THE SPONGE, THE TOWER, THE ACCOUNTANT AND HIS LOVER
Little did he know, his problem wasn't that he was bad-looking or smelled or had a creepy manner. It was just that he was incredibly boring. His job didn't yield many interesting anecdotes and he had only one hobby, which was stamp-collecting. Not only did non-enthusiasts find this fairly dull, but in recent years, his collecting-rate had dwindled, while he'd started expending more and more effort into cataloguing his collection. Having reorganised his stamps, he was never satisfied and sought a better system. In truth, his dating adventures were somewhat interesting, but he realised that relaying these to prospective partners would probably put them off. The only time he ever did anything interesting was when he got drunk, which happened once a year at his office Christmas party. He got so wasted then he vowed afterwards never to touch another drop. But every year, but as the prospect of going home alone to his parents' house yet again loomed large in his mind, he couldn't help but indulge in a glass of free wine, which invariably led to thirty more. Unfortunately, whatever interesting things he got up to while inebriated, he was unable to remember them the next day. Last year, he'd woken naked in a wooden barrow floating in Beijing harbour. More worrying, he'd acquired a tattoo of some Chinese character on his right arm. Once he reached the shore, he asked everyone he encountered if they knew what it meant, but received no response (possibly because he was naked). He looked up every tattooists in the telephone directory, trying to find the artist, but all of them denied creating it, and couldn't interpret it either. On returning home, he scoured the Internet, trying to find a meaning, but to no avail. Because the tattoo was his one interesting story, he soon attributed it great significance. He thought to himself, "I will marry the person who can tell me what it means." Even if that was a man. Accordingly, he changed his ice-breaker to, "Hey, do you know what this tattoo means?" It was not a very good chat-up line, since the answer was invariably "no", but it was an improvement on his last one, which was, "Hey, if you put all the ants in the world in a pile, how big do you think it would be?" One year he went to Spain on a 25-35 singles holiday. Dutifully, he chatted up all the women, except one plump lady with revolting teeth, who was in no way under 35. Desperate though he was, he found her positively frightful. But none of the others responded, so he settled down on the beach with an Spanish phrasebook, determined to learn the language so he could chat up the locals. Half way through the first page, however, a gelatinous bikini-clad American woman carrying an immense sandwich walked past and some ketchup escaped from it onto his bare chest. "Hey," he yelled, thinking he could chat her up, but she was too busy talking loudly into her mobile phone to hear him. So he put down his phrasebook and washed off the ketchup in the sea. When he returned to the beach, however, he discovered that his phrasebook, towel and sandals were gone. He felt quite upset. This wasn't fair. He believed he was a good person, but he had consistently failed to make his greatest dream come true and now someone had stolen his things. Still, he made his way back to the hotel, wincing with every step along the hot paving. "Is everything ok?" asked a maid as he passed through reception. "Some sod stole my towel, phrasebook and sandals," he said. "What a bastard," she sympathised. He squinted at her, his eyes still adjusting to the inner gloom after the bright midday sun. She was quite attractive. Maybe she'd be interested. "Hey, do you know what this tattoo means?" he asked. "Is everything ok?" she said. "Really?" he said, surprised, thrilled and distressed. "But why would someone tattoo that onto me?" "What a bastard," she remarked. "Quite. Anyway, would you like to go for a coffee?" "What a bastard," she answered. He was alarmed. Surely there was nothing so offensive about his request? Then he realised she could only say those two sentences. This, he imagined, was not the basis for a lasting relationship, so he returned to his room. He put on some clothes and went in search of a new phrasebook. This accomplished, he took up residence beside the hotel pool and recommenced his studies. But when he was three quarters of the way through the first page, he was suddenly pushed into the pool. And when he climbed out again, some sod had stolen his trainers and his towel. And his phrasebook was soaked through. "Is everything ok?" asked the maid, who was mopping some tiles nearby. "Some sod just pushed me into the pool and stole my towel and trainers!" he exclaimed indignantly. "What a bastard." Not to be defeated, he returned to his room, dressed and bought a third phrasebook. He stayed in his room studying it until it was dinner time. He ate in a restaurant with the other singles and looking at the uninterested-but-dolled-up women in mini-skirts and flimsy halter tops made him feel very hot and bothered. So when he returned to his room, he decided to have a shower. He undressed and stepped behind the curtain. Only when he emerged, he discovered that some sod had stolen his shampoo, his conditioner, his showergel, his sponge, his toothpaste, his toothbrush, his comb, his walking boots, his third phrase book, his dictionary and all his remaining towels! "Bastard!" he yelled and dashed out of his room, hoping to spot the thief, not caring that he was naked and incredibly moist. And who did he see but the maid, making off with his things! "Oi!" he cried, chasing after her. "Give me my stuff back, bint!" The maid, despite not understanding his words, understood his tone and took off at a sprint. She scurried down the stairs, through the reception, along the streets, weaving between the tables of pavement cafes and, in a bout of poetic justice, knocking the American woman's ice cream all over her. She hopped across the burning sand, amid the racks of hats and postcards in a supermarket, and finally into a church. Haha, you can't escape now, thought Kenneth, as he followed her in. He saw her dash up the spiral steps of the bell tower, so he pursued her. The staircase ended in a small room, empty except for the bell, the maid and his belongings. "What a bastard!" he said. She said something in Spanish and embraced him. She kissed him and slipped out of her clothes and they made passionate love. He had no idea what he had done to prompt this unexpected series of events, but he wasn't complaining. Afterwards, he put on his walking boots and a towel and they strolled towards a pavement cafe, hand in hand. After they had ordered, she reached for the dictionary and flicked through the pages until she found the word "job". He flicked until he found the word "accountant". Her face fell. "Is everything ok?" he asked. "What a bastard!" she exclaimed and fled from the cafe. "You should have told her how much you earned instead," a voice behind him said. He turned and saw the ugly woman. Resigning himself to his fate, he asked her if she knew what his tattoo meant. "It means desperate," she said. "Really?" "No, but it shows you're desperate, if you have to get a tattoo to use as a chat-up line." "No, it didn't happen like that at all-" But suddenly, a memory flashed before his eyes. He'd met a guy dressed as a pirate at the harbour and had confided in him all his woes. The pirate had offered to tattoo him. "That'll impress the ladies," he said, rolling up his sleeves to reveal intricacies of muscle and ink. "Take my word for it," he winked. "Oh dear," Kenneth said now, "maybe I should give up." "You could always have me," she offered. He looked at her mouldy teeth, her ill-fitting clothes, her lank hair streaked with grey, and the identical tattoo on her wrist. "Nah," he said and left, leaving her to pay for his and the maid's untouched icecreams. "What a bastard," remarked the American woman, who was sitting nearby. "I gave up on men years ago, girl on girl's the only way. You fancy it?" "Sure," said the ugly woman, gratefully. Despite having supposedly given up, Kenneth couldn't get the maid out of his head. So he spent the rest of his holiday searching for her. But the hotel staff claimed to have no knowledge of her and none of the guests had seen her either. He spent vast amounts of time studying phrasebooks near bodies of water, leaving towels and expensive shoes nearby, but they did nothing to coax her out of hiding. He returned home and set about making himself more interesting. He quit accountancy and became a stuntman. He threw away his stamps and acquired a boa constrictor called Esteban. He took up snorkelling, became an expert on feng shui, got a pilot's licence, read the entire Bible, Koran and works of Shakespeare, took heroin, joined a blues band, redecorated his house to look like a post office, bought a Filipino slave named Timothy, and got a cover-up tattoo (which said "I am not and never have been an accountant"). And he perfected his Spanish. Women started throwing themselves at him, but he didn't care. The only one he wanted was the mysterious maid. He spent many hours staring at his recovered possessions, wishing they held the answer. He returned to the same resort the following year, taking his treasures with him. He stayed in the same hotel, sat on the same beach and beside the same pool, ate in the same cafe, visited the tower, but the maid remained invisible. Then, after packing his bags, he decided to take one last stroll along the beach. Written in the sand were the words "Go to Brazil, I am there." Could this be a message from the woman, having learnt English? Well, if it was, he didn't care. He wasn't that desperate. It wasn't like he'd be able to find her in Brazil anyway. He would become a monk when he went home. He was very familiar with the Bible, after all. So he went to the airport the next day and headed for the plane to London. The announcer kept making announcements about Rio. "The flight to Rio de Janiero will depart from gate 36 in fifteen minutes. Any passengers wishing to travel to Rio de Janiero should board now and worry about what flight they're actually supposed to be on later." His plane was going from gate 35. He watched the passengers for Rio boarding, looking tanned and happy. He'd quite like to go to Brazil, whether the woman was there or not. He wasn't in any particular hurry to get back to England; his next film didn't start for some weeks and Timothy would keep feeding Esteban, he was sure. And he could easily afford another holiday. "Would passengers Burtwhistle and Perez please board the flight to Sao Paolo at gate 36 instantly," said the announcer. "Last call for passengers Burtwhistle and Perez." It had to be another Burtwhistle, but it was a sign. He took a step towards gate 36, but at that moment, his lucky sponge jumped out of his shoulder bag. He was being ridiculous. Leaving the sponge where it was, he joined the queue to board the plane back to London, when five burly security guards grabbed his arms. "Our lazy baggage checker has just noticed what you are trying to take on the plane!" one declared. "Shampoo! Conditioner! Shower gel! Toothpaste! Fluids! You are under arrest, on the suspicion of terrorism!" "No, it's all right, I'll happily leave all that stuff here," he said, rootling in his bag for the offending fluids. "No! You are coming with us!" they said and dragged him away to a Spanish prison. When he tried to explain why he was smuggling fluids, they just laughed at him. "You are twenty nine years old and reasonably attractive! You cannot have been a virgin a year ago!" "I was an accountant," he said. "No you weren't," they said, pointing to his tattoo. Several years later, he was finally let out of prison (the police also found the pilot's licence and knowledge of the Koran suspicious) and found the maid waiting for him outside. "Is everything ok?" she asked. "I am very sorry. I was testing you; I was waiting for you on the plane to London. I did not mean for that to happen." "Never mind," he said. His time in prison had not been too bad. He had rearranged the furniture in a positive fashion and after teaching the other Shakespeare, although they were still mean to him, at least they'd (ad)dressed him in borrowed robes, so to speak. "You yellow bellied coward!" He dropped to one knee. "Will you marry me?" "Yes," she said, and she began to undress him right there. Then suddenly she leapt back in horror. "What?" he asked. "Accountant!" she said, pointing at his tattoo. "What a bastard!" And she hurried away. Sure enough, in prison, one of his cellmates had given him a tattoo. It was illegal to possess needles and ink in prison, so to gain a tattoo was to flaunt one's disrespect for the rules. Since the cellmate thought his current tattoo was totally lame, he had tattooed a crab over it. Unfortunately, he had run out of ink before he could cover the word "accountant". "I'm not an accountant!" he cried, but she did not come back. He tried to chase her, but his trousers were round his ankles, so he tripped over them, and broke his ankle. After getting out of hospital, he returned to London. He had "£100 = 0.87 euros" tattooed over the word "accountant", since this patently wasn't true, thus proving he had no understanding of money. And he embarked upon his new plan to win the maid back. He threw himself into his job as a stuntman and found roles in bigger and better films. At one point, he was working as a stunt double for Keanu Reeves, and one day, when Keanu had gone for a slash, Kenneth pretended to be him and said some of his lines. "Oh my God," said the director. "Those lines were really well delivered! Hey, you're not Keanu, but you're a much better actor! You take the role! Keanu, you're fired!" "GAH!" came a disgruntled shout from a nearby trailer. So Kenneth became a famous actor, renouned for doing all his own stunts. He starred in blockblusters, comedies, historical dramas, martial arts movies and arthouse flicks. Women from all over the world threw themselves at him, but he was not interested. He just wanted the maid. But after receiving his fifth oscar, he felt sure she must have seen him on the big screen, and he returned to the Spanish resort, hoping to encounter her. She was waiting for him in the hotel reception. "Is everything ok?" she asked. "I am sorry I doubted you. You're clearly not an accountant after all. Come, let us go to the cafe where we first spoke." "How about the tower?" he leered. "No, having sex in a church is wrong, I only took you there because there, you could not could escape." So they headed for the cafe and enjoyed ice creams and conversation. Then the bill came. He could have easily afforded it, but he gave it a once-over through habit. "They've added that up wrong," he said. "Accountant!" she cried in terror, getting to her feet. "Here, have a flier," said a passing young man, handing her a leaflet. They glanced at it and Kenneth saw it was an advert for his new film. "Kenneth Burtwhistle plays a good-looking accountant who just can't find a girlfriend in a hilarious new romantic comedy, 'It Doesn't Add Up'." "Accountant!" she screamed, backing away. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, determined to set the record straight once and for all. "Listen," he said. "Accountant!" she yelled, pointing at his tattoo. In recent years, the pound had fallen dreadfully and now the sum was approximately correct. "What a bastard!" And with that, she dashed out of the cafe. He pursued her, tripping over a table occupied by the greedy American and the ugly woman. Ice cream and ketchup splashed his shirt. "Give up, she's clearly mad," said the ugly woman. "I'd do an accountant. Especially a rich one who could act and fly a plane." She licked her lips. "Fancy a threesome?" offered the American. "No," he said, and walked away, once again leaving his bill unpaid. "What a bastard," they sighed with relish (and mayonnaise, dripping from their mouths). He felt the urge to go to the beach, to cleanse himself of these years of stupidity. On arriving, he stripped to his boxers, put on his snorkel which he carried with him at all times, and dived into the sea. There, a shark noticed the crab on his wrist and snapped at him angrily, devouring his boxers in one misplaced bite. "What a bastard!" he gurgled. When he emerged, a fresh towel, a clean shirt, a pair of boxer shorts and a phrasebook were waiting for him. His trousers had been folded and his old hiking boots he couldn't help but wear had been replaced with a pair of designer sandals. This, he thought, is the beginning of a beautiful relationship. He might have known that one that commenced with a woman stealing his possessions was destined for failure, whereas this mysterious benefactor showed signs of being a far more suitable wife. He started to put on the boxers when Keanu Reeves emerged from the sea. "Hey, those are my shorts!" he exclaimed. "Thief! Pervert!" Then the police arrived and arrested both of them for indecent exposure (it was about time), which carried a far heftier sentence than suspected terrorism. And so Kenneth spent the rest of his days in prison, having Keanu Reeves tattoo "lily-livered whey-faced accountant" all over him. It was an all right life, though. Timothy regularly sent him letters informing him that Esteban was flourishing, and on the envelopes he stuck the most exquisite stamps . . . Moral: If you want to pick up mad women, don't be an accountant or get a tattoo from a pirate.
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