Some people will have you believe that’s it’s quite hard to become an inventor. Highlighting the long slog from concept through to design and onto production. But I found it easy.
A few years ago I put on some weight and I suffered serious inter buttock cheek chafing. Which is known in academic circles as, chef’s arse, or drummer’s bum.
My solution was simple but effective. I wedged some tissue between my cheeks. I called it ‘Daddy’s Little Helper.’ But it’s not all been plain sailing. There have ben a few teething problems…
Many moons ago I worked in a call centre. It was monotonous, brain-dulling work but my spirits were lifted by the camaraderie of my work colleagues; making the work almost bearable. But for my arse it was a different story. Spending most of my days sat down was brutal, and the sweat, produced from lying to my customers about the level of their insurance cover, would drip down my back and settle between my cheeks, making them sore.
Eventually, I introduced my buttocks to my invention and all was well, until that fateful Wednesday morning in 1996…
Generally I’m mild-mannered, but when I was selling insurance, I would transform into a corporate – take no prisoners – mode, which involved much pacing. I vividly remember closing a big deal that would earn my company a net profit of £12.99 in monthly instalments. I sat down in triumph and swivelled around on my seat to gloat at the rest of the team, when I noticed – right in the middle of the floor – was Daddy’s Little Helper. It must have become dislodged while I was in the animated throws of telephone sales banter, trickled down my trouser leg, and settled on the floor.
Sadly, the tissue didn’t look the same. Gone was the fresh, crisp whiteness. Now, it looked ragged and stressed, much like someone who owns one of those kettles that whistles. Some parts had even turned a ‘different’ colour.
I froze. Questions barrelled through my mind: How could I get it back? Will someone realise it’s been up my bottom? How much are those whistling kettles?
But before I could do anything, a girl got up to put some rubbish in the bin. She walked across the floor, and then, she noticed Daddy’s Little Helper. She stooped down to pick it up, but the cord from her headset was at its maximum limit, so she just cut the customer off. Then she picked up my grotty arse tissue. Our eyes locked. She smiled, I smiled back and then she threw Daddy’s Little Helper in the bin.
And that, my dear friends, is how I met my wife.