Bored of excitement – The griefjunkie blog 

Dear Rachel,

I show mad skills in cold weather, including the useful wearing carrier bags inside your shoes, which is an old market trader’s trick, as is standing on cardboard, or sitting on newspaper, all of which are far more effective than they sound. Also, clothes-wise, I will wear two t shirts, two jumpers, a hoodie, a scarf, thermal leggings – which, I have to say, leave NOTHING to the imagination – my new fleecy hat and thick gloves. This outfit also helps to combat boredom while travelling home on the Underground, as by the time you get to Tufnell Park, you’ll have fainted from heat exhaustion.

[Hitting up Read More will reveal a blizzard of innuendo, euphemism, and double entendre]

Anyway. Our postman at Griefjunkie Towers is effortlessly gay and called Brian the Innuendo Postman. He is, in fact, so gay, that I have promised to get him a bike with a basket on the front if we ever make any money, so that he can put his very small dog in it when doing his rounds. Brian relentlessly attempts to homo eroticise postal delivery of heavy objects by offering to ‘take that round the back for you’ or claiming that he ‘has something ever so big for you on the van, I might need a hand to get it off‘ and so on and so forth and so on. Fact fans, trivia buffs and knowledge crusaders will be enthralled to learn that the blurb I wrote on the back of the Gay Guevara mug was wholly based upon Brian.

On Wednesday, he called exceptionally early, while I was asleep. At best, I usually wake up confused – and at worst, screaming – and was all bleary and all over the place, trying to get a dressing gown or something with which to cover my frame of useless limbs before Brian left one of the Royal Mail’s excellent ‘You didn’t answer the door within four seconds so we assumed you were out and have stolen your stuff as a result’ cards, which come to think of it would probably have his phone number on it, rather than the sorting offices’. I will spare you the horrific details of my naked stumblings, but they ended with me – and please, no pushing at the back, ladies – walking into the kitchen with nothing whatsoever on at all. I knew that this was likely to briefly expose my full revolting glory to Brian, but thought well whatever, if he’s looking into the glass on the front door it will only be to check his eyeliner or to see if he looks even vaguely like Freddie Mercury. Eventually, I found my dressing gown and fought my way into it, getting all the arms inside out and all that, and adjusted everything so that I was as decent as could be expected under the circumstances, and opened the door. ‘Just a small packet for you, then’ said Brian, handing me a parcel containing t shirts. ‘Yes, although it is very cold in here‘, I replied, signing for it and reflecting that in future we should probably just hire Charles Hawtrey and Terry Scott to conduct these transactions for us, call the whole thing Carry On Round The Back Door, and have done with it.