Dinner at Valentino's

by Bob Jacobs

On our first wedding anniversary Gloria and I had a cozy dinner at Valentino's, the Italian place on Broad Street, and drank two bottles of Montepulciano. The following anniversary we drove home drunk from a late-nighter at Wetherspoons and knocked down and killed a cyclist in a hit and run, and after reaching home we had sex twice on the rug in the lounge listening to Celine Dion singing My Heart Will Go On. Next anniversary I came home early and found her getting screwed by some old guy who'd come round to fix the boiler, so I held him down naked and screaming on the bed while Gloria choked him to death by stuffing his mouth full of Thornton's Special Selection Belgian chocolates. The following year we dined at a charity function attended by the Blairs, and after a few glasses of Chablis Gloria bet Cherie Blair ten pounds that she couldn't get Tony to invade Iraq, and you know how Cherie can't resist a bet when she's had a drink. The day before our fifth anniversary, which I felt was special, I asked Gloria which of our anniversaries she'd enjoyed the most, and she said dinner at Valentino's (which has since closed) was her fondest. I felt crippled, and realized that our marriage was nothing but a sham.

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Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

The Man Who Held On To a Tree

by Bob Jacobs

I came across a man clinging to a tree by the side of the road - eyes shut, arms wrapped around the trunk, body pressed against the bark - and asked him what the matter was. "Gravity," he gasped, "it's stopping, can't you feel it?" I placed my arm gently around his shoulders and reassured him that gravity is constant so there was nothing to fear, until, comforted, he thanked me, shook my hand and set off down the road. That's when gravity stopped. I clung to the tree and watched him float away screaming. "I'm sorry," I whispered, and in a funny way I almost meant it.

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Bob Jacobs, author of My Side of the Bed, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

Testosterone

by Bob Jacobs

Kiss kiss kiss; ooooh yeah. Kissy Kissy Kiss Kiss; Oh God Yes. KISS; Ouch. KISS BLOODY KISS; Stop it! KISS BLOODY KISS BLOODY KISS BLOODY KISS; SLAP! Slam.

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Bob Jacobs, author of Repeal of Amendment Three, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.

An Atheist's Plea

by Bob Jacobs

I died in a car crash this morning after I fell asleep at the wheel, my own fault for staying up half the night writing. I hadn't a clue what to expect and found myself surrounded by a fuzzy white nothingness, so I waited for God knows how long until some old guy turned up. He asked my name, licked his thumb and flicked through a bunch of papers he carried on a clipboard. He said, "So tell me, Mr Atheist, what have you ever done to deserve an eternity in Heaven?" Now, I'm an ordinary guy, I've had an ordinary life, I've done nothing remarkable and I haven't been to church in years, so I smiled meekly and shrugged, at which point he grunted, turned and walked away. When he had almost disappeared from view I shouted, "Hey, wait a minute, I once had some stories posted on the Six Sentences site, that must count for something, right?"

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Bob Jacobs, who's been Looking After the Little Lady, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

Repeal of Amendment Three

by Bob Jacobs

I caught an early train into London for the first public execution in Great Britain since 1868, after it was reintroduced under amendment three of the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Trafalgar Square heaved with people, all desperate for a good view of Al-Muteri's beheading, but I managed to work my way almost to the front where I could see over the shoulders of those squashed against the barriers. Al-Muteri, head shaved, climbed the steps slowly in a long white robe looking relaxed, bored almost, and just before the blade fell - I'll never forget this - he smiled and said, "God is great." The crowd gasped and fell momentarily silent as the head dropped, and for those of us who were close enough, before the cheering started, Al-Muteri's severed head could clearly be heard to say, "God is great." Since then his head, in a protective glass case, has been smiling and reciting the Koran for more than three months. Of course, the beheadings have stopped.

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Bob Jacobs, author of My Reflection is Killing Me, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.

Romeo and Juliet

by Bob Jacobs

Gloria and me were in the middle of row twelve with a perfect view of the stage when an old couple, a little bald-headed guy and a pear-shaped woman, sat in front of us and immediately began kissing passionately, making obscene slurping noises. I tapped the guy on the shoulder, but without looking up he told me to pee off and mind my own business, and Gloria held me back before I could say anything. The old woman's bra appeared on the back of her seat, dangling against my knees, then the guy was all over her, kissing and sucking and murmuring, lifting up her skirt and pulling off her tights. She straddled him, for Christ's sake, her face silhouetted against the stage, head bobbing, Gloria pinning me back with her arm and glaring at me while they had horribly noisy sex. When the old couple had dressed again and slipped out I asked Gloria why she'd held me back, and she said, "You never know, one day that could be us," and smiled sweetly. I knew then that Gloria and I would never see another play together.

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Bob Jacobs, who took us back to 1969, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

How Women Make Fools Out of Men

by Bob Jacobs

Gloria and I were sitting in the Café des Amis on our third date tucking into chicken nachos when she put down her cutlery, leaned forward, and whispered for the very first time that she loved me. I told her that I was flattered, but it was too soon to speak of love, but she giggled and said, "I'll prove it." She slipped off her shoes, raised a stocking-clad leg, and ate her foot, her calf, her knee and then her thigh, until she'd devoured the whole frigging leg. I said, "Gloria, really, there's no need," but she laughed, ate the other leg, her left arm, her right arm, then paused briefly to look me in the eyes before craning her neck and eating her entire tender body, beating heart and all, so that only her head remained, surrounded by flowing red hair. "I love you," she croaked, through blood-soaked lips. I drove her back to my place where she fellated me right through till morning, when I sent her home in a taxi and told her I'd call, and I have done, many times, but has she ever once answered the frigging phone?

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Bob Jacobs lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.

Eating Tomorrow's Dinner Today

by Bob Jacobs

Someone once told my wife to treat each day as if it was her last. She cheats. She eats tomorrow's dinner today. Not just tomorrow's either, she's eaten all her dinners up to about March 2018 already and can barely squeeze into her clothes. She sweats a lot, gets out of breath from walking, complains of pains in her knees and her feet and lately her chest. Each day I look at her and think it could be her last.

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Bob Jacobs, author of The Eccles Cake Affair, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.

My Side of the Bed

by Bob Jacobs

Come to think of it, I don't think I'd ever seen a ginger hair close up before. This one was on the pillow on my side of the bed when I got back from a business trip. The hair screamed at me and made me jump. I can't ask her yet. I lie awake at night worrying, and in the silence and the darkness the memory of the hair is like a monster that hides under the bed. When I fall asleep I dream that I'm outside in the rain, looking in through the window, and she's squealing with delight beneath a giant orangutan that's wearing my socks.

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Bob Jacobs, author of C*** and C*****, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

Depression

by Bob Jacobs

Christie doesn't appear in photos. There's background where Christie should be. I lie awake nights thinking about this while Christie slumbers beside me in the dark. She'll slip out of bed at daybreak. I'll turn over. And I'll wonder why there's no depression on her pillow.

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Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

Isn't This What You Want?

by Bob Jacobs

And then, for no apparent reason, sex with Gloria became a noisy, physical affair, she would pant loudly, calling out, "Yes, yes, oh yes, more, oh GOD yes, give it to me, right there, RIGHT there, oh Jesus Christ and all His disciples, do it, DO it, DO IT." This went on for weeks, thrashing around beneath me, raking my back with her nails, grabbing the pillow behind her head and thrusting her pelvis at me, and each time my hard-earned erection would turn to marshmallow and I couldn't finish, until that last time as it softened she grabbed my ears, brought her face up to mine and screamed, "OH GOD, I'M COMING." I moved away from her and said, "For Christ's sake Gloria, we've been married twenty-five years and you've never behaved like this until recently, what the hell's wrong with you?" She frowned and said, "Isn't this what you want?" I said, "No, of course not." She sat naked on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed, lit a cigarette, blew the smoke out calmly and said, "Well Christ almighty, it's what I fucking want."

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Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

I Am the Man Who Was Driving the Car

by Bob Jacobs

I am the man who was driving the car that distracted Henri Paul and sent Princess Diana to her death in the Pont de l'Alma underpass in 1997, plunging Britain into mourning. The following day I sprayed my Fiat Uno black, shaved off my beard, and drove down to Portugal where I disposed of the car and rented an isolated villa in the country so that I could come to terms with what I'd done. There I met and fell in love with a plain-looking girl from a nearby village who tended goats on her father's farm, and took her as my wife six months later in a traditional ceremony in a quaint rural church. On our wedding night, drunk on love and having feasted on her body and satisfied my physical desires, I laid my head on her firm young breasts and sobbed as I confessed my part in the tragedy. She told me, in broken English, that I shouldn't feel so bad, that the Fiat Uno is a shit car made in a shit country by filthy peasants, that France is the arsehole of the world, that the British royal family is descended from the inbred rejects of 19th century German aristocracy, that I could use her father's tractor any time I wanted to, and that as long as I promised never to have anal sex with her again she really couldn't give a shit about Princess Diana. Money can't buy a love like that.

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Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

The Eccles Cake Affair

by Bob Jacobs

This morning Pauline brought home two Eccles cakes from the bakery on the corner of St. Dunstan's Street. I'd just bitten into mine when she screamed and said hers resembled the face of Maureen, my ex. She sulked for a while then zoomed off in her Renault Clio, returning an hour later with half a dozen Tesco bags filled with chocolate eclairs. All afternoon she's been pulling them from the bags one after another, wrapping her hands around them, squeezing gently until the cream runs out between her fingers then licking her fingers clean and mouthing my brother's name over and over. Just now I found her lying knickerless on her back on the sofa, eyes closed, knees parted, blobs of cream splattered all over her face and hair. I go numb at the thought of all those carbohydrates.

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Bob Jacobs, author of Testosterone, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.

My Side of the Bed

by Bob Jacobs

Come to think of it, I don't think I'd ever seen a ginger hair close up before. This one was on the pillow on my side of the bed when I got back from a business trip. The hair screamed at me and made me jump. I can't ask her yet. I lie awake at night worrying, and in the silence and the darkness the memory of the hair is like a monster that hides under the bed. When I fall asleep I dream that I'm outside in the rain, looking in through the window, and she's squealing with delight beneath a giant orangutan that's wearing my socks.

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Bob Jacobs lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

My Reflection is Killing Me

by Bob Jacobs

I'm shaving when my reflection leans out, grabs me by the ears and pulls me through the mirror. I crumple on the floor in shock. He kicks me repeatedly in the guts, screaming, but the words don't make any sense and it's all I can do to throw my arms in the way of his blows. Kicking over, he leans down and punches me in the face over and over until my head hurts, my arms hurt, and my insides feel like they've been through a blender. He pauses, panting, and I think it's going to be okay, but then he puts his hands around my neck and starts choking the life out of me and I think, "My God, this is it, my reflection is killing me." As suddenly as it started it stops and as he heaves me back through the mirror, leaving me wondering what the hell that was all about, he shouts, "!dratsab taf uoy thgiew esol - hguone dah ev'I"

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Bob Jacobs, author of How Women Make Fools Out of Men, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio.

Looking After the Little Lady

by Bob Jacobs

My wife is shrinking. Yesterday she couldn't get up onto the sofa without a hand. This morning, the size of a banana, she jumped up and down on the pillow yelling at me to call a doctor. Right now she's in a Cornflakes box lined with cotton wool by the window, and she's not much bigger than a mouse. I'm trying to read the newspaper, but she keeps shrieking at me to do something in that squeaky little voice of hers. So, I fetch my coat, slip on some shoes and leave her a note saying that I'm off to get help, and on the way out I unlock the cat-flap so that she has some company while I'm gone.

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Bob Jacobs, who told us of The Man Who Held On To a Tree, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

My Side of the Bed

by Bob Jacobs

Come to think of it, I don't think I'd ever seen a ginger hair close up before. This one was on the pillow on my side of the bed when I got back from a business trip. The hair screamed at me and made me jump. I can't ask her yet. I lie awake at night worrying, and in the silence and the darkness the memory of the hair is like a monster that hides under the bed. When I fall asleep I dream that I'm outside in the rain, looking in through the window, and she's squealing with delight beneath a giant orangutan that's wearing my socks.

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Bob Jacobs likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds. He lives in the southeast of England.

The Last Mars Bar

by Bob Jacobs

This morning I wrestled a pregnant woman in Morrisons. We both reached for the last Mars bar at the same time. I tried to reason with her. She was eating for two and there was only one Mars bar. I almost had her fingers prised open, loosening her grip on the bar of chocolate, when I got dragged off by a bunch of interfering do-gooders who felt that she should get it. It's the kid I feel sorry for, saddled for life with such a selfish bitch for a mother.

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Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

Fidelity

by Bob Jacobs

I want you to know that every woman I've ever met since the first rumble of puberty, I've spent the first five seconds assessing her potential as a sexual partner. This I've always done, automatically. Of course, most women are immediately discounted as being too old, too ugly, too fat, too hairy, too spotty, and so on, and this often takes less than a second, but there are those, and there have been many over the years, who might have had the potential had circumstances permitted. Don't think my criteria have remained constant, because as I've grown older women who once were too old, too ugly, too fat or too hairy (and even too spotty) might now be considered more interesting for a whole basket of reasons, not all of which I'm sure I could justify. I want you to know that I discounted them all in the end, for one reason or another, all except for you, and that although my criteria have changed over the years, you will never be too old, too ugly, too fat, too hairy or too spotty. I honestly have no idea where that lipstick could have come from.

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Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.

C*** and C*****

by Bob Jacobs

I never heard my mother say c***. She would say bloody, or bugger, or sod, but never c***. She died of c***** when she was fifty-three, and in her final days she withered and faded and looked a hundred and forty. I'm convinced that somehow the two words are related, that c*** and c***** were in cahoots and that her death from c***** was some kind of revenge. This morning I heard my ten-year-old daughter call her younger brother a c*** while they were playing in the garden. She looked up after she said it, our eyes met and she knew that I'd heard her, but I turned away, smiled, and said nothing.

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Bob Jacobs, author of Eating Tomorrow's Dinner Today, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.