[Still Betty here. Sorry. I think Jonny's coming back soon, honest]

He was a nice man – don’t get me wrong – but after two weeks trapped in a small office in a grubby theatre in an unfamiliar rainy city in the frozen north, I wanted to defenestrate him. Or spay him. Or decapitate him. Any of the above would have been fine, at that point.

It wasn’t that he was a bad man per se, it was mainly that he used to work at the RSC. No, that’s not a problem in itself, obviously – I know lots of people who used to work for the RSC, and they’re mainly all lovely, but the point that differentiates them from him is that they don’t mention it EVERY TWO MINUTES, ALL THE GOD-GIVEN DAY.

“Oh, well at the RSC, we used to … When I was at the RSC … You know, the RSC way of doing things … All those years at the RSC, we… This isn’t how we would have done it at the RSC, but as you wish … You know, I used to work for the RSC, and … At the RSC …“

By the end of the fortnight I was having an actual physical reaction to the letters r, s and c. Even if other people said them. Even if I said them myself. A shudder would travel down my spine, and bile would rise in my throat.
I still get it, in fact, years later. I have it now.
RSC.
*Shudder*. Weurgh.

Then there was his spiel. The spiel. The most incredible spiel of its kind. Ever.

I first heard it when I commented on his interesting surname. And a few days later, when someone else commented on the same, I heard the same spiel. In the following weeks, I heard it fifteen more times, each time anyone on the phone made comment, or, I learnt, when asked how to spell it. Eventually, I was able to give the spiel, word for word.

“Yes, it IS an interesting name, isn’t it? When I an early bath from the RSC to spend more time with my young daughter, and let my wife concentrate on advancing her career, all the people in the department I headed up clubbed together and bought me a case of very fine wines and cheeses from the Nyuskovnech region in Bulgaria where the name orginates from, bless them. Anyway, what were we saying?…“

Doesn’t sound remarkable at first pass, does it? Or particularly annoying. But let’s go through this point by point.

“Yes it IS an interesting name, isn’t it?” This is fine. This makes sense. This acknowledges and agrees with the co-conversationalists question in a lively and pleasant way. This, in fact, is all he needed to say.

“When I took an early bath from the RSC…” This is genius: See, this tells us a) I – unsurprisingly – worked at the RSC! b) I must have worked there for a very long time, and been successful enough to take early retirement! c) I left of my own accord. d) I am a man of the people, and am blokey enough to slip phrases like ‘early bath’ comfortably into the sentence!

“… to spend more time with my young daughter, and let my wife concentrate on advancing her career…” Though of advancing years, I have a much younger wife! And am virile! We demonstrably have had sex quite recently! I am caring, and modern, and would rather take my part in child-rearing than reach the top of my chosen profession. I am generously allowing my wife to do this instead.

“… all the people …” I was very popular!

” … in the department I headed up …” And also very senior!

“… clubbed together and …” God, they loved me.

“… bought me a case of very fine wines …” I know my wine. I am cultured.

“… and cheeses …” I also know my cheese.

“… from the Nyuskovnech region …” [He would pronounce this authentically] I can speak foriegn languages.

“… in Bulgaria where the name orginates from …” I know, and am proud of, my heritage. Viva Bulgaria etc.

“… bless them. …” I am grateful, and nice. Also, I probably have enormous genitals.

Seriously. The whole thing was a carefully constructed piece of genius. So much information! So much content! So little need to ever speak to him again! EVER!

I still marvel at the memory. And in a way, you know, I’m still jealous.

Although I’d still happily punch someone in the knees if they tried to shut me in a small room with him again.

[And that's it from me. Thank you for having me, and thank you for your comments. In the main. You've been lovely. Mostly. No, really, you have. I'll hand you back to your regular host though, now. If he ever comes back. Frankly I thought he was coming back last tuesday. Anyway. Thank you for having me. Thank you and good night.]

[Still Betty here. Sorry. I think Jonny's coming back soon, honest]

He was a nice man – don’t get me wrong – but after two weeks trapped in a small office in a grubby theatre in an unfamiliar rainy city in the frozen north, I wanted to defenestrate him. Or spay him. Or decapitate him. Any of the above would have been fine, at that point.

It wasn’t that he was a bad man per se, it was mainly that he used to work at the RSC. No, that’s not a problem in itself, obviously – I know lots of people who used to work for the RSC, and they’re mainly all lovely, but the point that differentiates them from him is that they don’t mention it EVERY TWO MINUTES, ALL THE GOD-GIVEN DAY.

“Oh, well at the RSC, we used to … When I was at the RSC … You know, the RSC way of doing things … All those years at the RSC, we… This isn’t how we would have done it at the RSC, but as you wish … You know, I used to work for the RSC, and … At the RSC …“

By the end of the fortnight I was having an actual physical reaction to the letters r, s and c. Even if other people said them. Even if I said them myself. A shudder would travel down my spine, and bile would rise in my throat.
I still get it, in fact, years later. I have it now.
RSC.
*Shudder*. Weurgh.

Then there was his spiel. The spiel. The most incredible spiel of its kind. Ever.

I first heard it when I commented on his interesting surname. And a few days later, when someone else commented on the same, I heard the same spiel. In the following weeks, I heard it fifteen more times, each time anyone on the phone made comment, or, I learnt, when asked how to spell it. Eventually, I was able to give the spiel, word for word.

“Yes, it IS an interesting name, isn’t it? When I an early bath from the RSC to spend more time with my young daughter, and let my wife concentrate on advancing her career, all the people in the department I headed up clubbed together and bought me a case of very fine wines and cheeses from the Nyuskovnech region in Bulgaria where the name orginates from, bless them. Anyway, what were we saying?…“

Doesn’t sound remarkable at first pass, does it? Or particularly annoying. But let’s go through this point by point.

“Yes it IS an interesting name, isn’t it?” This is fine. This makes sense. This acknowledges and agrees with the co-conversationalists question in a lively and pleasant way. This, in fact, is all he needed to say.

“When I took an early bath from the RSC…” This is genius: See, this tells us a) I – unsurprisingly – worked at the RSC! b) I must have worked there for a very long time, and been successful enough to take early retirement! c) I left of my own accord. d) I am a man of the people, and am blokey enough to slip phrases like ‘early bath’ comfortably into the sentence!

“… to spend more time with my young daughter, and let my wife concentrate on advancing her career…” Though of advancing years, I have a much younger wife! And am virile! We demonstrably have had sex quite recently! I am caring, and modern, and would rather take my part in child-rearing than reach the top of my chosen profession. I am generously allowing my wife to do this instead.

“… all the people …” I was very popular!

” … in the department I headed up …” And also very senior!

“… clubbed together and …” God, they loved me.

“… bought me a case of very fine wines …” I know my wine. I am cultured.

“… and cheeses …” I also know my cheese.

“… from the Nyuskovnech region …” [He would pronounce this authentically] I can speak foriegn languages.

“… in Bulgaria where the name orginates from …” I know, and am proud of, my heritage. Viva Bulgaria etc.

“… bless them. …” I am grateful, and nice. Also, I probably have enormous genitals.

Seriously. The whole thing was a carefully constructed piece of genius. So much information! So much content! So little need to ever speak to him again! EVER!

I still marvel at the memory. And in a way, you know, I’m still jealous.

Although I’d still happily punch someone in the knees if they tried to shut me in a small room with him again.

[And that's it from me. Thank you for having me, and thank you for your comments. In the main. You've been lovely. Mostly. No, really, you have. I'll hand you back to your regular host though, now. If he ever comes back. Frankly I thought he was coming back last tuesday. Anyway. Thank you for having me. Thank you and good night.]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

She was quite sweet, in a way. If you could turn the volume off for a moment, she would have looked like a little angel.

But you couldn’t turn off the volume. And she either couldn’t, or didn’t want to. And the only person in the bus who could – a parent, didn’t. I assume because someone on the telly – a “Jo the SuperNanny” or a “Chantelle the Champion-Childminder” or a “Grunhilde the uber au pair” or something – had informed them that the best way to deal with tantrums is to ignore them. Is it? Is it REALLY? Is it when the tantrum is coming in at over 187 decibels in an enclosed space with far too many people in it already? Is it the best way of dealing with it then?
Or is it a contravention of EU noise levels and various human rights acts all at once?

AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Don’t get me wrong, she really was cute, though.
Or would have been if she hadn’t been puce and demonically wailing. I assume her incredibly big blue eyes were related in some part to her mild Downs Syndrome status, and she fixed them on me, almost amused as she screamed.
Like she was screaming at me. Just me. Me who hadn’t bloody done anything.
Screaming at me. For me. And drill-like, straight through me.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Her father stood behind her and talked on his mobile phone. Every five minutes or so, he’d move around the pram to a place where she could see him – and suddenly, she’d stop. She’d see him standing there, and the very sight of him would subdue her into a satisfied silence. For ooooh, whole seconds at a time. And then, having proved his power, he would withdraw it again, and scuttle back round to the back of the pram to make another call to work, as if she wouldn’t notice he was gone.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

She would. Immediately. And at increased volume. Every time.

I tried to work out how I might possibly see this in a positive light. I tried to think of it as a character study – something I might call upon later if I had to play ‘angry commuter’ onstage, or was playing a character with a very bad headache, or something.

I was busy trying to see this in a positive light when a renewed bout of shrieking cut into my frontal lobes with the power of a high speed drill.

I stopped trying to see it in a positive light. There was just a girl, shrieking, and, the more I looked at her, the more I could tell she was enjoying it. She was screaming her little head off, she was inducing headaches at the rate of eight heads a scream, and my God, she was loving every second of it. There wasn’t a positive way of seeing this. It was, pretty much, a comprehensively negative experience. I hated it. I hated her parent, I hated the noise, and I hated her. Although, as mentioned previously, she was very cute and etc etc caveat caveat.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Her parent had rung the bell. Though this had put his hand slightly into view and thus dampened the siren for a short happy second, after he’d rung it, he withdrew it again, and the screaming commenced.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

This was no respite, not really. It was my stop too.

The doors slid open, and he started manouvring the pram toward the exit. I got out first, closer, and turned. Instinctively I grabbed the front of the pram, and started manouvering it to the kerb. I looked up. There were those big blue eyes. That button nose. And that…

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

She screamed, loudly and lustfully, in my face.
The warning light in my head started flashing. I had known a pressure explosion might occur, but hadn’t known when, or how, or at what volume, and….

And that’s it.

Choose your own ending.

Choose the ending where I screamed at full throttle and with uncontained gusto directly into the face of a small down’s syndrome child and felt dramatically better for doing so, left though I was with a nagging suspicion that I might be considedred a bad human being.

Or choose the one where I didn’t scream at the small child, but smiled at her beatifically instead, scowled at her father, and strode away feeling like a good person, although one with less cojones than I might sometimes claim to have.

Or choose the ending where I admit none of this happened, and was all carefully constructed to needle the easily needled.

Choose your own ending, dear someone-else’s-readers. Choose whichever ending you prefer, it makes no odds to me. My conscience is clear.

Well, kind of.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

She was quite sweet, in a way. If you could turn the volume off for a moment, she would have looked like a little angel.

But you couldn’t turn off the volume. And she either couldn’t, or didn’t want to. And the only person in the bus who could – a parent, didn’t. I assume because someone on the telly – a “Jo the SuperNanny” or a “Chantelle the Champion-Childminder” or a “Grunhilde the uber au pair” or something – had informed them that the best way to deal with tantrums is to ignore them. Is it? Is it REALLY? Is it when the tantrum is coming in at over 187 decibels in an enclosed space with far too many people in it already? Is it the best way of dealing with it then?
Or is it a contravention of EU noise levels and various human rights acts all at once?

AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Don’t get me wrong, she really was cute, though.
Or would have been if she hadn’t been puce and demonically wailing. I assume her incredibly big blue eyes were related in some part to her mild Downs Syndrome status, and she fixed them on me, almost amused as she screamed.
Like she was screaming at me. Just me. Me who hadn’t bloody done anything.
Screaming at me. For me. And drill-like, straight through me.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Her father stood behind her and talked on his mobile phone. Every five minutes or so, he’d move around the pram to a place where she could see him – and suddenly, she’d stop. She’d see him standing there, and the very sight of him would subdue her into a satisfied silence. For ooooh, whole seconds at a time. And then, having proved his power, he would withdraw it again, and scuttle back round to the back of the pram to make another call to work, as if she wouldn’t notice he was gone.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

She would. Immediately. And at increased volume. Every time.

I tried to work out how I might possibly see this in a positive light. I tried to think of it as a character study – something I might call upon later if I had to play ‘angry commuter’ onstage, or was playing a character with a very bad headache, or something.

I was busy trying to see this in a positive light when a renewed bout of shrieking cut into my frontal lobes with the power of a high speed drill.

I stopped trying to see it in a positive light. There was just a girl, shrieking, and, the more I looked at her, the more I could tell she was enjoying it. She was screaming her little head off, she was inducing headaches at the rate of eight heads a scream, and my God, she was loving every second of it. There wasn’t a positive way of seeing this. It was, pretty much, a comprehensively negative experience. I hated it. I hated her parent, I hated the noise, and I hated her. Although, as mentioned previously, she was very cute and etc etc caveat caveat.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Her parent had rung the bell. Though this had put his hand slightly into view and thus dampened the siren for a short happy second, after he’d rung it, he withdrew it again, and the screaming commenced.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

This was no respite, not really. It was my stop too.

The doors slid open, and he started manouvring the pram toward the exit. I got out first, closer, and turned. Instinctively I grabbed the front of the pram, and started manouvering it to the kerb. I looked up. There were those big blue eyes. That button nose. And that…

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

She screamed, loudly and lustfully, in my face.
The warning light in my head started flashing. I had known a pressure explosion might occur, but hadn’t known when, or how, or at what volume, and….

And that’s it.

Choose your own ending.

Choose the ending where I screamed at full throttle and with uncontained gusto directly into the face of a small down’s syndrome child and felt dramatically better for doing so, left though I was with a nagging suspicion that I might be considedred a bad human being.

Or choose the one where I didn’t scream at the small child, but smiled at her beatifically instead, scowled at her father, and strode away feeling like a good person, although one with less cojones than I might sometimes claim to have.

Or choose the ending where I admit none of this happened, and was all carefully constructed to needle the easily needled.

Choose your own ending, dear someone-else’s-readers. Choose whichever ending you prefer, it makes no odds to me. My conscience is clear.

Well, kind of.

As far as I am aware, flatulence has only been the death knell of one relationship of mine.

[Incidentally, it's still Betty here, covering for JonnyB, who is on holiday. Hello! Again!]

It was the last summer of drama school, weeks of rehearsals, performance and after-show parties topping off three years of sexual tension. All through May, June, July of that year it was hot. It was hot, we were all on heat and frequently we were steaming. It was like Fame (the movie, not the series, obviously) but with extra drugs, and a lot of tequila.

Barney was a boy on his way up. He was talented, too talented for our backwater drama school, and pretty to boot. For hours, we’d been flirting, gently, letting each wave of fluttering flattery wash gently against the shores of lust until we were almost fit to burst. But more than just wanting to rut, we seemed to be able to talk about anything, joke about anything, laugh about anything. Or so I thought.

Cheap red wine makes me fart.

Sorry to be blunt, but it’s a fact that’s going to come in handy quite soon in the story.

The night of our opening night party, we gorged ourselves on the complimentary falafel and red wine and lentil cake feast laid on by our wholesome director, and then we went home and were thoroughly unwholesome with each other.

In the morning, I rose silently, dressed , and, while he slept, stealthily prepared to go and fetch him something yumtious for breakfast. Approaching the door, I bent to pick up my shoes, and expelled, insidiously, a cloud of noious gas the size of Wolverhampton, and almost as foul smelling.

Panicked, I crept to his door, snuck out, leaned against the wall and prayed for the ability to turn back time, or at least the ability to suck air back into my bottom. I closed my eyes, and hoped it had not been as bad as it might, and perhaps he might sleep through. And then I caught the whiff of skunk mass-grave, and heard him wake. And gag.

I sneaked away. To the front door, and gone. I’d left nothing. No note, no message, no sign, just smell.

That night, approaching the theatre, I saw him standing outside, joking with the spearcarriers. I hurried past, head down, said nothing, face burning. All night, the same. He said nothing, and neither did I. And the next day. And the next.

By the weekend, it was almost as if nothing had ever happened.
I was putting the finishing touches to my face when the door of my dressing room opened quietly behind me.
I wouldn’t have known but for the soft squeak of the hinges. Then I remembered that the hinges didn’t squeak. Too late… and the powerful peff of putrified something filled the room.

Just think. We could have been something now, Barney, we could have had it all. We could have been Jude and Sienna, Kenneth and Emma, Tom Cruise and that woman that’s just had his alien baby. Instead we went fart for fart in the enclosed spaces of that provincial town.

We still move in the same circles, of course, and one day we’ll probably board the same lift en route to a big audition. I just hope, for both our sakes, that no one influential is in that lift. No one influential or easily nauseated.

There are *ucking foxes in next door’s garden!!!

And that – ladies and gentlebloods, is my best and only impression of Mr JonnyB.
Except he probably wouldn’t have said the ‘ucking’ word.

Yes, hello, my name is Betty. I am, apparently your hostess. With fingers full of fairydust, dear Jonnyboy has let me twinkle all over his internet while he’s away. Here I am.

I’m not sure what to do now.

Oh yes! Foxes!

Sorry. “Foxes!!!” There are *ucking foxes in my neighbour’s garden!!!

Now when I say *ucking foxes, I think we all understand what I mean.
The asterix is representing a letter, you see. I’m just not sure whether I’m allowed to swear. Although, lets face it, this is the internet. I could probably tie balloons to my pubic hair and issue an open invite to a party in my Aunt Jemima and no one would bat an eyelid. Especially not the foxes. Sorry, that doesn’t make much sense, I just realised I was supposed to be talking about foxes. I have no idea how Jonny does this, it’s very hard.

I understand that the first sentence I wrote could sound like ‘there are foxes in next door’s garden and I’m not very happy about it’. This is not the case. There are foxes in next doors garden, and they are at it. They are cavorting. Relating. They are relating like rabbits.

Except not like rabbits, see, because I’ve always imagined rabbits might have happy, soft, fluffy, moppet sex.
Foxes? They have angry sex, from the sounds of it. Angry, bitey sex, all teeth and claws and barking, sounding thoroughly unpleasant for the time it lasts, which luckily isn’t very long before, in stunned silence, they seem to crawl away and lick their wounds alone.
So by the sounds of it, I would estimate these foxes have been married for somewhere between ten and fourteen years.
As they still have sex at all.

See, I don’t know whether to complain. Where I live, one doesn’t converse with ones neighbours, unless one is attempting to secure a very bad fate or some very good weed. Or both.

I might complain to the foxes, but I’m not sure they would care. Or hear me over the shagging sounds, which sound like this. ‘NYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! ROGH! RAAIIIIG!’

I could try hunting the foxes, I suppose, but having not left the city in a long while, I’m not sure whether the hunting ban affects us as well as those dreadful rurals. Also, I would have to loose my dog out of the window. And while it would almost certainly not kill him, I think five floors may be too much. Although gravity would probably ensure he landed cast first, so he may be ok, as long as I threw far enough to get over the barbed wire, then he could sniff them out. Well, he would have to, of course, after that time with the… Oh I should stop this. I don’t really have a dog.

Not any more.

I should probably stop now all the same. Jonny never writes too much, does he?
Besides, the knockout bell has rung, and the vulpine lovemaking bout has stopped for the evening. I imagine them there now, lying there, silently hating each other but satisfied, pulling on their – foxes don’t smoke, do they? – pulling on their glacier mints and just being generally cunning.

The *astards.

I am going to Cornwall!!!

Back in a week.

Whilst I am away, my Private Secret Diary will be guest edited by my good friend Betty.

Betty’s an actress who, like Salvadore, prefers to write under a nom de plume (that is French for ‘name of pen’). But of course in this medium it’s what one writes rather than Who one is that’s the thing. Please make her very welcome and I will see you all in a week or so.