DRAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know about you, but I’m quite partial to a bit drama myself. When I say drama, I’m not talking about a well-crafted production on BBC4 or a thought-provoking episode of Glee. Oh no.  I’m talking about the histrionics and hysteria that other people and the media use to supplement what would otherwise be a rather mundane and hum-drum reality. People (myself included) will latch on to anything and start talking about it in CAPITAL LETTERS and exclamation marks just to sex up normality a couple of notches. (And before I go any further, when I say drama, I’m not referring to people who live their lives in a state of perpetual self-induced crisis, draining anyone who will listen of the will to live. They can frig off, etc…)

Take the snow for instance. A bit of frozen water falls out the sky and the country has no other choice other than to shut up shop for a few days. Transport networks crash to a sudden halt, schools shut up shop, old people risk their hips as mass panic buying of bread breaks out and I consider driving around with a bag of cat litter and a family sized Galaxy in my boot, just in case I get stuck in the snow. 

Thing is though, rescuing myself with an economy cat shit preparation might impinge upon the potential drama, so perhaps not. And let’s face it: the Galaxy wouldn't last two minutes. A more fitting end to becoming ENTOMBED in my car (in my head at least) would be being WINCHED to safety whilst draped in a high-viz foil cape by the RAF after a six hour ORDEAL. The image of my rather parky (and somewhat blue) form being PLUCKED from the JAWS OF DEATH would make front page news, with a headline that would scream something along the lines of, ‘BEACON OF HOPE!!!!’ with an unnecessary amount of exclamation marks at the end, just to hammer the point home. Oh yes it would. Richard and Judy would reform in order to interview me and ask about frostbite nibbling on my unmentionables. I’d be a shoo-in for the next series of ‘Celebrity’ Big Brother. Simon Cowell would want me to record a charity single and the Christmas number one would be in the bag. Can you tell that I’ve given this some thought? Yes, it’s fair to say that I really do welcome the drama. I really need to get a life at some point.

Sadly, the reality is totally different to the dramatic alternative. You see, we’re all whipped into a frenzy with promises of a happy, giggling doom, but nothing ever transpires. Ever. We all buy into it and start getting our collective knickers in a twist – well, I do anyway – and for what? The snow falls, the country goes breasts-up for 24 hours, we all start panic buying bread, candles, tins of own-brand beans and filling the bath up with water, only to let it out with a disappointed sigh a day later because everything has gone back to boring old normal. It’s not just adverse weather though. Anyone remember the Y2K computer bug that was going to turn civilisation into a rancid pumpkin as the clock struck midnight on Millennium Eve? Pig flu? The end of the world? Barack Obama? I feel CONNED people. CONNED!!! 

Mam - Eleven Years On...

My Mam.

Eleven years ago today the unbelievable happened. My Mam died. Obviously, to the average person, the thought of someone dying isn't unbelievable. On the contrary, it's the one certainty that awaits us all (like, happy clappy hoooray!) But when it's your own mam - a person who has gone through life with barely a sniffle, let alone anything serious - and you're suddenly told that she's got cancer before dying four weeks later - then it's unbelievable. And that's how it remains in my head. Unbelievable. I've had eleven years to get my head around the fact that I'm a motherless child and still it fails to stick. When the unthinkable happened, at 8.30am on a dull and damp Friday morning of September 8th, 2000, I was living 100 miles away from home. In the immediate aftermath of her passing, I didn't have to confront it in the same way that the rest of my family did - my daily routine wasn't disrupted. I didn't have daily reminders like the rest of my family did - so I simply chose not to.

Sure, my life suddenly had a mother-shaped hole gaping through the middle of it, but I was able to deny it. I brushed it aside and elected to ignore the issue (a fatal trait, ironically inherited from my Mam herself.) For the first two years I went around in a strange kind of emotional fug. Now and again it would hit me. I'd be walking in the street, minding my own business and thinking about something completely unrelated to Mam when the cold, hard fact that she was dead would hit me and I'd suddenly be left reeling. There were other times I'd forget that she was dead at all. I'd see an advert for a TV programme that I thought she'd like and I would go to ring her to tell her. It would only be as Dad answered the phone that the crushing reality would hit me and no, I wouldn't be able to talk to her.

I tried to plug the gaps with instantly doomed relationships that temporarily staved off and then exacerbated all the negative feelings associated with death: longing, anger, guilt. And obviously, I got pissed quite a lot. When I finally addressed the issue, I spent another two years in a kind of hermit-like state, only to emerge the other side erroneously thinking that I was 'better' - but no. I tried to plug the gap yet again - this time with another relationship that proved to be my undoing in more ways than one. Grief had a pernicious effect: I'd have good days and bad days but even when the good days started to outweigh the bad, I could always feel it lurking in the background.

For me, death isn't something you get over. It's something that you get used to. Eleven years later I can say I've made my peace with her death, but it still hurts. It's not as raw as it was, but now and again it hits me like a bolt of lightning and the sudden realistion floors me. In trying to understand her death, I stumbled on a more spiritual side of my character that I didn't realise was there. I still don't subscribe to any of the religions that humanity offers, but I believe in a life (probably the wrong word for it) after death, I believe we go somewhere else. I think the universe is too fantastically planned to be a happy coincidence and science doesn't explain everything. I'm not sure what I believe, but I believe - I know - that I'll see Mam again, that there will be a reunification of some sort. Until that time comes, I'll carry on smiling at her memory and being grateful for the fact that she was my Mam. I'll continue to miss her gentleness, her kindness, her laugh, her beauty, her unrelenting, uncompromising love. And not to mention her dinners. Absolutely legendary!

Love you Mam. Hope you're sleeping tight. x

Rainbow Madness...

Colours, but not as you know them

For some unknown reason I found myself wandering the isles of B&Q today. This is a rare occurrence: I cannot stand DIY stores and will avoid them at all costs. DIY stores have a deep, blackening effect on my mood.

It doesn’t help that my DIY skills have all the grace and charm of a morbidly obese hippo with ADHD and halitosis. Try as I might, I just cannot do the most straightforward of DIY tasks. Shelves? Forget it unless you want your walls maiming. Plastering? I’m good at spreading margarine over bread, but that’s about it. Flat pack furniture construction is the worst. I will often break out in hives, before losing my temper and going on the rampage with a tube of mastic and a spirit level. The job rarely gets finished in the way that the confusing, badly-written manual demands. I always end up with bits left over that have nowhere to go, yet seem important. Like wood and lots of screws. I often have to rely on my talent for bodging to get things completed. Take the last thing I attempted to erect (snigger): a CD case. The manual said that the job should 45 minutes. It took me six hours over the course of two days. During this mission, I cut myself three times, nearly took my good eye out, said the eff word a lot, lost a third of my own bodyweight, resisted ransacking and looting my own bedroom, considered throwing all of my CDs away and then saw sense and got help from a girl.

DIY stores reinforce an unerring sense of clumsy uselessness within me. And I can’t abide the smell either, hence why I find slow death preferable to patronising such establishments.

And so, at 10am this morning, I found myself parking up outside the local B&Q. In other words, high doom. Having just moved, Mr Blokey and I are putting the finishing touches to the new des-res and the bedroom needs painting. We’re thinking of a ‘feature’ wall, which sounds horribly pretentious, but will look rather lovely when it’s done. But what colour? Hmmm…

After consulting the colour charts, it appears that in the years that I have happily remained persona non grata in DIY circles, things have changed beyond recognition. All I wanted was a tin of red paint. Dark red to be specific. But it doesn’t exist anymore. If you want red – normal red I mean, like the fire engine red - you have to ask for a shade of red called DIVA. Yes, DIVA. All capital letters and shouty. I was a bit intimidated just looking at it, to tell you the truth. It gets worse though: if you want to go a shade darker, then there is no point asking for a litre of burgundy. Oh no. You need to request CRIMSON LIPS. I can just see my Dad coming down and admiring the freshly painted wall whilst I say, ‘Here, Dad, do you like my CRIMSON LIPS? I was going to go for DIVA, but thought CRIMSON LIPS was more me…’

Now I understand that the people who produce the paint charts have to get creative with names but some of the names I saw today were just plain bizarre. For example, can you guess what colour SUNDAY DRIVE is? It’s white. Why they can’t just call it white, I have no idea. If you wanted to go a notch towards cream, then what might you call it? Beige? Magnolia? Don’t be silly. The answer – obviously – is CHESHIRE HIGH JINX. I shit thee not. If you wanted to go a touch whiter, what have you got? Brilliant white? Simon Cowell’s Teeth White? Er, no. The answer – and I’d sit down for this if I was you – is VINTAGE FROCK. I wonder what size that comes in?

Can you hazard a guess as to what colour MAYPOLE MERRIMENT is? I’d naturally opt for brown. But no. It’s beige. And what about FUZZY SLIPPERS (yes, really). Well, that’s beige too. A bit more towards cream. In fact I’d call it creamy-beige, but I’m common, so it’s hardly a surprise. Poor old beige really has been reinvented and then some: it also masquerades under the following names: SPOTTED DOG (snigger!), CREAM TEA IN THE COUNTRY (chortle!), TOWERING FAÇADE (cackle!), MINCE PIE (oooh, yum) and REAL CIDER (ugh – cider makes me vomit.)

I honestly think that the people who came up with these names must have been off their tits at the colour christenings. How else can you explain dumping the name ‘orange’ and replacing it with CONSTABLE’S TRUNCHEON? The green family has also been remixed beyond what seems absolutely necessary. What I thought was olive green is now called… NAUGHTY CROCODILE. A much paler green – which I’d call, erm, pale green, is now strangely named FAMILY GATHERING. What’s green about a family gathering? My favourite shade of green, though, has to be UNEXPECTED CAY, which I initially read as UNEXPECTED GAY, which is why I liked it in the first place.

And what’s next? I can just imagine next year’s chart. Beige could take on several new identities altogether – I’m thinking PISSED UP TRAMPS FART or HILARIOUS RABIES FOAM. We could reinvent blue as SUMPTUOUS HYPOTHERMIA, yellow could be THREE WEEK OLD BRUISE and my favourite shade of green will be called KERMIT IS AN ALCOHOLIC.

Oh dear. It’s all too much for me. Looking at a rainbow will never be the same again. In fact, I think to lie down whilst I assimilate this new information. Until next time, take care people.

Lots of love,

Johnny CRIMSON LIPS Pants.

So You Think You Can... Zumba?

You? Mr Clumsyballs himself? Really? Is that wise?
What do you mean by that? How rude. Yes, me. Let me tell you something for free, my friend: my hips don’t lie! Shakira! Shakira! Shakira! Actually, they might lie a little bit. A fib, if you will.

Shakira? Isn’t she Colombian?
Is she? Oh. Okay then, watch me wiggle! Watch me shimmy! Watch me mambo! Watch me salsa! Watch me… TEAPOT!

Teapot? That doesn’t sound very Brazilian…
That’s what I thought. The instructor – high pitched and as mad as a block of stinky cheese – stood at the front barking the names of moves that we were expected to launch ourselves into. What with it being my first time, I was a bit crap to say the least. Whilst my fellow Zumba-ees responded perfectly as though they were in the North Korean army, I stood at the back looking semi-remorseful whilst doing my own personal Hokey-Cokey. I was good at the Teapot though (one hand on your hip, the other sticking out as though you’re a – gasp! – teapot). Although given Zumba’s Brazilian origins, I am extremely doubtful of the authenticity of this move. Y’know, I think crazy instructor woman made it up. When I visualise some toned hombre throwing down his best Zumba moves in the backstreets of Rio De Janerio, I am struggling with the idea of him shouting, ‘TEAPOT!’ before executing said move.

So it didn’t meet your expectations then?
No, not really. Not at all in fact. Perhaps my hopes were rather high. I thought I’d go in looking like a mildly embarrassed fat bloke and come out looking like Grace Jones or some lustful, toned Amazonian creature, complete with flower garland, tropical coloured feathers and don’t-eff-with-me Latino attitude.

And?
I still look like a mildly embarrassed fat bloke. And my ankle hurts. Damn that fucking Teapot!

Isn’t Zumba for fat middle aged women?
How narrow minded of you! However, it appears that this is indeed the case. I was the only bloke, which I think ruffled a few feathers. Given some of the dirty looks I got at the start, I think some of the women thought I might be there to perv at their wobbly bits flying about as though independent of their bodies. Er, no loves. Not me. Given the relative hostility coupled with my novice status, I thought it might be a good idea to stand at the back. Schoolboy error alert: this was the wrong thing to do if you wanted to keep a low profile as crazy instructor woman kept making us all turn around, effectively reversing the class so that the front became the back and the back – shock, horror, please don’t notice my love handles, etc – became the front. During these dark, hideous and frankly troubled times, I had to rely on mantra for life: when in doubt, shimmy. Which I did. A lot. Except for when I was Teapotting, obviously.

Oh dear. Still, I bet the music was good?
Hmmmm, not really. Again, I think my expectations got the better of me. You see, I was expecting to get my freak on to the sonic backdrop of, say, La Isla Bonita remixed with a heartily homosexual Euro beat. Or possibly a mash up of La Bamba with Geri Halliwell’s Mi Chico Latino with some ‘toot-toot’ disco whistles thrown in for good measure. Instead, what we got was song after song that sounded the same: a load of wailing men who sounded as though they were in agony. Or dying. Or both. And I don’t think the sound of banging saucepans with a wooden spoon counts as authentic Brazilian percussion-fare. Or maybe it does, I’ve never been, so I don’t know. I mean, Shakira doesn’t do it. Shakira! Shakira! Shakira!

I’ve already told you, she’s Colombian.
Oh yeah, sorry.

Do you think you’ll go again?
Only if they play Shakira.

Hmmm, doubtful.
Then no. Forget it.

What's in a Name?

There are no two-ways about it: my moniker is out of fashion. Story of my life, etc. A quick look at the current most popular names that parents bestow upon their kiddies and it seems that John has been usurped by trendier names such as Oliver, Alfie, Jack and Joshua.

I can see why. As a kid, I always thought that my name was really rather dull. It didn’t help that I had to share my name with my Dad, whilst my brother got James all to himself. I remember having an argument with my parents about the name situation. I wanted to know why they couldn’t be bothered to think of a different name for me. I honestly thought that they couldn’t be arsed to think of anything or got caught short when registering my birth and opted for solid, dependable, John. I was premature after all, so maybe they hadn’t got round to considering my name and as I’d come out early and forced the issue, John would have to do. It had served my Dad well all his life, so why not jinx me with it too? For many years, it really did feel like a second hand anorak that was slightly too good to toss out. Puh!

Back in 1976 when I hatched, John was quite a popular (ie. common) name. So not only did I have to share it with my Dad, but two other kids in my form at school, one of whom had yellow teeth and picked on me; the other had a weak bladder and pissed himself all the time… What with chubby old me completing the sorry trinity and suddenly the name seems to be more of a curse than anything else, eh?

Maybe I’m being harsh. Maybe it’s not too bad a name after all. Let’s face it, it could be worse. There are some terrible names out there. People called Derek, I’m looking squarely at you. Then you’ve got other corkers like Rodney (why? Akin to child abuse), Stewart (sounds like a brand of gravy), Darren (a bit chav-mella for my liking), Julian (sounds like something you’d call an orang-utan), Clive (sounds like something you’d call a cow), Dennis (probably why deed-poll was invented.) Comparatively speaking, John isn’t too bad, but as a name it lacks that certain something doesn’t it? Put it this way, if I was judging names, John wouldn’t make it to Boot Camp. As for Judges homes, forget it. Zestier names, like Shogun, Klub and Hobskog would be jostling for the X Factor name crown. Hmmm.

A Letter To Me Aged 16 (as inspired by the book of the same name...)

Dear Johnny Red Pants,

Come here and give us a hug. You’re a tad fed up under that slightly precocious, slightly loud and slightly annoying façade, aren't you? The people at school aren’t always kind and I know that you’re worried that they might have a point. They call you gay, they call you fat and you have a terrible haircut. At this point in your life you only have three proper friends. Sadly, you count Madonna as one of them.

Here’s the good news: your hair gets better.

Tragically, this won’t be before your last school photo, where you decide to sex up your image by forcing your unruly, feral hair into an off-kilter, side parting – a hair "style" normally reserved for paedophiles or people with unfortunate skin who work the night shift at Asda. Not only will you look horrendous, but the photographer will have a speech impediment and as she says, ‘scha-mile’ (whilst showering you in a pint of her own coffee-flavoured spit), you will simultaneously laugh and grimace. The resulting photo can only be described as a car crash of epic proportions, yet will sum up quite marvellously how you felt about school. But you will look back and laugh. In fact, you’re doing so as you write this.

Okay, here’s the not so good news. You’re always going to struggle with your weight. Perhaps struggle is the wrong word. Put it this way, you will always think of yourself as fat. For the most part, you’re going to be porky. You’ll lose some weight between the ages of 19-25, but like a loyal, rabid dog, it shall return. What’s my point? Oh yeah, you’re never going to have a six pack. You like pies and beer too much. You’ll get over it though. The good thing is that lots of people who call you fat now will be fat in the future. You will see their middle aged images courtesy of social networking sites and you will cackle wickedly and feel like a bitch. A strange sort of retribution, but it will make you feel better all the same. Anyway, don’t diet. It’s a waste of time and money and you will be doomed to failure. It’s also dull, much like looking at someone’s holiday photos, so don’t do that either.

As for the gay thing, well that’s here to stay too. Don’t panic. It’s going to take you a while to accept it, but when you do, you’ll wonder what the fuss was about. I really mean it when I say that being gay is a blessing, not a curse. Gay means happy after all, so go with it, be yourself and if any old pervert offers you a drink, take it but don’t sleep with them. You can if you want, but I wouldn’t if I was you. Which I am, so there. There are a lot of weirdoes out there and you will be excellent at attracting them. Love’s path is a tricky one to navigate and like everyone else, you’ll have your heart smashed up and shit on a couple of times, but you’ll get there in the end. I won’t spoil the surprises in store, but if I can offer you some 24 carat gold advice it is thus: avoid skinny men called Steve and fat men called Gary. Feel free to have a fling with a fat Steve or be flung by a skinny Gary, but NOT the other way around. These two chaps are BAD, BAD, BAD NEWS AND UTTERLY UNWORTHY OF YOUR FABULOUSNESS. And you are a little bit fab, truth be told, hence why now you have a lovely number of lush chums and a lovely Mr Blokey who doesn't mind your chunky bits. (And yes, you do still count Madonna in that number of mates.)

Any more top tips? Hmmm. Let me see. Oh, I know: ignore your gut instinct at your peril. Although knowing you, you probably will. In fact, you do. And when you do and it all goes HORRIBLY, HORRIBLY WRONG, I recommend that you get sleeping tablets from the doctor and wait for the emotional storm to pass, which it will. Just keep in mind that some amazing experiences and adventures will come out of your darkest times. Aged 31, you will go to a clairvoyant, even though you’re not sure you believe in them and she will tell you that you will live and work abroad, that you will come home, find a job that means something to you and fall in love with someone lovely. You won’t believe her, but you should, because she’s absolutely right.

Just don’t drink too much.

Lots of love,


You xx
PS. Eye bag cream doesn’t work. Probably best that you stick your money in a pot and put it towards plastic surgery.

Lost Blog: Live From London

A year ago, I attended a book launch for the fabulous Boys & Girls collection. My friend Kristian had a story included in the collection and was going to be doing a reading, which was all very exciting. The plan was thus: go into London, meet the lovely Dombo (K’s sister and all round fab and gorge bestest type friend of mine), have a quick drink and then go along to launch, mix with fabulous literary types, etc, etc.


Now, I’ve usually got a notepad near me. This helps with my incessant list making and also enables me to make sense of the random thought explosions that occur within my head. On the way in, I decided that I’d make notes about my evening and blog them the following day. Then I got caught up in all the drama (ie. a bit drunk) and forgot all about the blog, until I came across my pad today. Hurrah!


3.30pm: Arrive at Stanmore tube station courtesy of Peasant Wagon (driven by insane bus driver harbouring vicious, burning hatred for bus riding section of humanity if errant, care-free "driving" is anything to go by.) Take in the view of fancy houses to the left of the station and instantly remember the time I got left behind on school trip (aged 15) to London and actually wandered past these houses in middle of the night looking for a police station as thought I was going to raped/pillaged/generally slayed. Smile to self that I am still alive (no thanks to negligent teacher who spent the rest of the term attempting to bore me to death) and ponder at smallness of world that I would one day come to live in these parts even though suffered trauma/drama. Buy ticket whilst looking (or least trying to look) wistful.


3.40pm: Am oddly worried by insane man standing on platform saying to self: ‘John. John. John.’ Platform is empty save for me and insane man. Does he know who I am? I do the typical London thing and ignore him. He is far too twitchy, dirty and I can smell him from 10 metres away. He smells of sweaty cheese and UHT milk.


3.41: Clamber aboard stationary train. Find empty carriage, which means I can sing for a few stops and pretend that I am in a music video. Yes, really. (NOTE FROM THE FUTURE: I still do this. Hoooray!) Decide to select seat near door, next to glass panel so only one mad person can sit next to me.


3.43: Doors close. Am still only person in carriage. I can sing! Hurrah!!! Thumb through iPod playlist. Tonight Matthew, I am going to be all five of Westlife. At the same time, yes.


3.45. Hark at me! Am really going for it! Am flying without wings! Am doing the wibble and everything. Even manage lovely key change that, if I were to reproduce on, say, X-Factor, my mentor (Danni Minogue, please) would weep at. In a good way. Even Simon Cowell would say that I’d ‘smashed it’ and I’d cattily reply that I’d like to smash him in the chops. Which I would. Can’t stand the man. All that money and hair like a loo brush. And what’s with his overuse of the word ‘relevant’? Shit off, Simon.


3.46: Arrive at Canons Park. Send ‘DO NOT ENTER THIS CARRIAGE’ vibes to the people on the platform. Man gets on. Looks like he has escaped from the laughing house. I watch him scan the empty seats before deciding to sit his considerable rump next to mine. I curse ye Gods. Realise that man is talking to self. Am concerned that people will think we are together. That’s if he doesn’t stab me first.


3.58: Tube inexplicably stops underground. Is packed now. Lots of people sigh dramatically, including me. Man next to me is still chatting away to self. He is the only one talking. Everyone else is being far too polite/rude to join in. Is too hot. Am starting to a) sweat b) have dark thoughts.


4.00: I fucking hate wanky bastard shitting bollocking filthy nutter filled public transport.


4.20: Hurrah! Am off the tube. Spirits lifted. Receive text from Dombo saying she can’t leave work early, after all. I text her back, encouraging her to feign illness but she is too much of a professional goody two shoes. I elect to have a stroll around.


4.50: Walk down Carnaby Street. See Alan Carr! Much excite and bum sweat! Grin at him as though am maniac from tube. Resist urge to stop him / hug him / declare love for him / hump his leg like an enthusiastic dog. Continue to grin in a fashion that exposes all 32 teeth. Alan makes eye contact, looks mildly terrified and scuttles off. I ring Mr Blokey to share celebrity spot boast.


5.15: Enter Soho. Find self breathing in as everyone seems handsome, trendy and muscular. Feel like fat knacker. Decide to treat self to calorific beer in self defeatist, drown-sorrows type effort.


5.45: 2nd Pint. People watching. There seems to be an abundance of painful looking tattoos. People aren’t wearing much in the way of clothes. Outside it has decided to rain. Rather heavily. Am without a jacket/coat/brolly. Silly me. It is August in Britain. Mid Summer. I should’ve known. When I get rained on, it gives me the rage. Realise that there is no way I can turn up for book hurrah wet as feel minging enough as it is. I can turn up slightly tipsy-wipsy though. Order another pint and contemplate McDonalds. Big Mac Meal. Large? Of course. Don’t ask silly questions, etc.


5.51: Am sick of looking at thin people. Realise that I am luminous green (think rave glow stick) with envy. Decide to pioneer diet based on unlimited consumption of alcohol, kitchen and self loathing. Am surprised that no one has done this before.


5.53: This beer is going down ever so well. Compliments to the bartender. Another! Kronenbourg for EVERYONE! (NOTE FROM FUTURE: Handwriting is becoming increasingly erratic.)


6.00: More people watching. Have positioned self next to two ‘plus sized’ gents who have wandered in out of the howling rain. Other patrons include an old man (possibly deaf) who keeps shouting; shifty/nervous looking man, (possibly married); young man, handsome, (possibly rent boy) and me (possibly presumptuous/bitter.)


6.05: Can’t decide if am getting glad eye from old man (possibly deaf.)


6.07: Fears subside. Old man (possibly also blind) is owner of white stick.


6.10: Discover spot on face.


6.11: Tell self not to pick spot.


6.12: Pick spot.


6.13: Blood. Pain. Self hatred.


6.16: Random thought: I would like to be carried away by a moonlight shadow. Decide that I am suddenly inspired. Decide to write poem.


6.18: Abandon poem. Awful. Just awful.


6.29: Text from Dombo. She is free from work. Arrange to meet her in a bar near her work. Salvation.


6.34: Arrive at bar. Hugs, kisses and general fabulousness. Both of us stand in corner and try and look nonchalant and mysterious. Fail.


7.00: Taxi ride to bar where launch takes place. More fabulousness. Am pissed though. Dombo on her way also. Drinks are expensive, but that fails to stop us. Book is launched! Woop!


11.43: About to get on train home. Chooo! Choooo! So pissed am surprised am not bleeding from eyes. Purchase customary drunk dirt burger meal from Burger King. Service did not come with smile. More of a withering look. I care not.


11.44: Drop half my chips during disaster that comprised getting through ticket barrier. Am always VERY scared going through ticket barrier thing. Always think that I will be too slow and barriers will slam shut, smashing ribcage, causing instant double lung collapse, much pain and undignified death. On dirty floor . Groo.


11.46: Get on empty carriage, muttering to self. Notice that carriage is not empty after all. There is one person sat near far door. Decide to sit next to them and talk to self. They probably want to sing. I can do that too.

The End Is Not Nigh!



The gorgeous Harold Camping: Tricked you!

 Oh look everyone. The world failed to end last night. Funny that. Just as well really because I've not paid my council tax this month yet. The last thing I want in the netherworld is to be chased around and threatened by baliff angels demanding £95.00 from me.

One person who I bet wishes he was dead this morning is Harold Camping, the 89 year old nutjob preacher who was the complete and utter spaz bloke behind the doomsday prediction that neglected to occur. It turns out that he's done this thing before (ie. attention seeking). Yup, back in September 1994, he wrongly predicted that the end was coming, a process he rather sinisterly refers to as Rapture. (Actually, didn't Blondie have an album of the same name?) Anyway, it seems that Harold's a bit obsessed with God taking taking vengeance on humanity. Through his religious huffing and puffing he points his gnarled, arthritic, unbendable finger of blame at 'sexual perversion', spearheaded by the 'gay pride movement. It was sent by God as a sign of the end.' Really?

He must feel a right twat at the minute. He's probably not the only one. Mr Camping's ridiculous argument managed to convince red neck half wit Adam Larsen, 32, from Kansas. He is among scores of mongoles "ambassadors" who have quit their jobs to drive around America in Family Radio vehicles warning of the impending apocalypse. 'My favourite pastime is raccoon hunting," Mr Larsen told CNN. "I've had to give that up. But this task is far more important.'

Oh dear.

The End Is Nigh!

Oooh, brace yourselves people: the end of the world is nigh. Again! Apparently, at 11pm tonight, we're all going to die as the world goes past it's use by date. Humph.

I'm not very happy about my imminent demise because: a) I'm not ready to pop my clogs yet; b) I have milk in the fridge that is not due to go off until next week which makes me feel as though I've been conned a little bit and c) I've not started on my New Years Resolutions yet - ie. stop being such a fat knacker. Although that said, if I do slip off the dish this evening, then in about six days time, I'll probably be at my target weight so I suppose you win some, you lose some.

Between me and you, I think there's more chance of being noshed off by the pope than there is of the world ending. However, this is where I hedge my bets. What if the prophercy is right and this time tomorrow we're all toast? Hmmmm... JUST supposing that the end really is a couple of hours away, I should really atone for the sins I have committed in this life.

In retrospect, I've not really behaved as well as I ought to have been. I have a funny feeling I could find myself in the lift going down to the lake that burns with fire and brimstone. Knowing my luck, I'll probably find myself sandwiched between Mariah Carey (boo!) and Thatcher (hiss, spit and masturbatory gestures!) With this in mind, I am going to regretfully self disclose the following in the hope that my sincere-ish apology will bump me up to the God queue. Yay Jesus, etc.

1. I let the dogs out. Woof, woof, woof. It was me. Soz.

2. When I was doing my A-Levels, there was a lad in my politics class who I didn't like very much. We were talking in the 'refectory' (why they didn't call it the caff, I'll never know, perhaps they weren't as common as me. Or summat)... Where was I? Oh yes, me and this bloke - let's call him Dave because that was his name after all - were talking one day (when I liked him) and he randomly asked me if I would like to go to Nigeria, the place of his birth. I thought about it for a bit whilst I inhaled my dry muffin before saying, 'No, not really.' It was true: I didn't really want to go to Nigeria. I didn't have anything against the place, I'd just never really thought about it. I wanted to go to America to stalk Madonna (in a nice, non-freaky way) and go to Japan, which always seemed exotic and mysterious. But as far as my travelling ambitions went, Nigeria never got a look-in. My soon to be ex-friend was unimpressed to say the least. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. 'Is because you is IGNORANT,' he screamed in an accent that he didn't normally speak with. Seconds later, he stormed out of the caff. I mean, refectory. He then blanked me for the rest of the year. I tried to talk to him but he wasn't having any of it. From that point onwards, he was horrible to me. He'd give me horrible looks; he'd open the door for everyone but as soon as I tried to go through, he'd slam it in my face. He was often asked to gather everyone's assignments up, but rather than pick mine up he'd make a spitting gesture or just ignore mine altogether. And why? Because I didn't want to go to Nigeria.

Anyyyyyyyyyyyyyway, I took his shit for the whole year. Exam time was upon us. We had two exams, each a week apart, but whereas the first exam was on a Monday afternoon, the second one was in the morning. The first exam came and went without incident. I was quietly confident. I was also the last person to leave the hall. However, the door was being held open for me. By Dave. Who was smiling at me. Taken aback, I smiled and asked him how he thought the exam went. A sneer crept across his face. 'Hmmm, yeah, whatever. Listen, the next exam - is it in the morning or the afternoon. I thought it was the afternoon but Ray just said it was in the morning. Which is it?' Aaaah, so you're being nice to me because you want something, I thought. My thought process was interrupted by Dave, who was getting impatient. 'So? Which one? Morning or afternoon? It's in the afternoon isn't it? I'm right aren't I?' I thought for a second. 'Yeah, you're right, it's in the afternoon,' I lied. And sure enough, he wasn't there the following week. And you know what? Thinking about it, I'm actually not sorry. Not even a little bit. Besides, as God himself says in the Bible, 'Vengeance will be mine!'

3. When I was a kid, my Mam used to do the weekly big shop on a Wednesday when Jim (my big bro) and I would look forward to our weekly treat: a single ski yoghurt. Kids these days don't know they're born, etc. Anyway, one week, Jim couldn't find his yoghurt. Dad summoned me to the kitchen immediately. He put two and two together and made four and a bit. Fat kid (me) + missing food = fat child thief. I protested my innocence but Dad wasn't having any of it. In desperation, I opened the fridge door and started to rummage through the chilled food in front of me in order to prove I was right. Next thing you know, Dad's foot connected squarely with my arse, sending me headfirst into the fridge. I remember bursting into tears at the injustice that this kangaroo court had dispensed. I remember Dad saying, 'Yes, you can cry, but that'll serve you right for eating our Jim's yoghurt!' I remember Dad walking out of the kitchen leaving me sitting in a pile of displaced food. As I tearfully put it back, I came across the yoghurt in question. It had been inadvertantly hidden by a block of cheese. Rather than confront Dad with the suddenly-found yoghurt, I thought, fuck it, I've done the time, so I may as well as do the crime. I grabbed a spoon, locked myself in the toilet (nice, I know) and inhaled the yoghurt in about three seconds flat. Again, I'm not in the least bit remorseful. Oh dear.

4. I really want to like the following: The Beatles, Star Wars, Citizen Kane, The Divinci Code (book) and The Lord of the Rings (book and film). Fact is, I don't. BOR-IIIIIIING. I much prefer Abba, Madge, Muriel's Wedding, Forrest Gump and musical theatre. Fine, judge me. You'll probably go to Hell anyway for doing so. Ha. I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me, etc.

5. I am the premiership footballer that had an affair with Big Brother 'star' Imogen Thomas. Not really, she's got the wrong dangly bits. And I'm shit at football. In fact, I'm that bad, I was once made to be the goal post, but I was crap at that too.

Oh bugger. It's now 22:08. Fifty two minutes to go. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE, etc.

See you on the other side, etc.

My Car Has Been Bummed...

Picture this: it’s Mothering Sunday, I am on my Sweeney Todd and feeling slightly sorry for myself. Everything is making me feel blue. Not even the daffodils, which ordinarily make me smile as their gorgeous yellow petals sway and dance in the wind, can lift my mood. Everywhere I look, I am reminded about the mam-shaped hole in my life. Even though it’s been over ten years since she died, on Mother’s Day, I can’t escape missing her. I can’t shake the feelings of longing or guilt. On this day, I am best left alone. You see, I’m not that good at being miserable. I wear bad moods like an ill-fitting suit (of which I have several, procured from Asda for £20 all in. Don’t stand too close to a naked flame though and don’t stand in direct sunlight because they look scarily shiny).

When I’m glum or in a strop, I tend to relocate to a place that makes me feel better. Like the pub. This year however, I decided to be a Big Fat Bastard™ as I attempted to ease my mood with a Big Mac and Fries, which I always insist on ordering as ‘chips’, because a) I’m not in America and b) I am turning into my father. Anyway, as I approached the Drive Through (as opposed to Drive THRU) because again, a) I am not in America and b) I am turning into my father), I realised that the queue was that long, you would have been forgiven for thinking that Ghandi was leading it. My mood darkened and my self pity levels rocketed. Then, just as a coherent idea of painless suicide / immense melodrama formed in my bonce, I realised that there was a KFC down the road that would happily help me clog my arteries whilst relieving me of a fiver. When I got there, the queue was non-existent, so I’d ordered, paid, and was back on the road, inhaling gobfuls of salty chips before you can say, ‘I think I’m having a heart attack.’

Therein the good fortune ended. Several minutes later, I was waiting impatiently at a roundabout, cramming more and more fistfuls of chips into my gob whilst wrestling with the paper coating of a drinking straw. Next thing you know, I was first in the queue to go. Roundabouts have always served as my Achilles Heel when it comes to driving: I don’t quite understand them. I mean, they seem to work, which is good, but to me they represent confusion and terror. I know that the basic concept of giving way to the right underpins it all, but if you’ve ever driven in the London area, then you’ll be aware that around these parts, it’s more of a free for all. I sat at the front of the queue, steering wheel in one hand, handful of chips to comfort me in the other when, BANG! I’d been bummed. And not in a good way. My first thought, rather disgracefully, I suppose, wasn’t that someone had just driven straight into the back of me, but that my Royal Tower Zinger Flinger Ringer Dinger Romper Stomper Chomper Oompah Loompah Stick It Up Yer Jumper burger (or whatever it was called), had been mercilessly thrown from the passenger seat to the floor, thus deeming it inedible. On top of that, what was left of my chips (ie. three of them, including one that was black at one end, which I had elected to discard on health and safety grounds) had been also thrown floorwards. Bleak... I felt bleak.

This is what happened next: extremely apologetic woman who had driven into me flung herself at my mercy, telling me that she was sorry but her satnav had broken and she was map reading rather than looking where she was going. Turns out she was trying to find her way to Kwikfit in order to get her brakes mended as they – SURPRISE – weren’t working very well. I kid you not. I was quite calm about the situation. We exchanged details. She kept saying sorry. I was mentally kicking myself for not having gone to the pub. I stood about wondering what to do. I telephoned my insurance people who were lovely and very helpful (Direct Line, if you’re wondering. I would recommend them.) My car was eventually taken away as she’d had her backside smashed in and looked like the automobile equivalent of one of those female monkeys on heat.

That was over a month ago and whilst my car had her prolapsed bum thingy fixed (forgive me, I’m not mechanically minded), a persisting engine fault means that I’m still without a car. Nissan have proved themselves to be as much use as a one armed trapeze artist with an itchy arse. I got my breakdown cover person to look at it and he gave me a report, with fault codes and meanings. I then presented this to Nissan, who charged me sixty pounds for diagnostics, which meant that they took three days to simply repeat back to me the information that I had already provided them with. And what did they diagnose? They weren’t entirely sure. They suspect she has a ‘stretched timing chain’ which means nothing to me. But in order to make sure, they want to charge me another £210 (plus VAT) to be CERTAIN. If their suspicions are correct, they want another £1200 (plus VAT) to repair the car. All in all, I’m looking at a bill of £1611.00. A quick look on Autotrader and it seems as though if my car was up and running, I’d probably get around £1600 for it. What to do? I dunno. I’d have to spend a similar amount of money on another car if I was to buy something else, so I’m at a loss.

One thing is certain though, my current means of transport (ie. bus/peasant wagon) cannot be sustained for much longer. Don’t get me wrong, my distaste for the bus isn’t rooted in snobbery (I mean, hello, I drive a Nissan Micra). It’s just that for someone with acute OCD/melodrama tendencies and a propensity towards flashbacks of horror bus journeys in days gone by, I fear for my physical and mental well being if I have to continue on the bus for much longer…AAAAAGHHHHHHH!

That is all.