STORY: The Man Who Thought He Was Cheryl Cole

5 Sep

By Slick Nick | @Poppeelings

On the train to work, he displayed a hand tattoo etched by biro. He pretended to wave a flowing lock of chemically-enhanced hair in other commuter’s faces. He caught a glimpse of a photo of Cheryl Cole in a business man’s ruffled copy of that morning’s Metro, saying “that wasn’t taken at me best angle like.”

When the train arrived at its destination, he threw down a red bath mat and made his exit. He stopped to speak to a ticket inspector: “That train journey was thoroughly entertaining and I thoroughly enjoyed myself pet.”

He popped into a nearby coffee house and ordered his favourite beverage by commanding “just my usual, pet” to the bewildered man behind the counter, who’d never seen him before.

“Where’s the nearest dressing room pet?” asked out hero, referring to the toilet. He was directed to the ladies room at the back of the premises, where he did his business amidst a handful of screams from inside.

“That toilet wasn’t what I was expecting, but I still thoroughly enjoyed myself,” he said, spraying hairspray on his cropped mop.

Because he's worth it

Because he’s worth it

At work in the city, he called the office temp over to his desk. She handed him the business report that was due, and he perused it whilst applying another layer of mascara.

“I like you a lot as a person pet but we haven’t seen the best of you on this occasion. I think you could be in trouble this week.”

He was called into an interview with a candidate for a role in finance. After an hour of competency-based questions, he asked the candidate to give a short rendition of ‘fight for this love’ by Cheryl Cole. The candidate begrudgingly did so.

“I’ve interviewed ten candidates for this position pet and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working with you,” said our hero. Then after a 5 minute pause: “It’s not good news I’m afraid. You’re not in my final three.” They sobbed together for another five minutes.

On the commute home, he came across a wild-haired busker playing a Smiths song on a dirty acoustic guitar. He threw some pennies into the busker’s guitar sack and approached.

“I don’t know what that was you were playing pet, but I found it thoroughly entertaining and I’m looking forward to seeing what you do next.”

His evening finished like it always did, furiously masturbating over an old photo of Ashley Cole from the back of a 2006 Sun newspaper, its ink virtually faded away.

“I’m sorry I kept hiding the remote, Ash.”

And then sleep washed over him.





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