Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  Seeing this clear gesture of concern and love forces my stance on this massive interruption to my evening to soften instantly.

  Colin obviously thinks his companion could do with meeting me – no doubt about my detox – and it’s equally obvious he cares a great deal for the little man. Enough to track me down for help, anyway.

  This can’t have been easy for either of them. Or Puggerlugs. No wonder he’s stress-humping.

  I sigh and sit down on the couch.

  ‘So, tell me more, Colin,’ I say in a resigned voice. ‘Why exactly have you brought your boyfriend to me?’

  Colin looks awkward.

  Sorry . . . more awkward. There’s an inherent awkwardness to Colin and his cagoule that probably began at birth.

  ‘Well, much like myself, and all the other people at your meetings, Wilberforce here has an issue with how much time he spends on the Internet.’

  ‘Is that when he’s not stopping his dog making sweet, sweet love to items of furniture?’

  ‘Aha. Yes,’ Colin replies, looking a little sick. ‘But when he’s not doing that, the Internet consumes Wilberforce . . . even more so than it does me.’ His face crumples. ‘We don’t go out any more, Mr Bellows. We don’t see friends. We don’t walk Puggerlugs much. That’s why he has so much . . . so much unspent energy. And the stress of it all is becoming too much to cope with. Wilberforce and I snap at each other. We argue a lot. Puggerlugs here is stressed out most of the time. It’s becoming intolerable.’

  I look at Wilberforce, who now has an expression of such anguish on his face that I feel like crying.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  ‘He really does need to get offline,’ Colin continues. ‘But it’s hard for me to convince him, as I am almost as bad as he is. Which is why I brought him to meet you. I was hoping you could give him a few words of encouragement . . . as the head of Loggers Off. To help him take the leap with me. To convince him a detox is the right thing to do, and to show him that it’s not that hard.’

  I rub my hand across my forehead and sigh. ‘Sure, why not?’ I tell Colin, and indicate for them both to sit on the couch with me.

  ‘Excellent!’ he replies, and looks at his partner. ‘Wilberforce? Mr Bellows is going to talk to you now.’

  Wilberforce smiles, nods and comes to sit next to me, with Puggerlugs still firmly grasped in his arms.

  The look on Wilberforce’s face is very expectant as he awaits my sage advice.

  Oh God. I don’t want this. I don’t want complete strangers to look at me expectantly. Especially ones suffering from psychological issues brought on by excessive Internet usage.

  I’m a graphic designer, for crying out loud. What do I know about helping people with their issues?

  I can barely handle my own.

  ‘Hello, Wilberforce,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  Wilberforce turns his head away from me shyly.

  Colin perches himself on the footstool. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bellows. Wilberforce has a bit of trouble talking to strangers.’

  ‘No problem, Colin.’ I look at Puggerlugs, who returns the stare a little uncertainly.

  ‘That’s a lovely wizard outfit he’s wearing, Wilberforce,’ I say to the little man. ‘He looks a bit like Gandalf.’

  If Gandalf had had some kind of allergic reaction to eating berries, possibly.

  But this puts a broad smile on Wilberforce’s face. ‘Are you . . . are you a fan of The Lord of the Rings?’ he asks me, which is the first thing I’ve heard him actually say, beyond that silly song he performed for his strange little dog.

  ‘Yeah, I am,’ I reply. ‘The detox gave me the chance to read it properly for the first time.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Wilberforce replies. ‘It’s my favourite story.’

  ‘Mine too now . . . I think,’ I say, before taking a breath. ‘Colin here says you could probably do with going on a detox, like the one I’ve been doing?’

  ‘Probably, yes. I do tend to spend a little too much time online.’

  ‘Er . . . how much time would you say?’

  Wilberforce thinks for a moment. ‘I’d estimate my time on the Internet to be between twelve and fourteen hours a day.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  Colin leans forward. ‘Wilberforce here is what you might call “independently wealthy”, Mr Bellows. He doesn’t need to work. He takes very good care of us.’ Colin looks upset again. ‘This is just as well, given what happened with my job.’

  I swallow nervously. ‘Well, that is interesting. And do you think you’d like to do a detox, Wilberforce?’ I ask him.

  The little man looks thoughtful for a second, flicking his tongue over his two enormous front teeth. ‘I’m not sure, Mr Bellows. Colin tells me I need to cut down. And I always listen to Colin. He knows what’s good for me.’

  Colin smiles a bit indulgently. ‘I like to think so. It’s a problem we sadly both share. If I must do something about it, then so must Wilberforce. Our partnership was born of our shared online passions many years ago, and we really should move away from them together.’

  ‘What kinds of things do you both do online?’ I ask, knowing I might be opening a rather large and squelchy can of worms.

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ he tells me. ‘We very much enjoy strategy games such as World of Warcraft and DotA.’

  ‘And light aircraft appreciation,’ Wilberforce adds.

  Colin smiles again. ‘Ah yes. We both enjoy our light aircraft very much. Many a happy hour we’ve spent in flight simulators. We once flew all the way to New Zealand and back.’

  ‘And the forums!’ Wilberforce says. ‘We are both members of many film, television and computer game forums.’

  ‘Indeed!’ says Colin excitedly. ‘We also follow a great many of the same people on social media. Wonderful, interesting people.’

  ‘Yes!’ Wilberforce agrees. ‘Twitter is wonderful! I once got retweeted by Sir Ian McKellen!’ he says, in a voice filled with the purest of pleasure.

  That might explain his love of The Lord of the Rings, I guess.

  ‘It’s so nice to follow people we admire online,’ Colin continues. ‘Makes you feel closer to them.’

  I nod my head in recognition.

  These two men are not so dissimilar to myself, when you get right down to it. They seem to have fallen into a lifestyle almost identical to the one I lived. I have probably played many of the same games they have. Have followed the same people on social media. Have probably even spoken to the two of them on the same forums, at some point.

  Yes, these two are not so different from me at all . . .

  ‘And of course, there are the pugs,’ Colin adds. ‘So many websites, Instagram pages and Facebook groups dedicated to pugs.’

  Wilberforce nods happily. ‘Pugs! Lovely little pugs as far as the eye can see!’

  At the mention of his breed, Puggerlugs immediately starts to wriggle in his owner’s arms again.

  ‘Puggerlugs! Calm yourself!’ Wilberforce squeals as the little dog starts to thrash around wildly.

  ‘Oh no! We may have overexcited him with all the mention of pugs!’ Colin remarks. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t take much these days to get him riled up!’

  So riled up, in fact, that he squirms out of Wilberforce’s arms, leaps off the couch and clamps himself around my right leg with a vice-like grip.

  ‘Fuck about!’ I scream, and try to get to my feet.

  It’s like I’ve been attacked by a facehugger from Alien, only instead of leaping at my face, he’s gone straight for my shin bone.

  I’ll give you three guesses what he does next.

  ‘Aaaaarggh! Stop him!’ I wail as the little dog starts to hump my leg like it’s going out of fashion.

  ‘Puggerlugs!’ Colin yells, rising from the footstool.

  ‘The song!’ Wilberforce bellows. ‘We must sing the song again!’

  ‘Yes!’

  Wilberforce whips out the kazoo and plays the single note as I start to
hop around the living room, shaking my leg for all I’m worth, trying to dislodge the tiny, horny terror.

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Stop being bad!’ they sing. ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! You’re making us sad! Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! To you we entreat! Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Be a good boy, and get a lovely treat!’

  ‘Aaaaarggh!’

  ‘It’s not working!’ Colin howls.

  ‘No it’s fucking not!’ I agree as I lean against the wall, holding my leg aloft in front of me. This bloody pug grips like a boa constrictor covered in superglue.

  ‘You’ll have to sing with us!’ Colin implores.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Sing with us, Mr Bellows! It needs more people. It’s the only way we’ll get him off!’

  ‘I don’t want to get him off, Colin! That’s the bloody point!’

  Wilberforce again blows on the kazoo.

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Stop being bad!’ they sing.

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Stop being a twat!’ I also sing, misremembering the words.

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! You’re making us sad!’ they continue.

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Stop fucking my leg, you little bastard!’ I . . . er . . . ‘sing’.

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! To you we entreat!’

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Ahhh! Gerrof gerrof gerrof!’

  This is a fucking nightmare!

  This is the most awful thing that’s ever happened to me!

  This couldn’t possibly get any worse!

  ‘Hi, Andy! I saw your front door was open and – bloody hell!’

  I look over and my face falls apart in sheer embarrassment and horror. ‘Hi, Grace! Come on in and join the party!’

  She looks understandably traumatised. Who wouldn’t? After all, how else are you supposed to react when you walk in on your potential love interest being sexually molested by a pug dressed as a wizard, while two men crowd around him, singing a weird song at the tops of their lungs?

  ‘Puggerlugs! Puggerlugs! Be a good boy, and get a lovely treat!’

  ‘Yes! Give him a fucking treat!’ I scream. ‘Give him all the treats! Just get him to stop shagging my leg before he translates himself all over me!’

  I fear that however well the linguine and the semifreddo may turn out, this disturbing scene will have killed any potential passion that tonight may have held in store for Grace and me.

  ‘Why . . . why is that dog humping your leg, Andy?!’ Grace exclaims.

  I think for a moment. ‘Because somebody thought a digital detox would be a good fucking idea?’ I venture as I lower my leg again.

  If the leaflet I picked up from Dr Hu’s office had come with a note at the bottom that said, ‘Warning: This detox may result in strange dogs dressed as Gandalf having sex with your right shin’, I doubt I would have bothered with the whole thing.

  ‘Can you . . . can you get him to stop?!’ Grace exclaims.

  I look over at Wilberforce and Colin, who are both now holding up dog treats again.

  ‘I’m honestly not sure!’ I screech. ‘Lads! Any ideas?!’

  ‘We all give him treats!’ Wilberforce suggests, rummaging around in his pocket and producing a small bag. This he holds out in Grace’s direction.

  ‘Take one!’ I tell her.

  ‘I don’t want to!’ she argues – quite understandably.

  ‘Please, God! Take a treat and wave it at the molester on my leg!’ I wail.

  ‘OK! OK!’ Grace grabs a treat from the bag with a disgusted look on her face.

  ‘Hold it out to him!’ Colin tells her as he and Wilberforce crouch down to do the same. She follows suit, and I’m instantly reminded of the three wise men at the crib of the little baby Jesus – only this baby Jesus is snorting like a pig and thrusting like an eighties heavy metal frontman.

  Luckily . . . thankfully . . . by the grace of God, and by the grace of Grace . . . Puggerlugs sees what they are all holding out for him, jumps off my leg and goes over to snatch the treat from Grace’s hand.

  After he does this, Wilberforce gathers him back up in his arms again and steps backwards.

  I slump against the wall, trying very hard not to think about the fresh stain on the leg of my jeans.

  Grace stands upright again and takes a deep breath. She then points at Colin and his boyfriend.

  ‘Are they staying for dinner?’ she asks.

  I look at her in horror. Partly at the thought of these three hanging around while I serve up my crab linguine, and partly that Grace would even think that I would have invited them.

  ‘No!’ I cry, suddenly spurred into motion. There’s no way I’m going to sit there and masticate on a semifreddo while a horny pug attempts sex with any more of my body parts, or furniture.

  ‘Colin!’ I snap at the two interlopers. ‘I think it’s time for you, Wilberforce and Puggerlugs to leave!’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I’m so sorry, Mr Bellows!’ Colin wails.

  ‘We are so very sorry!’ Wilberforce adds.

  ‘That’s fine, that’s fine! No real harm done,’ I tell them. ‘But please leave, the both of you.’

  Wilberforce scuttles towards the door, his rampant dog gripped tightly against his chest.

  ‘Goodbye!’ he says to Grace, who unconsciously takes a step backward as he passes. This doesn’t seem to offend Wilberforce in the slightest, and he powers his way back through my front door without another word.

  Colin follows swiftly behind, offering his goodbyes to Grace as well. He follows Wilberforce out of the door, leaving Grace and I staring at each other in utter disbelief.

  ‘What on earth was all that about?’ Grace says.

  I throw my arms out. ‘I literally have no idea,’ I tell her.

  ‘Mr Bellows!’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I scream.

  Wilberforce has reappeared in the doorway.

  ‘Mr Bellows . . . do you think I should do a detox?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yes!’ I tell him. ‘You should definitely do a detox, Wilberforce.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘And get Puggerlugs neutered while you’re bloody at it!’

  ‘Come away, Wilberforce!’ I hear Colin screech, and the little man disappears from view once again.

  I’m taking no fucking chances this time. I leap over to the front door and slam it closed with all of my might.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Grace exclaims, and sits down hard on the couch.

  ‘I know, right?’ I reply, leaning against the door.

  ‘Did you know they were coming over?’

  ‘No! They just turned up, and – well, you know . . .’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Advice.’

  ‘About detoxing?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What was the dog sex about?’

  I have to think about this for a second. ‘It’s a long, complicated story, Grace. One that I will only be able to tell over partially frozen Italian cream.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? ’

  With another one of my patented world-weary sighs, I stand upright and indicate towards the kitchen. ‘Come with me and I’ll explain.’

  And, by the time we do move on to the chocolate and honey semifreddo, I have indeed explained in as much detail as I possibly can.

  The meal has gone well so far. You’ll be pleased to know the linguine came out a treat.

  ‘Oh, that’s actually quite sad, isn’t it?’ Grace remarks as I inspect the first three semifreddo attempts. She’s sitting at my breakfast bar – which doubles as my dining table – sipping wine, while I try to sort out the dessert.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I mumble, as I attempt to upend the third semifreddo – the one that looks the most solid. It plops on to the plate in a relatively satisfactory condition, so I pick up the honey and start to squeeze it over the top. ‘Wilberforce and Colin clearly have quite a few issues. That’s what happens when you shut yourself off from the real world.’

  ‘No argument here.
I was starting to go down the same path.’

  ‘Probably a good job you don’t own a pug then,’ I tell her, and park her half of the now-complete semifreddo in front of her, and take my seat again.

  She smiles. ‘This looks very nice.’

  ‘Thank you. If you enjoy it, I have another five you can take home with you.’

  Grace laughs and picks up a spoon. ‘So, how does it feel?’

  ‘How does what feel?’

  ‘To be someone people look up to?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She pops a spoonful of the dessert into her mouth and talks around it. ‘People just don’t turn up at your door looking for advice like that unless they look up to you, Andy.’ She grins. ‘Colin and Wilberforce are Andy Bellows stans.’

  I give her a withering look. ‘Please don’t use words like that.’

  ‘Sorry . . . I mean, they’re fans of yours. All of them are. All the ones that turned up at the café the other week. All the people Fergus has talked to online.’

  I shake my head vociferously. ‘No. They’re not fans of mine. They’re just . . . people who are a bit interested in detoxing, that’s all.’

  ‘Two people tracked you down to ask your advice directly,’ Grace rebuts. ‘Hell . . . make that three people. I did it too! And people just don’t turn up to random events at coffee shops because they’re a bit interested in something.’ She points her spoon at me. ‘They came to see you, Andy. You. They’re your fans . . . whether you like it or not!’ She takes another mouthful of dessert, a thoughtful look on her face. ‘And I guess I’m one of them too.’

  My face has gone extremely red, and extremely hot. If I try to eat any more of this semifreddo it’ll probably melt before it gets anywhere near my mouth.

  ‘Stop it, Grace,’ I tell her, flushing.

  ‘Stop what? I’m just being honest. My life has improved so much since I met you.’

  ‘Well, getting offline has probably done you a lot of good,’ I mumble.

  Grace slides off her seat and leans in closer to me. ‘I’m not talking about the detox, Andy. I’m talking about meeting you.’

  ‘Meeting me?’