instinct I guess, like when a man gets into a taxi, he just has to, and I mean has to ask, ‘busy tonight, drive?’

“Fuckin’ great, Dan,” he replies. “England are losing.”

I’ve never worked out why they hate England so much, but I did ask once and got such a noisy and non-sensical reply that I promised myself I’d never ask again (after all, shouldn’t you learn from your mistakes?)

I’m concentrating on Stan’s chin again and sort of waiting for Stench to leave so I can go upstairs and maybe have a bath, seeing that I’ve got a 45-minute window before anyone will disturb me. But before he returns to the footy, he turns to me and says:

“Jenko wants some snacks too Dani…”

I look at him and hope my eyes are enough of an answer. They’re obviously not as he just stands there, staring back.

“Snacks?” I ask.

“Aye. Y’know, Pringles, Penguins, pistachios. Snacks innit,” before closing the fridge door with his heel and exiting the kitchen with a quick turn of pace that belies his belt-busting belly.

Once again I have the kitchen all to myself and although there’s just about enough room to swing a cat in here, I don’t. Although I’d love to swing at that twat right now. I’m fuming and have to restrain myself from going into the lounge and having it out with Jenko dearest in front of his mates. But this can wait. It’s not the final straw, but it’s close.

As I rummage through the cupboards looking for his master’s snacks I realise that I’m mumbling like Mutley and my eyes are welling with what can only be described as salty rage. So I stop what I’m doing and take five by the kitchen table.

After a soothing Silk Cut and another cup of tea, I grab a packet of Pringles, ironically of the soured cream variety, some monkey nuts and a bag of fun size Snickers from the goodies cupboard. I shove them hastily onto a tray and storm into the lounge just as a roar goes up from the sofa supporting slobs.

“Goooooooo ooonnnnnnnn my son!!” They bellow in unison as I approach the coffee table to deliver the well-deserved treats to the man of the house.

Before I go on, I need to explain the room’s layout for you to understand the no-win situation I found myself entering at that moment. Most importantly, it’s tiny – with the 30” TV in one corner and the front door in the other. There are two sofas - occupied today by Stench, Woz, Titch (who’s huge) and Freaky Stu (or Freak for short) - hugging the walls and a comfy chair between them in perfect alignment with the TV. The throne is occupied, as usual, by the King (even during our ‘honeymoon period’, he would choose to sit in the comfy chair rather than with me on the sofa – some tribal leader kind of thing I believe). Between the throne and the TV is the coffee table where I was aiming for with the snack tray. The kitchen door lies directly behind the throne.

I squeezed past the throne as the pungent aromas of socks, farts and beer tickled my nasal tinkers and set the tray down on the table. Now any normal person would expect a thank you from your ‘life-partner’ for such a service, and as I’m pretty sure I am normal, I expected this too.

How wrong can a girl be?

Very.

“Wot the fuck are you doing you stupid fuckin’ cow?” He asks, though I believe it to be a rhetorical question, as what I’m doing is very obvious. As my brain struggles to understand what has gone so horrifically wrong, the rest of the lads cheer another goal.

“Oh my god, you fucking muppet! Look what you’ve done… I don’t fuckin’ believe you!”

I look at him over my shoulder as he settles back in his chair shaking his head in disbelief. Then the tears come - mine, not his (obviously I suppose, but then again these men do take their football seriously) - like a downpour of Biblical proportions (if God was a woman, tears would have been one of the Great Plagues. Can you imagine Moses announcing a plague of over-emotional women to the world – they’d soon sort things out). Some soothing words from Jenko helped me on my way…

“Oh for fucksake, here we go with the waterworks…” Oh, what a sensitive young man I live with. And on that note I leave the room and head for the sanctuary of our bedroom.

I run up the narrow stairs with all the grace of a pissed up mammoth, jump on the bed and lie face down so the duvet can double as a gigantic hanky.

Our bedroom lies directly above the lounge and, unfortunately, the floors of the house are no thicker than the walls. Therefore I can hear the following exchange clearly above the constant drone of the commentary.

Woz:                        D’you reckon she’s alright, Jenks?

Jenko:            Do you give a fuck, Woz?

Woz:             What, well, no, I don’t know. I suppose not.

Jenko:             Well neither do I, so keep you’re fuckin’ nose out, OK?           

You’d think that these words would make things worse, but they don’t. In fact, they sort of bring some clarity to my being. I sit up and know exactly what I have to do.

Leave. 

I can’t go on like this. What’s the point? We’re only here once (sorry Buddhists, it’s true) so why be miserable? I get my suitcase from the wardrobe and open it on the bed. As I start filling it I think of Jenko. I should probably hate him, but don’t. He was a great guy… once. Unfortunately he’s developed into a bit of a knob by now.

What happened to the man I met – the one that made me laugh, nibbled my feet, listened? And when did he make the evolutionary step to Jabba the Hut downstairs?

I’m not claiming to be whiter-than-white here. I mean, nobody’s perfect and yes, I do know you have to work at relationships. I know this as I’ve worked harder than anyone at ours. It’s just, well; I’m tired of trying, tired of living this way. Nobody deserves the blatant disrespect he shows me. I know of livestock that are treated better!

After filling the case with ‘essentials’, my heart makes a break for my mouth when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

Jenko… coming to apologise?

As if!

It’s just someone breaking the golden rule of no pissing during the match.

As the footsteps descend once again, the door creaks open and Stan struts in talking jive. I sit on the bed and he jumps up to join me for a session (the only session this bed’s seen for a while).

I talk to him in the kind of silly voice you reserve for animals and babies, the Doolittle technique I believe is its technical name. I ask if he wants to come with me on ‘holiday’. He says he’d love to as long as it’s not his usual annual break at cat camp. I say of course not but I don’t think he believes me as he gets up from his spread-eagled position and escapes to the safety of the floor.

“Suit yourself,” I mumble, but he ignores me and slowly shakes his ass over towards the window. His movements make me think if that’s why they call it a catwalk, you know, where models shake their booty. I mean, when did the runway, because that’s obviously what it is, become the catwalk? Then it occurs to me that I surely have some of the stupidest thoughts in the world and get back to the packing before I have some more.

The case is at bursting point and after struggling for minutes to force my favourite cardigan in, I lie back on the bed and inspect the fading ceiling. After a few seconds, my attention is grabbed by Stan’s struggle with an inanimate object. Now, as an experienced cat owner I am aware that cats are prone to give anything a poke, and I’m also aware that they give it up quite soon unless it’s alive. Therefore, I wouldn’t usually give him the time of day with his wasteful wrestling, but as he’s really going for it, I look down and realise he’s mauling what looks like a TV remote control.

To those of you who have an idiot box in your bedrooms, a cat attacking a remote probably doesn’t sound very     far-fetched. To me on the other hand, who is very proud to declare that my bedroom is strictly a televisual free zone, seeing Stan fight a losing battle with a remote control is very weird to say the least.

I step lazily from the bed, reach down and take the gizmo away from him. He paws at my hand in a pathetic attempt to get it back and I then lean on the windowsill to inspect the alien contraption.

Its shape is that of your run-of-the-mill remote control, but instead of many small buttons with numbers on them, it has two large buttons with stickmen on them. One of the stickmen is red in colour while the other, which is blue, seems to be wearing an apron!

Some questions flood my mind, with these two taking precedence: Where did it come from and what could it possibly mean?

As I look out of the bedroom window at the rows of crammed back gardens and fading red-bricks, my mind wonders wildly at the possibilities.

Suddenly, my roaming imagination is jolted back to reality by the sound of Mr Weller, our next-door neighbour, and his petrol powered mower trimming his already short lawn. What is it about men and their lawns? Do those lines they insist on creating mean anything? Who cares, Dani?

Stan’s next to seek my attention with a good          old-fashioned mee-aaw. It works a treat and I lift him onto the windowsill so I can stroke him in comfort. Soon enough, he’s getting a little turned on by the attention and purring like an over-excited fridge when he steps on the ‘remote’. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m shocked to see Mr Weller spontaneously combust or something… not too sure what happened to tell you the truth, but one minute he’s there, pushing his mower anally around his garden, and the next, his mower’s powering itself towards and into the garden shed where I hear tools and glass fall and crash. I grab Stan and throw him onto the bed before grabbing the ‘remote’ and joining him.

What the hell?

After a few moments of lying low, I sneak back to the window and stealthily look towards the shed. I can still hear the mower’s engine running within and am convinced that the cat did it. Would that hold up in court? Maybe… not.

I look at the remote control I’m holding and an idea dawns.

I leave Stan on the bed where he landed, licking his nether regions, and leave the room. I lie on my belly on the landing and can see the boys downstairs in the lounge through the stained pine banisters. Jenko’s stuffing his face with Pringles, Stench has his hands down his pants, Woz is smoking hard, Titch is snoring and Stu is looking freaky. What a great time they seem to be having. I point the remote at Jenko but think twice and aim it at Titch as I can’t stand snorers. As I press the red man I don’t expect anything to happen. Although Mr Weller has just mysteriously disappeared, I have no proof that it had anything to do with the remote…

To my absolute delight, Titch is gone without even a pfft. Like a quality fart, the remote is both silent and deadly! Before anyone has realised his absence I point my weapon at Woz, pull the trigger and gone too is he. Next is Stench and then the Freak before King Jenko is left on the throne looking around the room in disbelief.

He seems to be spluttering words and obscenities but is in such shock that no sound escapes his palette. I descend the stairs slowly, remote in hand like Sharon Stone stalking the streets of Redemption and cast my shadow over my prey. Jenko looks at me with absolute fear in his eyes and says… no, sorry, he pleads:

“Dani, what? Please… no…” The mumbling, spineless bastard’s lost for words as I point the remote in his direction. “His final words make me laugh first and then rethink:

“Dani, I’ll change,” he says. And after a giggle, I pause and look again at the buttons. Out of curiosity, I press the blue stickman and am disappointed to discover that it appears to do exactly the same as the red one. Jenko has disappeared without a trace.

This disappointment is soon replaced with joy as I realise I have the house to myself. I sit on the throne, put my feet up, grab the Sky digital remote and start surfing (something us girls rarely get the chance to do as every man on earth, even the gay ones, are dictatorial remote rulers).

I settle for a documentary on the Discovery Channel about the wildcats of Rome but my watching is disturbed when I feel a presence lurking behind me. I turn to look and am amazed to see Jenko - a new improved version - standing there, holding a tray full of goodies, in nothing but an apron. I can see scones, whipped cream, fresh strawberries and can smell the pot of Earl Grey from where I’m sitting.     

Well, well.

Gone are the man-breasts, replaced by Peter Andre pecs; and gone are the love handles, replaced by… well, Peter Andre abs.

“Is that a rocket in your pocket, Jenko, or are you just pleased to see me?” I ask with a chuckle.

“Dani,” he replies smoothly. “I don’t have any pockets.”

He puts the tray on the coffee table and feeds me strawberries and cream. Slowly. I lick the cream from his fingers and soon enough, I’m ready for love. I’m also very happy to report that gone too is the wam-bam-thank-you-mam style of lovemaking preferred by Jenko for the past few years, and in its place, lashings of cunnilingus followed by multiple orgasms followed by the most sensational sex ever.

After attempting Prince’s 23 positions and as I’m nearing yet another climax, I notice something else has changed about my man: the roar that accompanies his ejaculation is deafening.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!”

I wake with a kick-start and hear the roar penetrating the room from downstairs. It sounds like the English have gone further behind. 

I wipe the droplets of dribble that have crusted the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and look at Stan curled by my feet.

I look at the suitcase and remember my plan.

I look at the black hairbrush I’m holding and remember my dream.

I smile a tired smile.

If only it was that simple.