JOHNNY RED PANTS SAYS...

Mam - Eleven Years On...

2011-09-08T22:22:00.001+06:00

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...

2011-08-22T21:18:00.000+06:00

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?

2011-08-20T20:35:00.000+06:00

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?

2011-08-03T21:30:00.001+06:00

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...)

2011-08-03T21:01:00.001+06:00

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

2011-08-03T20:34:00.000+06:00

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!

2011-05-22T11:11:00.001+06:00

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!

2011-05-22T03:27:00.005+06:00

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...

2011-05-14T15:09:00.002+06:00

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.

Matt Baker Asks the Question On Everyone's lips...

2011-03-23T21:23:00.000+06:00

I particularly like the GASP from his co-presenter... :-)

Matt Baker Asks the Question On Everyone's lips...

2011-03-23T21:21:00.001+06:00

Separated at Birth #4: Michael Jackson and Colonel Gaddafi...

2011-03-23T21:17:00.000+06:00

<< Left: Libyan despot Colonel Gaddafi. With inexplicable nail varnish and ropey wig, possibly pilfered from Elton John's rejects.

>> Right: Having a bad hair day? Now defunct pop princess, Michael Jackson, looking ever so slightly bored by old man.

Separated at Birth #3: Uri Geller and Colonel Gaddafi...

2011-03-22T22:43:00.000+06:00

<< Left: Long time (spoon) bender and Michael Jackson botherer, Uri Geller...

>> Right: Eccentric mental dictator of Libya, Colonel Gaddafi

Short Story: Blue Insomnia - Part One

2011-03-12T14:35:00.004+06:00

I died today... Was it today? I don’t know… I really don’t know…

On one hand, it seems like I slipped into this vortex just seconds ago; on the other, it feels like I’ve been here forever. It’s a bit like being an adult and retaining a powerful memory from childhood that, despite the ravages of time, remains as fresh in the mind as it was the day it was imprinted there.

In death, the routine of life has – unsurprisingly, I suppose – been banished entirely… I don’t sleep anymore… I don’t eat… I don’t feel, not in a physical sense anyway. I am unaware of my body… I do feel emotionally, or at least I think I do… And that’s another thing, I think. At university, I spent hours debating Descartes’ proposition, cogito ergo sum, or to put it in a less pretentious way, I think therefore I am. At the time, I mistakenly believed that it proved that we, as humans, exist.

Have I ceased to exist or do I exist somewhere, somehow else? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t know if I’m in the present or past, or somewhere else entirely unexplainable. I was no good at physics when I was alive, nor was I particularly interested. I’m not going to pretend otherwise just because I’m dead.

Here’s what I do know. I know I’m dead because I heard the paramedic pronounce me so before the light got sucked out of the air and I was catapulted into this endless ocean. Whoever said that the hearing is the last thing to go was right although I’m curious as to how anyone discovered that to be true.

This is what death is like: it’s blue. That sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? I can only tell you what I know. Words fail to do justice to the magnificence and depth of death’s colour. I can’t explain it. It’s as though I’m floating, suspended in an incessant, creamy, azure sky. It’s exceptionally beautiful… I’m enveloped in an enchanting, cobalt infinity. I can’t see beyond the colour, but somehow, I don’t have to. I don’t want to. I feel safe. I feel peaceful. I’m not worried or troubled by emotion. There is no sound or noise, except for that which I conjure up in my mind.

Where I am, God only knows. Speaking of God, either he doesn’t want me for a sunbeam or heavenly promises of a paradise untold was a little off the mark. Sorry to disappoint you, but where I am, there are no pearly gates, no bearded old man in sandals, waiting for me with his arms outstretched. No white tunnel leading me to a plethora of ancestors, eager to facilitate my smooth progress into the next realm. Maybe I’m in purgatory, suspended casually between astral planes, neither here nor quite there. Floating… itinerant… just being.

I can’t quite decide if I’m disappointed that I’m dead… I don’t know. Would I go back if I could? Again, I don’t know. If I survived the injuries that caused my death, I would be, at best, what people uncharitably describe as vegetative. A cabbage. I always used to laugh when people said that. I’d always insist that if that ever happened to me I would want to be switched off or suffocated by a sympathetic relative armed with a pillow. So no, if I had the option of re-harvesting my body with the life I once breathed, I’d turn it down…

Somehow my life seems unimportant now. Consigned to memory. It only exists as vivid dream. My time was up. My number was called. I’ve been and gone. I think therefore I’m dead.

When I was alive, I spent too much time considering my death. Depression in adolescence resulted in an almost successful attempt at suicide that I didn’t really mean. It was attention that I wanted. It was happiness that I craved. Not death. As I came round in hospital, I felt mortified at what I’d done. Not only to myself and my liver (paracetamol overdose, if you’re wondering), but to my parents and my friends, who consequently felt like failures because of what I’d done. I tried to explain that I was the failure, not them, but they didn’t believe me.

The torture of my depression became contagious. Three years later, I discovered that my mother was on anti depressants – and had been since my suicide attempt. When my dad discovered that I was gay, he too started on the happy pills. Guilt devoured my conscience more than depression ever ate away at my happiness, especially when my mother made a better attempt at suicide that I did.

Within two years my Dad had joined her in the grave. Relatives said that he died of a broken heart. My brother told me it was my fault. My sister agreed. It was the day of the funeral and we were waiting for the hearse to arrive, carrying our father’s body. I walked into the kitchen where my siblings were muttering to each other in desperate, hushed tones. I shouldn’t have asked what the matter was, but I did. In the instant that I set the question free, I saw rage consume the pair of them. My brother launched his assault first, telling me that if it wasn’t for me, that both Dad and Mum would still be alive. I didn’t know what to do. They were right. I looked at my sister and reached out for her. She had no sympathy for me. As she took my brother into her embrace she spat her fury at me. She didn’t tell me anything that I didn’t already know. That it should’ve been me. That it was all my doing, with my perversion, filth and selfishness. Anyone would think our family were religious fundamentalists. We really weren’t. We were a normal happy unit until my depression came along and planted a bomb underneath us all. At the end of the funeral, Dad’s body was committed to the same grave as Mum’s body had been. I stood apart from my brother and sister and watched as well wishers patted them on the shoulder and said that our parents would be happy now, that they would be reunited and that was the most important thing. Without any words, I was expelled from the remnants our family.

Neither my brother nor my sister spoke to me after the day of Dad’s funeral. Phone calls went unanswered, apart from random drunk messages left late at night telling me that I was a bastard. A murdering bastard. I tried to keep contact for two years before I swallowed the hint and left them alone. And then couple of years ago, on a whim, I turned up to my sister’s house on Christmas Eve. Earlier on, I’d taken a wreath to the graveyard before going home to spend Christmas alone. I had offers from friends to share the day with them, but as usual, I wanted solitude. I wanted to reflect and think and not bring others down as I wallowed in self pity. I didn’t want to reluctantly sit at someone else’s table, eating food I didn’t really like whilst wearing a ridiculous crown made from coloured tissue paper. I didn’t want to pull crackers and pretend to laugh or force a laboured groan at an unfunny joke. I wanted to be with my family, but had been cast out, so couldn’t. As I laid my wreath, I looked at the other one laying there. Fingering the card in the biting December wind, I drew it towards my face and read the poignant eulogy from my brother and sister. Right there and then, I decided to go and see them.

At this point, I’d not seen either of them for five years. It was starting to get dark when I arrived. The lights were on, but the curtains had not been drawn, affording me a view of my living family that I had been denied for years.

I stood at the foot of my sister’s front garden and wept uncontrollably as I watched them from afar. My brother was there with his girlfriend, who I first met at Dad’s funeral. She was now pregnant. There was a toddler, a little boy. My nephew? After several moments of watching my brother tenderly stroke his girlfriend’s stomach, my sister waltzed into the room and said something which caused everyone to laugh uproariously. All heads turned towards the room from which she had come and I could see that an exchange of words took place with whomever it was who was still there. Her boyfriend? Her husband?

I drank the scene in. It was the archetypal Christmas picture cloaked in an atmosphere of mirth and merriment. Genuine affection and happiness radiated from that window, illuminating my desolation, my misery, my loneliness. At that moment, I hated them for being so happy without me. I despised them for having erased me from their lives so swiftly, so easily, so callously. I wondered if they ever thought about me? Had their feelings towards me thawed? I hated them for making me feel so pathetic. With the bile rising, I turned on my heel and walked away, knowing that I would be unable to stand further rejection.

It’s only now that I’m pleased that my final images of my family were wrapped in joy.

I’m looking back on my life now. All twenty eight years of it. I suspect that people will say that my death was tragic. I disagree. In some respects, death was a release from the humdrum existence that I’d bundled together. I may have been young when I died, but what life I had wasn’t well lived. It was short of ambition and achievement. I never seized the day or lived every day as though it was my last. I wasted energy worrying about everything. I wasted time. I was clumsy. I was a magnet for bad luck. I made the wrong choices. I trusted and put my faith in the wrong people. I was a dreamer. I always thought that the good times were round the corner, that each New Year would herald a new me that lived up to the potential that deep down, I thought I had. I was always believed that I was on the cusp of a contentment that ultimately proved illusive, out of reach. Just before I died, I thought I’d finally grasped it at long last, but my last twenty four hours proved otherwise.

I’d had One of Those Days. You know what I mean: from start to finish, everything that could go wrong selfishly decided to do so with huge great brass cocks on it. The day began when my alarm dragged me from my slumber only to discover that I had a terrible hangover. A hangover made worse, not only by the throb of fresh heartbreak, but also by the insistent sound of the WERP-WERP-WERP erupting from the clock next to me.

My sudden introduction to consciousness from the depths of sleep was shockingly abrupt, so for the first few seconds I was completely disorientated, unsure whether my dream had morphed into something else. After a passing moment staring aimlessly at my wardrobe as though it held the answers to secrets of the universe, recognition came. This was quickly followed by the realisation that my head – much like my heart - felt as though it was splitting. My mouth and throat was parched. I yawned and felt my top lip split on the inside. Meanwhile, the alarm continued unabated. Turning my head to face it, I groaned as a sharp pain tore through my head. I reached over, thwacked my clock repeatedly until silence engulfed the room and then promptly fell back asleep.

When I finally woke up an hour later, panic seized me. I didn’t have time to do anything other than stumble out of bed, relieve myself, put on the previous night’s clothes and then run. I should’ve telephoned work and told them that I wasn’t going in, that I was ill, but pulling sickies was against my own moral code. Besides, festering indoors wasn’t going to do me any good. I needed to keep busy. Distract myself from my rapidly imploding life.

As the bus rounded the corner towards the office, I rang the bell and stood up, steadying myself with the greasy overhead rail. As we came to a halt with a graceless jolt, I clambered towards the doors that hissed their frustration as they opened to let me off. I jumped onto the pavement and, realising that I was late for work, legged it.

It didn’t take me long to realise that running through crowds should be left to people in romantic films as the climax to the story approaches. It would’ve been just as quick to walk. I was almost at the door when I tripped and landed squarely on my hands and knees, right next to a pile of frozen dog shit and a cigarette that hadn’t been extinguished properly. Behind me, I could hear spiteful laughter which enraged me. No one attempted to help me up. No one asked me if I was okay. Crumbs of comfort from Joe Public were staunchly unforthcoming. I got up and stared at my red, stinging palms before attempting to brush down my knees. I swore quite a bit (FUCKING FUCK IT! was my profane weapon of choice), received a disapproving glare from a woman in a charcoal-grey suit and then made my way into the office, my face burning with shame and anger, my palms still smouldering from landing so heavily on concrete.

It only occurred to me as I sat at my desk that I hadn’t cleaned my teeth. I could taste my breath and it didn’t taste good. On the flavour spectrum, it landed somewhere between tripe, the sugar free polo that I had found in my pocket and a skin-full of last nights beer. Do I need to tell you that I died suddenly single, or is that too obvious?

Things I won’t miss now that I’ve slipped off the dish:

Number 1) Charlotte, the Office Manager at work. Thinking about it now, Office Manager is a curious title. In the real world, it means being a bit of a mother hen and sorting out everyone in the office. It means knowing what needs doing and when it needs doing by. It means organising everyone from the top to the bottom and back again. Sue, the old Office Manager, was the heartbeat of the office and ran it with an iron, but rather lovely, fist. Then she selfishly decided to retire and the boss, Lenny – or Titwank Lenny as he’s known (something to do with being caught in the disabled toilet one Christmas with his wife’s mate) hired Charlotte.

She’s the sort of person that my mother would’ve described as all fur coat and no knickers. She’s the sort of woman my Dad would’ve tutted at and muttered under his breath about. The sort of person my sister would hate on sight and claim that she was a bitch, even though no words would have been exchanged. Charlotte’s the sort of slag my brother would shag on the first date and then never phone back to get second helpings.

Since she came along, Office Manger means that you don’t do very much other than sit near the door, look down your nose at people, apply and reapply make up at regular intervals, eat noisily, make name badges for visitors, snitch to the boss on what the workers are doing, accept every offer of a cup of tea, but fail to ever make one yourself, order too many staples and paperclips but never enough paper and toner and complain about it being cold in the office, even when it’s the height of summer and everyone else is gasping for breath.

In her flawed defence, she attempts to look busy, but a quick look on Facebook tells you that all she does is update her fist-eatingly banal status before inexplicably adding LOL after everything, despite the fact that it’s not in the least bit funny, Laugh Out Loud or otherwise. For example, she’ll write, ‘cold in the office 2day LOL!’ or ‘why is it raining????? LOL’ or ‘hmmmmmmmmm really fancy a Burger King for lunch LOL’ even though she recently put her oversized arse through a brand new ‘ergonomic’ chair. She claimed it was a design fault. LOL.

There are plus points to her uselessness. For instance, last year, I took two weeks off work and she forgot to add it to my annual leave tally. When year-end came around, I got a shitty email from her, demanding that I take two weeks off immediately. She finished her email with the phrase, ‘Use it or lose it,’ and then added an unnecessary amount of exclamation marks. I don’t know if she was trying to be funny or assert her authority. Either way, I did as I was told. Why the boss hasn’t got rid of her, I’ll never know. Probably got something to do with the low cut tops she wears that struggle to contain her huge, ‘bag-of-water-tits’ as they’re commonly referred to in the office. There are some days when I don’t know why she just doesn’t get them out and be done with it.

Work-shy attitude and offensive wobbling body parts aside, Charlotte just doesn’t sit well with me. She’s a bad apple. Sarcastic without being funny. A nitpicker who revels in pedantry. A negative force. She finds joy in other peoples’ misery. She talks about C-list celebrity movement as though it’s actually important. She carps and complains about everything. Her moods dictate the atmosphere of the office. She projects venom. In other words, she’s just a fucking bitch.

Number 2) My PC at work. Like most things that require electricity and boast an ‘on’ switch, it hates me like I hate Charlotte and it transparently wants me dead. Seems as though the PC got its wish.

On the day I died, I tried to slip into the office unnoticed, with no success whatsoever, thanks to Charlotte hilariously bellowing, ‘GOOD AFTERNOON!’ at a thousand decibels. It was eight forty nine am, which meant that I was nineteen minutes late. She carried on, spraying her breakfast everywhere as she continued to wail whilst eating. ‘WHAT TIME DO YOU CALL THIS?’ she screamed like an insane woman. ‘LATE NIGHT WAS IT?’ If I didn’t interpret her tone correctly, her thousand-yard death stare left me with no uncertainty as to her disapproval. It didn’t matter that I was always in early and Charlotte often rolled up to work well past her start time. I stood there, looking awful and feeling like a complete twat. Titwank Lenny threw me a withering look before shaking his head and returning to whatever he was doing. Probably nothing. I opened my mouth to make my defence, realised that I couldn’t be bothered and promptly sat down. Chewing my bottom lip with irritation, I reached over to my computer and switched it on.

After making a strange electronic farting noise, I was treated to what Simon in IT called total and complete PC failure, which I thought was quite funny. Simon – personality free, a face that only a sexual fetishist could love, breath worse than mine – told me that total and complete PC failure was no laughing matter in a tone so serious that it became even funnier. When I realised that he wasn’t joking, irritation set in. I sighed at a volume intended to alert people to my sorry state and inspire them to ask me what the matter was – Charlotte-esque behaviour that I usually abhor. There were no takers so, realising that I couldn’t do anything until a replacement PC had been found, I got up to make a coffee.

Ordinarily, I regard the kitchen at work as I do public toilets: to be avoided at all costs. Something once grew in the fridge for seven months and since then I’ve given the place a wide berth. It was formerly a packet of ham, left over from when Charlotte had a failed attempt at the Atkins Plan. Meanwhile, the open packet of ham sat there, patiently waiting to be eaten. After a few days, it gained a watery sheen. Then it started to smell and the sides curled up as though it was trying to escape. Soon after, it changed colour. Then it started to smell even worse: think rancid milk mixed with Sugar Puffs. Several days later, black spots emerged on it. Then someone put a shitty note on the fridge door expressing their disgust at kitchen etiquette within the office. Soon after, an email went round, asking the owner of the rotten ham to throw it away. Lots of people – including Charlotte - emailed back, claiming it wasn’t theirs. Another email went round – this time, from Titwank Lenny – talking about health and safety hazards. Much more effort was expended on writing about throwing the fucking ham away than it would’ve taken to actually go into the kitchen, open the door, retrieve it and dispose of accordingly. In the end, Charlotte emailed Titwank Lenny, copying everyone in to inform the office populace that she had ‘taken matters into her own hands’ and that the ham had now been thrown away. She didn’t need to email anyone. We heard her do it. It was an Oscar winning performance in feigned disgust, screeching and faux-gagging. Afterwards, she spent the rest of the day talking about it at high volume. Sadly, this wasn’t the end of it. Lenny emailed back, thanking her and needlessly copying everyone again. She then devised a kitchen rota that no one took any notice of. Bizarrely, she failed to include herself.

Number 3) My job. Growing up, there were plenty of things that I dreamed of doing when I was older. Recruitment wasn’t one of them. I wanted to be an astronaut, an athlete (I wanted to run barefoot like Zola Budd), a pop star, a journalist, a teacher, a footballer. Upon graduating, I got into Public Relations and was doing quite well for myself until the boss stumbled across an email where I’d described her as a ‘vicious, idle, dried up old fucker who probably has a smelly fanny.’ Despite it being a startlingly accurate account of her – and quite fair, given the fact that she would always walk in and point out everyone’s flaws before spending the day doing nothing - she failed to agree. In fact she sacked me. It was three days before Christmas. I didn’t realise at the time, but the PR world is a small one. When you can’t get a reference from the only job you’ve ever had, it’s also an unwelcoming one. Four months later, I was still out of a job. I had no savings and was having to put my rent on an array of credit cards. In no uncertain terms, I was staring financial oblivion and homelessness squarely in the face. I had no parents to borrow money from. In the light of my sexuality, there was never any suggestion of an inheritance. What was left that carried any value was split between my brother and sister as my parents wanted to make provision for the grandchildren they would never meet.

I quickly became desperate so I did what anyone else in my position would do: I got a job as a recruitment consultant. I rang my best friend later that day to tell him about my spanking new role. ‘Consultant,’ he repeated over and over again, as though it was a question or I was trying to catch him out. ‘So how are you consulting? And what are you consulting about?’ I didn’t have the answers and an uneasy silence lingered on the line before I made my excuses and hung up, feeling like a failure, despite having secured work and therefore my home.

In truth, there was no consulting to be done at all. It was simply a suffix to enhance the job title, to make it sound sexier. You can’t be a clerk or an officer anymore. You either get ‘senior’ as a prefix or ‘consultant’ or ‘specialist’ as a suffix. Spit and shine. Polishing turds. I blame Tony Blair myself, although that means I probably should blame Margaret Thatcher, which is fine by me.

I soon found out that recruitment was for people just like me – a last chance saloon for graduates and transient antipodeans, lured in by promises of making money that in reality they never will.

After six months at Seed Employment, I was a veteran such was the way the company ran. The Aussies and Kiwis soon moved on or went home and the Brits usually got sacked. After the first month, all employees were given a revenue target that they were expected to hit the following month. Miss it once and you’d get a warning. Miss it twice and you’d get another. Miss it a third time and Titwank Lenny would invite you to resign. If you declined such a kind offer, the sour old bastard would sack you anyway. People would work fifteen hour days, do all the right things, say the right stuff, but to no avail. We used to call it the thanks-for-coming-now-kindly-piss-off-chat. It was cut throat and cruel.

How I managed to survive as long as I did remains a miracle. I got lucky. My best chum at work was a girl called Shandy, who took me under her wing and trained me up for the role. Her real name was Eileen, but she didn’t like it and changed it to something that she perceived to be classier. Shandy. Not only was she the life force of the office, with her exuberant personality, she was brilliant at recruitment. She had the spiel, she knew her stuff and she worked like a pit horse. Unlike me, she cared. For three years, she made the most revenue but then the bubble burst and in a four week period, she lost seven of her biggest clients. Most people would have given up there and then. Not Shandy. She got her head down and ploughed on regardless. Even when she incurred two warnings and ran head first into her third, she kept her nerve.

The only time I saw her smile slip was after the meeting where she was asked to resign. At first she laughed, thinking that it must be some kind of joke. When it dawned on her that Titwank Lenny was serious, she got up, told him to go and fuck himself and then marched out of the office. I was devastated by her dismissal and infuriated by the injustice and short-sightedness of it all.

My partner in crime had gone and seeing as though I was on my second warning, I was soon going to be following her. Three days later, my desk phone rang. It was Charlotte, eating down the phone as she spoke.

‘You’re looking after Shandy’s crap now she’s gone, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Some bloke on the phone wants to speak to her.’
‘Who? And what about?’
‘How the bleeding hell should I know?’ Charlotte said, irritated. ‘Putting him through now. Is that alright with you?’ she sneered. Resisting the urge to scream at her, I looked at the cheap, laminated signs that had been fixed to the wall in front of me. It nauseatingly instructed us to smile when taking calls, because a smile can be heard down the phone. I fixed a false grin to my face and in a deadpan tone, offered a wooden salutation as the caller came through to me...

Link to part 2:
http://johnnyredpants.blogspot.com/2011/03/short-story-blue-insomnia-part-2.html

Short Story: Blue Insomnia Part 2

2011-03-12T14:30:00.000+06:00

The caller turned out to be Mike Chertsey, Project Manager for Ipfed, a global IT company that Shandy had been courting for months. Her pursuit had been relentless, manifesting itself in weekly telephone calls to find out if he required any staff. She had visited him several times, furnishing him with cheap confectionary and branded mugs and stationary bearing Seed’s emblem and telephone number. When that didn’t work, she arranged to take him for dinner to a Michelin restaurant in Mayfair. Eventually, she was invited to bid for Preferred Supplier status. She put her heart and soul into the bid. She lost it.
On the day she found out that the contract had gone to our biggest rivals, Bang Recruitment, she cried openly in the office. No one understood how she had lost. Titwank Lenny went with her – a rarity and a sign of how massive the pitch was. According to him, she had delivered it perfectly and done the company proud. Although not proud enough to prevent her being sacked.

If anyone was to undercut on price, then they would be making either a huge loss or weren’t planning on doing the work they had promised to. During the phone call with Mike, it sounded like Bang was guilty on both counts. In Mike’s words, it had all gone ‘tits up’ with Bang to the extent where he had utilised the get out clause in the agreement. As a result, the contract was now Shandy’s. Or, as it turned out, mine. When he found out that Shandy was no longer working for Seed, he seemed alarmed. Thinking that he was going to change his mind, I moved quickly, arranging to meet him that night to discuss strategy. As I had access to Shandy’s account, I spent the rest of the day going over the terms and conditions already agreed between them and researching the company he worked for.

I soon found all the information I needed in a folder labelled Ipfed. It even included an in-depth profile on Mike himself. Shandy was convinced he was gay. ‘The next time I meet him,’ she enthused, ‘I’m taking you. You can flirt with him. Get him on board. He’s just your type too.’

Before I left the office to meet him, I was given my brief from Lenny who couldn’t accompany me due to prior arrangements that he couldn’t cancel. ‘Anything he asks for, anything he wants, give it to him. I don’t care what it is. Just give it to him. Even if it’s a fucking kidney. Do not, under any circumstances, fuck this up. Understand?’

We met in a hotel bar in Soho, near to where the office was based and spent three hours discussing what needed to be done. He was easy company and we seemed to click, despite feeling slightly intimidated by his good looks at first. Shandy was right, he was my type: rugby build, perfect teeth and hazel eyes that looked like chocolate pools. He had a deep, husky laugh, which he was generous with. At eight o’clock, the lights suddenly dimmed. Mike met this with more laughter. ‘Ambient tone, anyone?’ he asked out loud as he raised his eyebrow. I giggled. I looked at him in the half light, keeping eye contact for a split second too long. Something intangible sizzled between us. I swallowed. Hard. He smiled and cleared his throat.
‘Enough about work,’ he said dismissively. ‘What about you? Tell me about you. If we’re going to be working with each other, it’s only right that I find out what sort of bloke I’m working with.’
‘There’s not a lot to tell,’ I said, trying to think on my feet. ‘Y’know, I’m er, just a normal bloke.’ He laughed again and threw his head back.
‘It’s like that is it?’
‘Like what?’ I couldn’t decipher the subtext of his conversation. I was out of my depth.
‘You know… playing hard to get.’ I felt myself blush like a school girl.
‘What? I’m… I’m not playing anything.’ My stunned reaction liberated more laughter from Mike.
‘Relax, you muppet! I’m just teasing. Now, do you fancy another drink?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I said, trying to remain cool. I looked at him again. A barrage of unspoken words flew between us.
‘Do you want to stay here… or?’ He looked out of the window and gestured to the bar across the road that had a rainbow flag flying proudly above its door.
As we made our way into the bar across the road, I looked at him and smiled.
‘Didn’t think you were the type to come to places like this,’ I said with a wink.
‘Right back at you,’ he replied with a glint in his eye.
‘Takes all sorts, eh? Anyway, my round,’ I said, ‘What can I get you?’
‘A pint of Stella. For now,’ he replied and I felt my stomach twist with lust.

Two hours and three pints later, we were in a taxi, heading back to mine where he screamed my name as I fucked him. Afterwards, he nuzzled into me and as he drifted off to sleep, he murmured that he had made the right choice.

Having been awarded the contract, I realised that my targets would now be easily met for the next year, although that’s not why I slept with him. There was a connection – a real, emotional, ethereal connection between us. What we had together was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Up until this point, my love life read like something out of Freaks, Fuckwits, Fatties and Thieves: An Anthology. Mike was different. He amazed me. When I was with him, I felt indestructible. All the misery and heartache that dogged my life dissipated the second Mike walked into it.

We began to see each other, but it wasn’t without its difficulties: he worked long and unsocial hours and lived in Northampton, so commuted into London where he was based. We soon developed a pattern: he’d stay at mine from Tuesday until Friday morning and then catch the train home after work. There were occasions that he stayed over the weekend, but he needed his space and I needed mine, so for us it just seemed to work. Throughout our relationship, I was filled with euphoria, but if I thought about it for too long, my bliss would quickly evaporate. Mike was upfront with me from day one. He told me about his history, that his last relationship ended badly and that he’d lost everything. I knew that he’d had to move back in with his parents, who still didn’t know that he was gay. It was a generational thing, he said. I understood: my coming out had contributed, if not caused the death of my parents. I however, wasn’t so willing to self disclose. He knew my parents were dead, but I didn’t mention my brother and sister. As far as he was concerned it was just me. It was too painful to share and I was ashamed. I thought that telling him might reveal a side to me that he found he couldn’t love. I’d finally attained happiness. I wasn’t going to risk bursting my own bubble.

Back at work and upon landing the Ipfed contract, I became Lenny’s new favourite. Mike spent thousands with us, and when one project ended, another one soon began. The night before I died, I finished work early to meet Mike under the pretence of a client meeting. Rather brilliantly, we were able to court each other in luxury and put it on a company credit card. We ate at the best restaurants, we attended the best clubs. We had weekends away in five star hotels, all courtesy of my expenses account.

On this particular night, Mike seemed slightly different. As I approached the bar where we usually met, I saw him outside, pacing up and down and speaking animatedly into his mobile phone. As soon as he saw me, his expression softened and he terminated his call. We stepped inside the bar and he kissed me fully on the mouth, but soon pulled away. I ordered our drinks and took them over to the booth where he sat. His expression was troubled. He seemed distracted.

‘I’m not sure I can stay tonight,’ he said as his eyes darted around. ‘Something’s come up. Work. There’s been a fuck up.’
‘Oh. Okay. No problem.’ Rather than press him as to what the matter was, I remained meek. In truth, I was crestfallen. All I seemed to do when we were apart was look forward to the next time I was seeing him. He seemed to pick up on my upset.
‘It doesn’t mean I can’t come back for a bit. Shall we neck this and go now?’ He licked his lips and cocked his eyebrow. ‘Looking at you is making me really fucking horny.’

I sucked his cock in the back of the cab back to mine without any concern for the driver who was listening to an Arabic radio station and singing along whilst smacking his palm against the steering wheel in time to the music. Mike didn’t seem to care either. He grabbed my hand and whispered instructions to do what I was doing harder. Faster. Within minutes, he shuddered as his orgasm began to swell and he forced himself deeper into me. Gasping, he suppressed a satisfied groan as he erupted into my mouth. As his climax continued, his grip tightened considerably and that's when I noticed something hard digging into my fingers. His wedding ring. I swallowed his lust, released myself and was rendered speechless with shock.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as he put himself away. I picked up his left hand and traced the outline of it with my index finger, stopping as I reached the gold band.

He immediately realised that he’d made a mistake by not removing it as he must have done every time before. We said nothing to each other as the car snaked through the streets of London. When we finally arrived into my road and the cab came to a stop, he attempted to offer an explanation. I remained mute: too stunned to take in the information he was giving me. It was only as I realised that I could never have him that I understood the true depth of my feelings. I never allowed myself to tell him that I loved him, or tell my friends that I’d found The One because I thought that by doing so would be to curse it. At that moment, I realised that I wanted it all: to live together, to have a Civil Partnership and a ridiculous honeymoon in Hawaii. I wanted to move to the suburbs and get a fucking dog. I wanted us to grow old and look after each other. And to think that it was doomed all along.

Inside the flat, we didn’t shout or scream. He spoke, whilst I remained dumbfounded that I’d never even suspected. He said that he was sorry, as though that made everything okay. He said that he didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. Cliché after cliché tumbled from that beautiful mouth of his. His marriage was happy, but not enough, that he had managed to satisfy his other sexual cravings with internet porn until he met me, as thought all of this was my fault. I asked him to choose, but he said couldn’t leave his wife or his kids. Kids. Two of them. Barney and Thomas. One was three, the other eighteen months. His wife. Rachel. Same name as my sister, I thought bitterly.

We sat in silence for a while until he said that he needed the toilet. As he closed the door to the bathroom, I instinctively picked up his wallet and began to rifle through its contents. Behind the flap encasing his debit and credit cards, I found his driving licence. He didn’t live in Northampton after all. He lived three miles down the road. I didn’t notice the street, just the town. The penny finally dropped when I reached back into the wallet and withdrew the photos. I flicked through them as though they were playing cards. His kids in various guises. His kids with him. His kids with his wife, Rachel. At first I didn’t believe the image in front of me to be true. I looked again. I flicked further through the photos until I came across a headshot of her on her wedding day in all her glory. His wife, Rachel. My sister, Rachel.

‘What are you doing?’ He demanded. He was standing in front of me holding his hand out. ‘Give me those. You have NO RIGHT-’
‘Rights?’ I interjected, flabbergasted at his clumsy choice of words. ‘RIGHTS? What the FUCK do you know about RIGHTS?’ How is ANY of this RIGHT?’ My fury got the better of me. My voice trembled and I dissolved into a blubbering mess. He walked over to me, softly took his wallet and pictures of our families and tried to take me into his arms. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done,’ I said.
‘I know it’s a mess. We can sort it though. I promise. Let’s talk about it.’ But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength or ability. A million questions span through my mind but I was rendered mute with shock. It was too much. I needed to lay down. Or throw up. ‘Do you want me to stay tonight?’ Mike asked. ‘Please. Let me stay. I can’t leave you like this.’

I didn’t say anything. I just got up and went to the bedroom. I undressed and collapsed onto the top of the bed. After a few minutes, Mike came in and did the same. We didn’t touch. We didn’t speak. I was numb. At some point, unconsciousness mercifully took pity on me.

When the alarm went off the next morning, the day I died, he wasn’t there. I turned off the alarm and fell back asleep, jolting awake with panic an hour later. As I scrambled to get ready I felt Mike’s absence. Whilst he often used to wake up and leave before I was even up, he would usually leave a jokey note or put a teabag in a cup ready for me to add boiling water and milk. Today there was nothing. I pulled on my trousers and noticed that the drawer in which he kept his things was slightly open. I walked over and I closed it, but saw that it was empty. I quickly scanned my living room. All trace of him had been erased. I tried to call him on the way to work, but his phone was switched off. I called his office, but was told that he was unavailable. I sent texts but never got a reply. He wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. Now I knew why.

On my way into work, I was still too shocked to think. A year of being lied to. Of being double crossed. Of sleeping with my own sister’s husband. Of falling in love with my brother in law. I just tried to focus on the day ahead. Work. Normality. Distraction. Diversion. Avoidance. I wanted to fucking scream.

When I was finally given a working computer, I logged on and sighed as the PC took its time to load. In my head, I had started penning a letter to him. I needed to purge my thoughts. My questions required answers. My wrath needed a target. When the desktop screen loaded, I impatiently double clicked on my email icon. Twenty three new emails in bold type had come in since logging off last night. His was the first one that I saw. Sent at 8.06. The tone was formal, professional. Cold.

‘I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for all your hard work,’ the email said, ‘but due to unforeseen circumstances and in line with clause 4b, I regret to inform you that we are cancelling the contract with Seed with immediate effect. May I wish you all the best for the future. Regards, Michael.’ How clever, I thought; dumping me and the company in one email.

The desk phone broke my reverie. Charlotte was barking her orders down the line. ‘Lenny wants to see you in his office. Now.’ I only noticed that he’d been copied into the email after I’d read it for the seventh time, trying to decode a hidden message that plainly wasn’t there.

Old Titwank was unimpressed to say the least.

‘What the fuck did you do?’ he asked. There was no point saying anything, so I shrugged lots and kept quiet. There was nothing to say. I could hardly tell him why the company’s biggest account had been caught out and gone back to his wife, my estranged sister, taking his business with it. ‘Look at the state of you. You smell like an old boozer. You look like shit. It’s no fucking surprise you’re losing business rolling up to work like that. What else have you got on?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked meekly.
‘I mean, what else are you billing? What other business have you got on? You must have more than just Ipfed? What have you been doing for the last year? For fuck’s sake.’ An enduring silence followed. ‘How many warnings have you got?’ Lenny asked curtly.
‘Two.’
‘Better pull your finger out then, lad. You’ve got a week. If you don’t hit your target, you’re out. Now get out of my sight.’

I walked out of his office, picked up my jacket and walked purposefully towards the door.

‘AND WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?’ Charlotte obviously knew the score and was being her charming, sympathetic self. I stopped, put both hands either side of my desk and leaned over towards her.
‘Charlotte, why don’t you just FUCK OFF?’ I bellowed and left the office for the last time, slamming the door behind me.

I got home at seven o’clock, having walked the streets in a daze for hours before stopping at the bar we used to go and consoling myself with several drinks. I looked around my flat, which now felt sullied in the absence of Mike. I pictured him with my sister. I wondered if she suspected anything. I thought about the sons he told me about. My nephews. I thought about the lies that I readily believed. I realised how stupid I must have seemed. How desperate and eager and pathetic I was.

I suddenly felt oppressed by the silence in my flat. Without realising, I’d come to think of it as ours. I really did think that the day would come where he’d move in. I had plans. For a year, I had watered my dreams only to suddenly find that the flowers would never grow. I was bereft. Too upset to cry.

Thinking of my sister, I felt myself harden. Anger took over. Things got thrown. My phone also died that day. I tried to ring him again, only to be told that he was unavailable. When his secretary asked if I wanted to leave a message, I said, yes, please tell Mike that he’s a fucking lying cunt. Rather than hang up, I threw my phone at the wall and watched it disintegrate as it took out the clock that Mike bought me from Camden for my birthday.

It was at that point that I decided that my sister needed to know. And I was going to tell her. I didn’t care if it made her hate me more. I was used to it anyway. I don’t know if it was loyalty or spite that carried me along. She had to know and she had to know now. I got up and marched towards the door.

It was dark outside and the cold evening exposed my breath. In my haste, I’d neglected to put my coat on. I buried my hands deep into my pockets and pulled my shoulders forwards to try and trap what little body heat I had. I picked up the pace to keep warm and told myself that I’d soon be there. I knew where I was going. It wouldn’t take long. In my head, I started formulating my speech.

I stepped into the road, giving a cursory glance as I went. Nothing. I didn’t see the motorbike coming. I say motorbike, it was a moped. A pizza delivery moped. Thinking back, I heard a buzzing noise, but it was lost against the sound of the night and the rage swimming in my head. It came out of nowhere. I looked up and saw the bike as the bike saw me. The lad riding it swerved to miss me, but this made things worse as I jumped into its path. The delivery box on the back hit me in solar plexus, sending me flying. Time seemed to slow down. My thought processes were interrupted when my head slammed onto the side of the kerb. It must have looked like one of the hard hitting Green Cross Code adverts that I used get told off for sniggering at.

I never felt any pain. I could hear the pizza lad screaming that it wasn’t his fault, that I just ran out onto the road, that neither of us stood a chance. A bystander was trying to calm him down, but with zero success. At that point, I wanted to tell him that it was okay and that he wasn’t to blame, but I couldn’t do anything. I don’t know if my eyes were open or not. I couldn’t see properly – I was aware of lights, but it was like looking at something completely out of focus. The lad was becoming hysterical, screaming and wanting to know if I was going to be okay.

He was told not to touch me, that the ambulance would arrive soon. In the distance, I could hear the sirens that got louder as they cut through the evening sky. Soon after, the paramedics arrived. There must have been a group of people standing by at this point, because they were being instructed to stand back and give me some air. The paramedic spoke down a radio as my injured form was relayed to a hospital. Male. Late twenties. White. Severe head and possibly back injuries. Loss of blood. I was put on a stretcher and carried into the ambulance where I was attached to various machines. I could hear my heart beat. I could sense the manic activity surrounding me. Panic washed over the medics as the machines started to make worrying noises. I flat lined. I was given an electric shock to my chest and that’s when I first saw the blue that awaited me. It was just a flash. A pretty blue current, sucking me in. Suddenly the voices above me were back. They were losing me, apparently. It was no good, someone said. As I was carried away on a deep blue wave to the gorgeous abyss that awaited me, I heard the last words ever spoken in my presence: ‘We’ve lost him. Time of death eight forty eight.’

Must Read: One Day by David Nicholls

2011-02-06T16:27:00.000+06:00

There are a multitude of reasons that I despise the current government, but somewhere near the top of list (sandwiched between 'because they're spiteful, vicious liars' and 'anyone who LIKES David Cameron or George Osbourne must be a bit of a cunt, right?') is the fact that these draconian, unnecessary cuts mean that libraries all over the country are on the verge of closing. It scares me that we, as a nation, aren't taking to the streets more and doing something about this. We're standing by whilst the cretins in government happily dismantle the country from the inside out.

I turned on the news yesterday and was delighted that there were a series of 'read-ins' being staged all over the country. The militant inside me stirred. Excited, I got my shoes on and made my way to my local library, ready to march, sit in, wave my banner and, erm, burn my bra. Ahem. However, when I got there, I was gutted to find out that there was precisely zero action taking place. There was a middle aged woman browsing the science fiction section whilst smelling of lavender and fingering her pearls, but she seemed far too polite and wholesome to rant and rave. And she wasn't wearing a bra either.

For me, reading is the ultimate in entertainment. There is nothing better than a good book. I don't know where I'd be without my library. Libraries are paramount to the good health of society. They provide a rich source of reference and information for us, the people. As Dr Suess himself says, 'The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.'

Libraries have transformed my reading tastes. When I used to buy books I would judge them by their covers. And often their price tags. If the blurb didn't suck me in from the offset or the first page didn't grab me as I skim-read it, it would go back on the shelf, unpurchased. When I did buy books, I'd read them and then lob them back on my bookshelf where they would sit patiently until I needed the space. At this point, they'd get donated to the charity shop or I'd give them away to friends. Strangely, there was a degree of guilt associated with this. The second I joined my local library, things changed. When I go in there, I feel like a kid in a sweet shop. I feel as thought infinite opportunities abound. Now I just take whatever book, CD or DVD that I fancy - if I don't like it, I can just return it. Easy.

At Christmas, I was fortunate enough to get a book voucher that bought me three books. There were five that took my fancy, so I had to go through a bizarre process of elimination. One of the books I discarded was One Day by David Nicholls. I can't even tell you why I chose the other books over that one. It might have been because I'm a bit of contrary-mary. On the cover of One Day was a lot of hype where fellow authors testified as to the brilliance of the book. Always one to favour the underdog, I put the book down and purchased another, more needy book.

Yesterday, after realising that the revolution was not going to start in my local library, I trudged over to the reservations shelf and found several books that I'd ordered. One Day was one of them. After (stupidly) walking away from purchasing it with my voucher, I still felt an attachment and felt as thought I needed to read it, hence the brilliance of being able to reserve one via the library. I love the face that libraries make information accessible to all. A ripple of joy surged through me yesterday when I picked One Day up. It had me gripped from the first line and I didn't finish reading it until the early hours.

The story revolves around two characters who meet on the night of their graduation, 15th July 1988. The following day, they go their separate ways. The story revisits them both on that day for each year that subsequently passes. I don't want to give anything away, but suffice to say, it's utterly, utterly brilliant and I couldn't put it down. It sucks you in. You feel as thought you know these characters - and not only do you know them, they become your friends. I laughed out loud and I did huge big belly sobs at their plight. An amazing, stunning piece of writing. Go read! (Except you, David Cameron. You can fuck off. You tosser.)

My Name is NOT Eileen...

2011-01-30T16:24:00.008+06:00

On Wednesday this week, and as part of my rather sexy sounding CONTINUING PROFESSIONAL DEVELOPMENT (oooh, matron! check me out, wanna touch me, etc?), I was lucky enough to attend an all day meeting pertinent to the demands of my job. Full of excitement (I don't get out much these days am afraid), I arrived on the dot but got confused as to where the door was, which I suppose does not bode well for any form of professional development, continuing or otherwise. Hey ho...

I sat in my car and took in the view of the building in front of me. The place looked a bit like an abandoned Romanian hotel from the late seventies. A quick orbit or two in the rain followed before I found my way inside where a lady welcomed me with a smile and dry miniature croissant that actually tasted of nothing. Armed with my four-colour biro and brand new virgin notepad (to demonstrate keenness and prove my professional development was cantering along nicely, thank you very much), I attempted to cross the threshold and into the training room. All of a sudden, the lady proferring the fetid pastries leaned over and disrespected my personal space by casually rubbing my left man booby. (It will no doubt come as a non-shock to reveal that I spectacularly failed to lose ANY weight last year. In fact, I put on a stone. Incessant slide to morbid obesity continues unabated.) Where was I? Oh yes, inappropriate man bap rubbage at 8.45 on a Wednesday morning. Lordy. After being felt up and experiencing pangs of flab related shame for a second too long, I breathed in as much as I possibly could and found myself a space at the front of the seminar (thus showing my true professionalism in all its continuing glory.)

The day was much more interesting than that itinerary suggested it would be. Rather curiously, I had a chat with a man at lunchtime, which concluded when he shook my hand and said in a broad accent, 'It was very very nice talking to you... Eileen.' This struck me as odd, seeing as though a) my name is not Eileen; and b) with the strongest imagination in the world, I don't think I 'look' like an Eileen. For instance, I have an Aunty Eileen who encapsulates everything an Eileen should: pastel shades, a ropey perm, A-line skirts, a whiff of Atrixo handcream and a grim determination to cling on to 1950s/60s fashion. Despite my questionable appearance and man boob combo, I don't think I fit this bill. Or do I?

The afternoon rolled on and my continuing professional ardour knew no bounds. I listened with intent. I was that annoying person, nodding fervently and whispering the odd, 'mmm, absolutely, yes, mmm!' every time someone said something that I agreed with. Which was every few minutes. Then, as the days proceedings came to a close, the curse of Eileen struck again. The chap leading the seminar asked a question. I answered him and he replied, 'Thanks... er, Eileen.' At this point, I looked to the woman next to me and frantically mimed, 'Eileen? Eileen? Why is he calling me Eileen?' She shifted her gaze from my eyes to my left man boob, back to my eyes and said, 'Because that's your name, isn't it?'

I looked down to where she had been looking and noticed - for the first time that day - that I was sporting a rather fetching name badge that screamed EILEEN. I hadn't been the victim of a quick feel-up earlier. The woman with the the moistureless comestibles hadn't been unable to resist honking my unseemly disco tit. She had in fact been fixing a name badge to me. With the wrong bleeding name on it. How worrying that people assumed that this was in fact my name. My continuing professionalism screeched to an almighty halt as I leaned back towards the woman next to me and said, 'Eileen? EILEEN? Do I look like an Eileen? What do you think I am? Some kind of failed tranny?' She looked at me and smiled, almost apologetically. 'Well,' she uttered, 'I didn't like to say...' before turning her head back to the seminar and proving her continuing professionalism was still intact by nodding enthusiastically at the speaker.

Memories Are Made Of This #6 - 1999: Moving to London

2010-11-20T15:51:00.001+06:00

1999: The single European currency is introduced as the global population passes the six billion mark. Hysteria kicks in about the millennium bug, which threatens to bring down the world's computers (but sadly doesn't). That said, technology is booming as internet usage and mobile phones become commonplace. In the UK, the minimum wage comes in. Earthquakes kill thousands in Turkey and Indonesia. In entertainment, Britney Spears conquers the charts with Baby One More Time and the Star Wars prequels are released at the cinema.

Back home, people seem to be suspicious of London and its unseemly delights. When I say people, I actually mean my Dad. During one of our many rows, where he vented his exasperation and suspicion as to why I felt it necessary to live in the Big Smoke, he implored, 'But there are Arabs there,' which confused me a tad. Either he'd read one too many Tin Tin novels or he'd just heard the urban legend about the lad who goes out on the pull, gets lucky and wakes up four days later minus one kidney that has been stolen by a duplicitous arab who, legend has it, drugged said bloke and then performed the DIY operation using a pair of stationary scissors, a wooden spoon and a non-toxic glue stick. Whether the bloke ever got his shag was unconfirmed. 'I don't mind Arabs,' I said casually to my Dad. 'In fact, some of my best mates are Arabs.' I sniffed indignantly, threw him a half smile and looked away, as though to underline the point. The colour visibly drained from my Dad's face as he fell into a deep silence. Moments later, he piped up again. 'But what about the Greeks? There are loads of Greeks there.' I didn't quite understand his beef towards Greeks, other than he had recently learned that the word Greek was also a euphemism for anal sex. To this day, I'm sure Dad would lay awake at night, convinced that somewhere in an underground shame hole in the nation's capital, some Arab was bumming his unwitting son before drugging him and attempting to steal vital organs. I should be so lucky. Dad went on: 'I don't know why you don't just move back home. It's nicer here. The people are better. Kinder. You think you're better than us don't you?'

Dad's cutting accusations could not have been further from the truth. I didn't think I was better at all. In retrospect, I did want more out of life than what I thought my village could offer me, but that didn't mean that I thought I was better. I'd moved away to university and had my head turned by London's bright lights. They excited and entranced me. They also spoke to my subconscious. In London, I could be who I wanted to be in a way that I felt I couldn't at home. A seismic shift was taking place on an emotional and personal level. It was a frightening change that I was struggling to admit to myself.

I moved straight from university to Acton in West London, where I moved in with best chum, Ruby. It was a glorious Saturday morning as we landed in her Fiat Uno. Despite an undercurrent of optimism, I was harbouring a feeling that I had chomped off significantly more than I was able to chew. I had no job, no social group and other than the fifty quid in my back pocket, (gained by cashing cheques at the uni bar that would later bounce in manner of power ball or fat person), I was broke.

I unpacked my the sum total of my life (which depressingly fitted into three boxes), went into the garden and had myself a little cry. My self pity extended to the Sunday until I decided to spend the majority of my money in the pub and then on Monday, I charged into the West End brimming with optimism and a cheesy grin, determined to seek out an employer. I was armed with a dozen copies of my CV, the contents of which were utter fiction - lets face it, when you've had four jobs during university and been sacked from them all, you've to be creative with what you’ve got.

Five hours later, I stood, depressed and exhausted in Leicester Square. Leaning against a tree, I wanted to curl up and have myself another cry. The day had been one long process of being rejected by various restaurants, cinemas, theatres, shops and over subscribed recruitment agencies. I arrived home in the late afternoon. Just after we had finished dinner, the telephone rang. It was for me! My first ever phone call in London! The person on the other end of the phone was inviting me for an interview the next day! Hurrah! The day was saved! I was going out into the workforce! Somebody stop me! And then Ruby’s Mam asked me a question that brought me back down to Earth with a bang. I hadn’t even thought of interview attire…

I turned up for my interview the next day looking like a circus clown. Ruby helped me sift through my typically student wardrobe and as we finished dumping my clothes into a pile on my bed, she smiled solemnly, exhaling sharply.

‘Slim pickings here, babe.’
‘Ironic really, as I’m too fat for most of it,’ I added, despondently.

As I arrived at the interview, I checked my reflection in the dusty window of a fetish themed sex shop. Beyond the whips and chains, my reflection was less than pleasing. The faded purple shirt that I was wearing bulged at the waist and had two buttons missing. Rather pitifully, it didn’t quite go with my navy combat trousers that had been washed five times too often. Despite this, the interview went well; I got the job and started that night working in the Prince Edward Theatre as Front of House Assistant. On the phone back to home, I was almost bursting with excitement as I delivered my news: ‘I’ve got a job in the Theatre!’ I would repeatedly tell anyone who would listen. The theatre! And even though I wasn’t entirely sure what Front of House Assistant meant exactly, it could only be something good. It certainly sounded it. My imagination ran riot as I saw myself on the stage, blinded by the bright lights, bowing to the standing ovations, catching huge bouquets of flowers and waving at my teary-eyed parents who had come down from Nottingham to see me. I couldn’t wait to start. Brimming with sanguinity, I caught the tube from Acton Town the following day, my home made good luck card from Ruby in my bag to spur me on. It was going to be fantastic, I had decided. I was going to love it.

I fucking hated it. With the exception of about two blokes, everyone was bitchy and hostile. With the exception of a couple of people, everyone was gay. I should've known, but I’ve always tried to resist buying into stereotypes, no matter how blatant they are. The Prince Edward (clue one) theatre was currently playing Mamma Mia, the Abba musical (clue two) and the place was situated on Old Compton Street, arguably the gayest street in England (clue three). The man who interviewed me smelled of White Musk and called me ‘darling’ (clue four), and as I walked into the changing room on my first night, a lad wearing make up and a crop top with bleached blonde hair (clue five) was calling his muscular friend a fat bitch (clue six).

I worked every single evening, including all day on Saturday and Thursday (bye-bye already non-existent social life) and for that, I was lucky if I cleared a hundred quid at the end of the week. Once I deducted travel and food, all I was left with about sixteen pence. On top of that, I was spending all day in this new city, alone. Ruby would leave for work at eight thirty and by the time she arrived home at six forty five, I would have been in work for an hour, so we never saw each other. By the time I got home at eleven thirty, she'd be fast asleep.

I lasted precisely two months at the theatre. Whilst my title seemed quite nifty, all I did was rip tickets and tell patrons to go down the stairs where they would find a bar and toilets. People would look at me as though I was simultaneously accusing them of alcoholism and incontinence, snatch their tickets and strop off in a huff. During the performance, I would sit by myself in the upstairs bar and stare enviously into the hustle and bustle of Old Compton Street and its mysterious patrons.

After eight weeks, I decided that enough was enough and that I was going to have to leave or die. The icing on the cake came when I was walking to the tube on my way home one night after the show. As I was about to enter Leicester Square station, a bloke - Arabic, forties, bald, unruly nasal hair - caught my eye. He looked suicidal. His gaze met mine and he walked towards me, mouthing the word, 'help.' Initially my response was to ignore him, but realising that this was my main gripe with London - rudeness and the fact that no one seemed to talk to each other - I reconsidered and asked him if he was okay. Big mistake.

He thought that I was a rent boy.

I stood there, shocked and open-mouthed as he told me that he had a wife and kids, and of course, he didn’t ordinarily do this kind of thing, but, hey - fortune favours the brave and all that.
‘Fancy a ton for a quick fuck?’ he offered.
‘What?’ I said in disbelief, desperate for one of the heaving throng around me to pick up on what was happening and come to my rescue.
‘A ton? A hundred quid. I’ll pay for the hotel too, obviously,’ he offered pleasantly. All I could think of was my Dad's face as I rang him from hospital to tell him that a man of middle eastern persuasion had bummed me in an underground shame hole in the nation's capital and then nicked my left kidney whilst I was out for the count.

I ran.

I ran into the tube station, scampered down the escalator, nearly causing a domino-like catastrophe, stormed through the maze of tunnels and didn't stop until I got onto the Acton-bound tube. And then the paranoia set in. What if he had followed me? What if he couldn’t take the rejection and needed to kill me in order to cover his tracks so that his wife didn’t find out? Not that I was being dramatic or anything. I was used to a small village, where the biggest scandal was when the bread sold out at the shop or the 141 bus didn't turn up. The twenty minute journey back to Acton was subsequently spent feigning curvature of the spine as I did my best to hide behind a pensioner engrossed in the final edition of the day's Evening Standard. Once I got to my stop, I sprinted back towards the safety of the house and didn't stop until I got through the front door, where for the third time in a week, I treated myself to a nice cry. Living in London was liberating chronic weeping not seen since I'd sat through Forrest Gump.

Gobsmacked...

2010-11-13T17:17:00.001+06:00

So the spending review came and went and in the next few months, the cut backs are going to happily chomp away. People will have to work until the age of 66, child benefit has been unfairly cut as has Housing Benefit and all local councils budgets – which are responsible for essential services within the community. Unless we want to - or have the time - some of us are going to have to run our own libraries and housing schemes for free, but hey, it’s Big Society, so it’s okay, right?

Despite pre-election pledges to the contrary, prison numbers are going to fall, as are police numbers, student fees are going to rocket, over half a million public sector workers are going to lose their jobs and due to an 8% cut in the budget for the Ministry of Defence, 42,000 service personnel are going to be out on their ear as well. But according to Cameron and Osborne, we’re all in this together, sharing the pain, thanks to the economic mismanagement of the last Labour government. (Although you’ll notice that they usually keep quiet about the fact that up until the collapse of the world economy in 2008 when UK debt was 1% of GDP, both the Tories and the Lib Dems matched Labour’s spending, pound for pound, but sshhhh!)

The tiresome blame game aside, everyone agrees that something has to be done and it’s not going to be pretty. Everyone is going to be worse off until things better. Aren’t they?

Well no. Whilst everyone has to shoulder VAT increases, reduced services, rising unemployment and public sector pay freezes, others are getting away with murder – thanks to THIS government.

Step forward Vodafone, whose channelling of profits through a Luxembourg based company in an attempt to avoid paying BILLIONS in taxes was last year declared to be a breach of tax avoidance rules. Almost immediately after the election, the Exchequer cancelled almost the entire tax bill the company was due to pay and then said that Vodafone COULD GO ON with its tax evading shenanigans. In the words of a revenue official, it was ‘an unbelievable cave in.’ The cost in lost tax? SIX BILLION QUID. Then – STRANGELY – within days of bending over to Vodafone, Osborne hops on a plane to India where he was promoting Vodafone. Just think of what that sort of money could do for the UK economy and its citizens. I don't know about you, but I reckon the six billion (and counting) would go a long way to easing some of the social pain all round. We all have to pay tax, so why not Vodafone? If the government closed the tax loop holes, it is estimated that we'd get EIGHTEEN billion back. Makes you think...

You can’t axe and tax the rest of society and then slip rich companies massive baubles. And they wonder why the students are going on the rampage?

ROAR!

Who Would You Invite to Your Imaginary Dinner Party?

2010-11-03T23:50:00.001+06:00

Let me start by reassuring the food police that any dinner party of mine would have to be imaginary for a plethora of reasons. Firstly, I’m common, so inviting people round for pointlessly-sized portions of unpronounceable nosh whilst making small talk to the sonic backdrop of pan pipes and James Blunt is something I can’t ever see myself embracing. Secondly, I can’t cook. I can stab-stab and ding with aplomb but as for cooking, forget it. Thirdly, my flat is about as big as a very small thing so I don’t know where I’d fit everyone. I can’t put my guests in the garden in this weather can I? Even if I could, my new neighbours keep flying their unseemly pants like flags, whatever the weather. It’d undoubtedly put people off their starter (or maybe I just cut to the booze. Eating is cheating and all that). Fourthly, I don’t have a table so attempting to host a dinner gathering would be tad tricky. Can you imagine it: ‘Oh yes, take your sad little plate of swill and your nasty little mug of wine and erm, eat it in the loo where you can at least sit down.’ Fifthly, I can just imagine the Come Dine With Me-esque appraisals in the cab home afterwards steeped in mockery and ingratitude… ‘The food tasted of syphilis, the wine was tepid Blue Nun proffered to me in a Cadbury’s Crème Egg mug and offering me a withered satsuma for desert was a bit LACKLUSTRE. And I can still taste the picked egg starter! For that, I give tonight… a load of shit out of ten.’

Supposing I DID elect to throw said party, this is who I’d invite:

1. Madonna. Like, duh. I would strike an appropriate pose, get into my groove and open the conversation with, ‘Do you remember that time when I stalked you in 1994 and you accidently ran me over on your way to the Brits?’ Other things I would ask her: please will you adopt me, who’s the best shag you’ve ever had and which of your kids gets on your tits the most. My money is on Rocco. She would sit next to me and I’d make her love me. We’d end the night comparing hands. Mine are becoming dreadfully claw-esque. Does anyone know where you can buy rohypnol from?

2. My old maths teacher, Mr Able. He was a dead ringer for the Honey Monster (of Sugar Puffs advert infamy) and if anyone ever said, ‘I WANT MY HONEY!’ (as we would often do) he would go that MENTAL that you’d be forgiven for thinking he was having some kind of spittle-heavy breakdown. I once said it for a dare and then blamed another pupil who rather marvellously got the blame instead of me. Inviting the Honey Monster to my soiree would give me the opportunity to apologise. And let him sample my Sugar Puff and Spam Flan. Nice.

3. Simon Cowell. All that money and his hair still looks like an Asda Smartprice toilet brush. I want to know why. I want to know how. And I want to know how tall he is. He looks like a dwarf on telly.

4. Keith Lemon. Oh, how he makes me laugh. Shiitttings!

5. Trinny and Susannah. I have a gay boy crush on them. We could rub breasts and everything.

6. Jimmy Saville. I once wrote to him on Jim’ll Fix It. He never wrote back, nor did he fix it for me. I’m not one to be vindictive or hold grudges, but I want the leathery old bastard to tell me why.

7. Gary Barlow. That’s dessert sorted. Tee! Hee!

8. Fergie. The bankrupt princess, not the strange looking singer from the Black Eyed Peas. For some strange reason, I’ve always thought we’d get on really well.

9. Me aged 23. I’d pass on the benefit of hindsight and warn self of the dangers of obesity, going home to see Mam more, the perils of trying to negotiate Leicester Square steps when pissed and to avoid people from Sunderland at ALL COSTS.

10. Thatcher. She’d get a piece of mind. And poisoned. Cackle!

BON APPETIT!

Getting Reacquainted...

2010-10-29T22:57:00.002+06:00

Blinking flip! I've not written a blog for a while, have I? Naughty me, etc. Been really rather busy with the new job and when I've not been working, I've been at the gym, which has proved a pointless exercise as I am still irritatingly over weight. And when I've not been bingeing and sticking my fingers down my throat, I've been cracking tasteless jokes. And then there was my birthday when I hit the grand old age of 29 years and 60 months. And when I wasn't doing that I was probably watching the TV. So, in order to reacquaint myself with you, I thought I'd blog the answers to one of those questionnaires that occasionally does the rounds via email/social networking weapon of choice/carrier pigeon.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Fascinatingly, yes. My father and I share EXACTLY the same name, which infuriated me as a child. To be honest, I’m still secretly bitter that I was named JOHN because: a) it’s boring – if it was a colour, it would be beige. b) John is American for toilet. c) This meant that my Dad could legitimately open all my mail as a child. Even though I never got any. Still, on the bright side, at least I’m not called Derek. Or Gary. Or Moonbeam.

2. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Yes. I write like a girl, apparently. All neat and swirly. And gay.

3. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
No. Thankfully I’m barren. Like Sharon from EastEnders.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
What sort of a fucking question is that? What next, ‘What’s your favourite hymn to secretly frig to?’

5. WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE HYMN TO SECRETLY FRIG TO?
Oh… Erm, either, ‘Make Me a Channel of your Peace’ (Old Dirty Bastard remix) or I Breathe Again by Adam Ricketts. Even though he’s a Tory.

6. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Ben and Jerry’s Fish Food. I can inhale a whole tub of it in about six minutes. Cheerio arteries. Hello male gurdle. (Seven pounds from Asda, if you’re wondering. Cackle!)

7. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Teeth. I can’t abide poor oral health. It sickens me and makes me feel violent.

8. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
My nostrils and the fact that I can sleep for twelve hours and still look tired. And the fact that when I am tired I become intolerant of the human race, like now. So fucking fuck off.

9. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
Come Dine With Me is on in the background. There’s a really annoying fat man who I hope chokes on the swill he’s just served up. Yes, that's right, I'm still tired.

10. WHAT COLOUR TROUSERS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
I’m actually wearing some luminous orange pants and odd socks. And that’s it. It’s okay, I’m at home on the sofa, not out at a seedy fetish club for chubby chasing perverts. Not yet anyway. Boom! Boom!

11. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
A heavy breathing old pervert. Just kidding, Dad.

12. HAIR COLOR?
Brown. Although when I was university, approximately 97 years ago, I saw fit to dye it as it was cheaper than getting it cut. All attempts were unmitigated disasters: Blonde – I looked like a cross between Sick Boy out of Trainspotting and Russ Abbot. Black – I looked like a grave digger on acid. Purple: I looked like circumcised penis. In the end, the cost to my dignity rendered my frugality as a false economy and took myself off to Super Cuts where the hairdresser asked me if the purple glow radiating from my bonce was natural. I said yes.

13. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Abba. Much better than both of them put together. I’ve never quite ‘got’ The Beatles or the Stones and have to weather the storm of other peoples’ spittle and venom when I wearily say that I think they’re overrated. If I had to choose, I’d probably say The Beatles as I quite like Hey Jude and I am the Walrus, but every time I see Paul McCartney waving his veggie burgers I feel pleasantly murderous.

14. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
You should see my big toes. They’re really something.

15. FAVOURITE SAYINGS?
‘Frig off! And wash your bastard nets you scruffy cow.’ From East is East. I almost perforated my bowel laughing watching that film. Bravo, etc.

Gay Coma Alert #2: 20 Years of Vogue...

2010-08-26T14:17:00.000+06:00

There are no words... Am fizzing type dribbly mess. Hurrah! Whatchu lookin' at? Vooogue!

Gay Coma Alert...

2010-08-18T22:51:00.001+06:00

Madonna as ninja? Check.
Madonna singing marvellous song?
Madonna jumping 30 metres in the air and generally kicking arse? Check.
Gay coma? Imminent.
ENJOY!

Separated At Birth #2: Sam Pepper and Ugly Betty...

2010-08-16T22:00:00.001+06:00

Ugly Betty (with dodgy dyke haircut)

Sam Pepper of Big Bro infamy (with epic teeth scaffolding)

Alternative Career #8: Presenter of The One Show...

2010-08-11T15:37:00.000+06:00

Pros: I can smell the envy now. What hours will you be working, people will ask when I tell them that I’ve just filled the vacancy on BBC1’s magazine show. Oh, I’ll say a little too casually, trying not to appear too smug, but probably failing. I start at seven and I’m out by seven thirty – all for about £5 million smackeroonies a year. People will gasp. I will nod sagely at them. And what will you be doing, they’ll say, choking on their choccy Hob Nob. Hmmm, it’s quite a demanding role, I’ll try and say without laughing in their face. I sit there, introduce my co-host, talk about random things that don’t seem to gel, but are jarringly in the public interest anyway. One second I’ll be looking dementedly serious whilst lamenting the latest natural disaster to wipe out half a million people. The next thing you know, I’ll be talking about the relative merits of own brand kitchen towels before accidentally dropping in a double-entendre and giving a cheeky wink to the camera. Then I’ll interview some animal owner about their pet gerbil collection and laugh as one of the animals craps on a credit expert that we’ve got in to tell us how to stick it to the bank. Ooh, and just think, I’ll get to ‘work’ with Jason Manford. I might even ask if I can re-record the theme tune. I know all the words and everything.

Cons: The camera adds ten pounds AND it’s filmed in HD? So what you’re saying is, that not only will I look like a sweaty pavement cracker but every imperfection will be highlighted at the same time? I suppose I could get an industrial strength girdle, breathe in AND suck my cheeks in, but I might look like I’ve crapped my red pants and talking could be rendered a trifle tricky. Can we re-edit it before broadcast? I’m thinking Photoshop, I’m thinking long distance soft lenses, I’m thinking extremely kind lighting… I’m thinking hard core CGI… What do you mean it’s live? Is that wise? Is that even legal? It’s quite possible that I’ll jokingly call someone a ‘daft twat’ or a ‘silly fucker’ or pick my nose whilst Bill Oddie is going off on one or accidentally stamp on some protected wildlife that’s he brought it. Only in self defence your honour.

Chances: What do you mean, the vacancy has been filled by Christine Bleakley’s doppelganger? Oh well, it’d never have worked anyway – it clashes with Emmerdale on the other side. Puh.

Nigerian Proverb...(that made me smile)

2010-08-06T14:32:00.000+06:00

'If your face is swollen from the severe beatings of life, smile and pretend to be a fat man.'

Taken from The Other Hand by Chris Cleave - an amazing book. Go read!

Memories Are Made of This #5: 1986, Family Dysfunction and the Skeggy Sand Train...

2010-08-05T19:47:00.000+06:00

1986: The Chernobyl disaster occurs in the same year that NASA’s Challenger space shuttle explodes on live TV, shortly after take off. At the cinema, Top Gun, Platoon, Crocodile Dundee and Aliens do well. Mike Tyson emerges as the youngest ever Heavyweight Boxing Champion and BSE – aka Mad Cow Disease – is first identified. Maradona’s 'Hand of God' – spit – knocks out England and helps Argentina win the World Cup in Mexico.

The biggest measure of our familial dysfunction was my parents relationship, but it’s only now that I realise that social norms and values controlled my parents as mercilessly as they did me in regard to my sexuality. In Bestwood Village in the eighties, divorce was still a dirty word. It was rare and only seemed to happen in extreme cases. You made your bed and you died in it, tough titty, no exceptions. The sonic backdrop to my childhood was Madonna singing over my parent's muffled rows emanating from downstairs. They seemed to argue all the time. It pains me – and it’s probably inappropriate to say it - but I never witnessed any love or affection between my Mam and Dad until it was too late and my Mam was dying. Simply stated, Dad didn’t appreciate what he had until she was terminally ill. Until then, it seemed that theirs was a relationship where kids and convenience acted as a tenuous, resentful form of glue for their loveless marriage.

Back when we were kids, my brother’s best mate brought news of his mother walking out on Christmas Day, as though it was a bad thing. On one level, I was envious: a dissenting voice inside my head thought it would’ve been quite a good present. Peace. Rather apt, really, given the time of year. I often wondered why my parents weren’t like anyone else’s. They never went out together, never shared a meal, never sat and watched TV in the same room. They slept separately in different bedrooms. They never laughed or showed any physical tenderness towards each other. Years later, Dad would tell me, whilst pissed, that everything in that department, ‘was fine until you came along.’

It’s not as though I didn’t know what a happy marriage was. Three doors up the street lived my best friends, Lindsey and Lee; offspring to Ruth and Fred. Together they – to me at least – comprised the perfect cornflake family. Fred and Ruth clearly loved each other. They snogged all the time. They sat on the sofa next to each other, cuddling. They talked. They made each other happy. They genuinely seemed to enjoy every aspect of each other. They would do things as a family. They would go out for meals. Fred sometimes cooked. They even had a Soda Stream.

As a tight unit, they would holiday together several times a year. Upon their return, they would regale me with a plentiful supply of exotic anecdotes gathered from abroad. If we went on holiday, Dad would drive us to a friend of a friend’s caravan (usually at the end of September) on the East Coast where he would drop me, Jim and Mam off and drive straight back, leaving the three of us to get on with it. He reasoned that he needed to get home and look after the cat. I didn’t realise that ‘cat’ was a euphemism until years later.

One year, he drove the three of us to a caravan in Mablethorpe and hot footed it back to Nottingham. It was a brilliant holiday. The sun shone throughout our week away as me and my big brother spent every day on the beach getting up to no good. The beach featured the Sand Train – an open type bus thing that took its riders the length of the coast, from Chapel St Leonards through Mablethorpe and up to Skegness, stopping at four spaced out, numbered boxes on the way. It travelled at about 3 mph and only seemed to carry the elderly, fat people and adolescents with Downs Syndrome who always seemed to wear baseball caps that were either too big or didn’t suit them.

Whilst Mam sunbathed and relaxed, Jim and I took off to the sea. In the distance, I could see the Sand Train trundling along the sand. I had a great idea for a game: one of us would hide under the box, whilst the other one would sit on it. When the Sand Train passed or stopped to let people on or off, the person sitting on the box would surreptitiously knock twice. Having given the signal, the person hiding under the wooden box would start swearing and cursing as much and as loudly as possible. Away from parental earshot and drunk on excitement, no word was off limits. Meanwhile, the person sitting on the box would sit there, looking as innocent as possible, clearly not responsible for this mysterious profanity whilst secretly revelling in the shock and horror befalling the offended Sand Train customers.

When said patrons were judged to be sufficiently disgusted, the innocent sitter-on-box person would give another double knock to let the swearer know that enough was enough. Except, when it was Jim’s turn to sit on the box, he did a runner. I sat under the box for a good ten minutes, hearing the chugging from the stationary Sand Train and swearing my fucking, bastard, wanking arse off. Every bad word came out at the top of my voice. After a while I started to wonder why Jim had not given me a signal to stop. On I went, effing and jeffing with impunity. I even came up with new swear word combinations: granny-bastard and arsehole-fart. Suddenly daylight hit me as the driver of the Sand Train uncovered the source of the foul language. As I dodged his grasp, I noticed Jim running towards the distance. The fucking fucker.

Note to Gaga...

2010-08-05T19:25:00.002+06:00

This is how you do it, sweetcheeks... ;-)

Memories Are Made Of This #4 - 1985 or Thereabouts...

2010-08-04T15:31:00.000+06:00

1985: At 17, Boris Becker becomes the youngest (and most ginger) bloke to win Wimbledon. The first Live Aid concerts take place and Madonna conquers the musical earth. Ernie Wise becomes the first person to make a mobile telephone call in the UK as Michael Jackson buys the rights to The Beatles songs. At the cinema, people are flocking to see Back To The Future, Rocky IV and The Color Purple. But it’s not all good news: crowd violence erupts at Heysel Stadium, where the European Cup Final is being held. A wall collapses, killing 39 fans. Terrorism abounds in the form of hijacked flights including flight TWA 847 and EgyptAir flight 648. Natural disasters in Mexico and Columbia take thousands of lives and in the UK, the British Coal Miner’s Strike ends, with more and more pits closing.

Bestwood Village: before the new estate was tacked onto the village, it had ten streets, a single, hourly bus service, a shop/post office and two pubs. An underused church. An old people’s home. A primary school. There was a chip van and a pop van that came around once a week. Despite impassioned pleas from my brother and I, we weren’t allowed anything from either – the man who drove the chip van, was, according to Mam, ‘a rum ‘un with no teeth and dirty finger nails’. Soft drinks never really featured in my childhood home. If we were thirsty, there was a perennial pot of tea on the go, which we were welcome to help ourselves to. Not the favoured choice of a panting, thirsty child, but hey ho.

Routines were fixed. Up at seven before school. Swimming on Friday nights. Mam and Dad would argue without fail every weekend. Roasts on Sundays. The big shop took place on a Wednesday. Dinner was at 5.30pm and was always a triumph. Proper grub, or ‘snap’ as it was called. Mam did everything. She planned the meal and she went out and shopped for it. She lugged it home on her own on the bus. She cooked from scratch and served it. Afterwards, she silently took the plates away. She washed up, not so silently. Afterwards, she would retire upstairs and watch TV on her own. Dad would then make a fresh pot of tea and bring in the biscuit tin. I often pilfered from the very same biscuit tin when I thought no one was looking. The biscuit tin was a late-comer to our house. Before this, our weekly treat was a single Ski yoghurt, which was invariably inhaled on the day of purchase. There was always a fight for the strawberry yoghurt. I used to feel sorry for the black cherry yoghurt because no one wanted it. Pitying a yoghurt? How strange. Once, my brother’s yoghurt became obscured behind the butter. When he couldn’t find it, I was blamed for eating it and was beaten by Dad. As I crawled away, incredulous with the injustice of it all, he kicked me hard and square on the arse. Later, still fuming, I searched the fridge, found the yoghurt and decided to eat it. I’d done the time, so it only seemed fair that I did the crime. It was black cherry, but that didn’t matter. It was the principle of the thing.

Our house was late to the technology party too. We had a phone installed much later than most people. The phone had a dial, was wall mounted at the bottom of the stairs and was a rather fetching shade of lemon. The phone number remains the same to this day. The television and video (when we finally got one) were rented, which was apparently all the range then. The video was a top loader and had a remote control on a wire. At approximately thirty centimetres long, the wire didn’t extend to where the sofa or armchairs were located, so was somewhat redundant as an enterprise. In order to record a programme, you had to press play and record at EXACTLY THE SAME TIME. The amount of concentration and effort put into this exercise by my parents was hilarious. It was like they were trying to thread a needle or perform open heart surgery. Or something. Looking back, a certain amount of trepidation and stress surrounded the video and its functionality. Once, when my Mam recorded a programme, she told me to be quiet. She didn’t want my voice being picked up by the recorder and my dulcet tones being dubbed over the episode of Hi-de-hi that she was taping for Dad. Seen and not heard? Fat chance.

Memories Are Made of This #3... Growing Up Gay in the 1980s Part 2

2010-08-02T14:04:00.001+06:00

A year before I started at secondary school, my Mam and Dad found me crying in my bedroom. I had been thinking about starting Big School and for some reason the enormity of it suddenly petrified me.
‘What are you worried about?’ my Mam asked as she stroked my forearm to soothe me.
‘All the big kids will call me by my surname instead of John,’ I wailed.
‘No they won’t!’ she said in her tone that always made me feel better. She was right. I was referred to on a daily basis as a fat fucking queer. A fruit. Poof. Arse bandit. Marmite driller. Bent bastard. Shit stabber. Butt fucker. Food masher. Nancy boy.

The composition of almost every class in every school lends itself to the same formula. There is usually the class stud, the class babe, the class slut, the class swot, the class porker and the class lesbian/gay kid. In every single class I have ever been in, I have always inherited both the fat and the gay role. And often the swot role, too. The teachers knew about this but they would either look the other way or join in with the laughter that rang around each room as the abuse was hurled from kids at the back. I was unable to fight back. I was unable to defend myself. Shame and fear paralysed me.

Where I’m from is particularly unforgiving. When I was a kid, If you weren't white, male and straight then the odds were pretty much stacked against you. Two out of three simply wasn’t good enough and the feeling of inadequacy that it fostered is something I think I’ve been running from ever since I can remember. Being gay was up there with mass murder, rape, and paedophilia.

Whilst growing up, the idea that being gay was completely wrong was constantly reinforced. That said, the word gay was seldom used and only when people were lamenting the perceived misuse of the word in its modern day context. ‘Them fuckin’ queers have even ruined the word gay,’ people would complain bitterly, as though their lives had been ruined by the inability to use the term in case people started thinking that they too might be one of them. Instead words such as poof, pervert and queer were thrown about left, right and centre. My Uncle came out with the best one, as he was of the opinion that it was really down to fashion! Can you imagine Vogue discussing what’s in for next season? I can see the front cover now: Bend over fellas! Boylove and bum tricks are the new black! He, like most other people, didn't realise that bummers can't be choosers.

As I grew up, I inherited a flawed knowledge of homosexuality based on a hateful cluster of ridiculous stereotypes. Gay men – usually called Tarquin or Cecil or Cuthbert or Percy – would dress flamboyantly and speak with a curious accent. Every s would be hissed whilst pouting and remaining limp wristed at all times. Hobbies would include sewing, flower arranging, musical theatre, eating mince, buggery, harbouring a desire to wear make up, dresses and heels and singing, because they’re glad to be gay. However, the primary aim of each gay man really would be quite sinister. Scratch the effeminate surface and they were predatory animals by nature; animals whose aim was to corrupt innocent heterosexual minds. It was essential that they wore pink at all times, as the typecast demanded. That way, straight men knew where they stood and could therefore consciously refrain from bending over in front of them so as to not lead them into temptation. Or sexual assault. One or the other.

With the above points in mind, I believed that there was no way I could be gay. It was impossible, surely? After all, it was disgusting. And I didn’t want to make my Mam cry.

Homophobia was both obvious and insidious at the same time. A double pronged attack from an insecure and deeply paranoid society sought to undermine people who were different. Laws, such as Section 28 came in, with the aim of protecting the young from the evils of queerdom and all that it entailed. It still makes me laugh to this day that people - supposedly intelligent, educated people - truly believed that sexual preference could be taught or worse, caught - as though it was a fucking disease. I remember reading a newspaper article about a gay celebrity who was described as 'devoutly homosexual' - devoutly? What had they done? An academic course or sworn an oath to Madonna? The whole thing terrified me.

As my teens unfolded and sexual urges overtook me, I'd often cry myself to sleep at night. I'd hit myself. I'd bite myself. I'd do strange things: I would be walking in the street and I'd tell myself that if I could hold my breath until, say, a red car came past me, then I wasn't gay. Or if I could run and get to a certain lamppost before the bus came then it would all be alright. I'd whisper my confession to the wind and then want to run after it, get it back. Make it go away.

This went on for years. I would see a lad I found attractive and a prickly, burning shame would slap my face. I hated it. And ultimately, I hated myself. All the time, I believed that I was being scrutinised, that I was perpetually under the microscope. Every time that something gay-related came on the telly, I'd be convinced that everyone in the room would be looking at me. I tried to stay ahead of the game and began to monitor my own actions. One particular time my brother noticed that as I drank from a glass, my little finger would point outwards whilst the rest of my fingers gripped the glass. ‘Ugh,' he said. 'That’s how queers drink.' I didn’t know how he knew this – I assumed it was one of the many intrinsic rules of being straight and as I didn’t know it, this must mean that I was a reluctant member of Team Mary. Meanwhile, every time I was alone, I would hit myself in the face for fantasising about the wrong sort. This served to be my punishment for being filthy. For being disgusting. For defiling myself.

At some point during my teens – I’m not entirely sure when, perhaps around fourteen – I skived off school, claiming to be ill. After Mam had given me the green light to stay at home whilst my brother was sent to board the fag-stinking school bus, I grabbed my duvet and began my day in residence on the sofa. As I celebrated my day’s holiday, I remember flicking through the channels on the television when I came across a chat show discussing the subject of healing homosexuality. I remained glued to the set as a sexual counsellor advocated the use of ‘switching’ whilst having sex. What she appeared to suggest was that in order to become straight, the wannabe-hetero should begin to fantasize about whatever comes naturally (curious use of the word naturally, I remember thinking). As the climax approaches and the sexual point of no return is passed, the fantasy should quickly turn into a heterosexual one.

It was years before it dawned on me that switching was another word for denial. By then, it had become second nature to me anyway. I couldn’t be gay, I told myself. In accordance with the rules of the village, I didn’t sound gay / act gay / look gay, despite everyone at school disagreeing. Every day I was labelled as something that I desperately didn’t want to be. Still, the power of denial was enduring. It took me through my teens and accompanied me through university. I had girlfriends and an active heterosexual sex life. I even 'experimented' with blokes. My best friends were gay. But I wasn't. I couldn't be. Even when I was a regular on the gay scene, I'd simply tell myself I was bi, or even better, come out with some wanky crap that I didn't want to label myself. It was only at twenty three when my Mam suddenly died that I realised what I was doing: kidding myself and not doing a very good job of it. In the midst of grief, my sexuality became irrelevant.

During the last conversation I had with my Mam, I asked her what she wanted me to be, what she wanted me to do with my life. 'I don't care, as long as you're happy,' she told me.

Memories Are Made of This #2... Growing Up Gay in the 1980s...

2010-07-31T12:57:00.002+06:00

1981: In the news, Charles and Diana began their doomed marriage, MTV was launched as Dolly Parton sang about 9-5 and Lionel Richie and Diana Ross warbled on about their Endless Love. The first heart-lung transplant was performed. The first recognised cases of HIV/AIDS appeared and Pope John Paul II was shot.

Aged five, I’m oblivious to the outside world, but the power of the social norms and values that will define me and rip me apart are starting to impinge upon my psyche…

My memory tells me that it was a hot summer’s day. I can see blue skies. The Sun has got his hat on. By this point, my parents had packed up and left St Anns for Bestwood Village, the place where my Mam was born and raised. In the centre of the village lies The Square, a patch of green supposedly for football but peppered too generously with dog shit to make a game worthwhile or even sanitary. Tacked on to the football pitch is a play-park. During the summer months, it was often packed and you had to wait your turn to go on each piece of equipment. I was standing near the monkey bars as Amber (big sis) gave Jim (big bro) a push on the swings nearby. I was watching an older kid dangling from the bars as he made his way from one side to the other. As he swung, his burgundy jacket and dirty T-shirt rode up, exposing his midriff and a strange scar on his abdomen.

At the top of the apparatus, I noticed that someone had defaced the paintwork. Big, clumsy lettering informed the world of (then-pop star) Paul Young’s sex appeal. I said the words aloud as I read them.
‘Paul Young is lush.’ I said, not knowing what being lush meant or indeed, who Paul Young was. The kid swinging from the bars heard me and jumped down, landing near my feet. He grinned menacingly, exposing his yellow teeth.

‘You reckon Paul Young is lush? What are you? Queer or summat?’ Instinctively, I knew from the tone of his voice that queer was something bad, horrific. It was the way he curled the word in his mouth before spitting it at me.

I didn’t understand. The only word that came close to it, in my mind was ‘square’ and I walked home slightly confused and oddly upset as to why someone had asked me if I was a certain shape. Even if I was a square, I couldn’t comprehend why it was so terrible. There was a square window on Playschool, and that didn’t seem bad at all, although I always preferred it when the storyteller ventured through the round pane.

Upon our arrival home, we were instructed to remove our shoes and wash our hands as dinner was almost ready. As Mam dished up in the kitchen, I went and asked her if I was a square-queer.

‘Sorry, darling? A what?’ She stopped spooning the mashed potato onto the plates, exhaled sharply and wiped her moist forehead with the back of her wrist before smiling at me.
‘A queer square? A squeer?’ Mam looked at me with a glance that conveyed her confusion. She didn’t seem to understand either.
‘Who said that to you?’ she enquired, her eyes narrowing.
‘One of the big lads on the park,' I murmured, feeling as though I was in trouble. 'Someone had written, “Paul Young is lush” on the bars and when I read it out he called me a squeer. Or a skittle. Or a squirrel.’ My uncertainty was beginning to get the better of me.
‘No...’ said Mam, soothingly as she let out a slight giggle. ‘He didn’t call you a skittle or a square.’ Her frown deepened as she tried to mask her annoyance. Almost whispering, she continued with her explanation. ‘He called you queer.’ Again, the word liberated a look of distaste and as I heard it for the second time that day, I felt a pang of fear strike my stomach.
‘Am I queer?’ I asked. Immediately her expression softened as she laughed at her five year old son asking questions beyond his years.
‘No you’re not,’ she said sharply as she resumed dispersing the potato. ‘If you were,’ I heard her mutter under her breath as I made my way out of the kitchen, ‘I’d cry.’

Pootling Around Radlett...

2010-07-30T22:08:00.001+06:00

My university campus was located in a Aldenham, a beautiful rural nook of Hertfordshire. In addition to the uni-faculty, it was home to some lovable but knackered-looking horses and a golf club that I was asked to leave one night after turning up a) drunk and b) wearing pyjama bottoms that I thought were snazzy, bobby-dazzler type fashion slacks. It was also home to a snigger-tastically named pub called The Round Bush from whence I was sacked after doing a spectacularly ~~cruel~~ accurate, impression of the boss to the punters, who laughed. The boss, who I didn’t realise was standing behind me at the time, failed to see the funny side. Goodbye job! Cheerio punters!

Aldenham is next door to Radlett, another delicious cranny of Herts. Have you ever been there? Is it a really small town or simply a massive village? I can never quite decide but either way, it’s lovely.

Now that I’m hurtling towards my mid-thirties and am officially boring – hooray! – I love nothing more than spending a lazy Saturday morning having a little pootle around Radlett. I’ll drive in via the scenic route, attempt to get a parking space outside the shops, fail to capture said parking space, swear a bit, grind my gears, have a bit more of a swear and then end up in the car park around the back. I’ll take in the shops – all half a dozen of them – and then end up in a coffee shop where I’ll fail to resist the cake whilst having a good reminisce about the good old days in Radlett… I’ll drift off into daydreams-ville and miss my mouth as I think about the following…

1. As a student, I used to work in a hideous video shop which has now been swallowed up by a Tesco Express. Even though Tesco’s expansion worries me, I say good riddance to the video store. It was run by a smelly, fat pervert called Raza. He was much fatter than I, but this didn’t stop him poking me in the love handle with his overly-chewed biro whilst inhaling a samosa so quickly, that he obviously thought I was going to steal it. I suppose he had good reason: at the time, I thought of myself as a Marxist. I bought the Socialist Worker and everything. I didn’t read it, but that wasn’t the point. Anyway, one day, I upset old Raza by shutting the shop up so I could nip next door and get myself a cob/roll (delete as applicable, depending on geography). I was halfway through a twelve hour shift and needed a break. I was the only person working that day, so I put a sign up saying, ‘BACK IN TEN MINS’. However, Raza caught me red-handed. He threw a paddy, screaming, ‘No! No! Never! No! You must ALWAYS put, ‘Back in one minute!’ ONE MINUTE! Are you trying to ruin me and my FAMILY?’ Then he picked up his biro and tried to stab me in the flab with it.

He’d also ring me up at midnight to ask me why the cash till was down by 46 pence and then tell me that he was docking my wages to make up for my incompetence. The Marxist within was not amused. On my final shift, I went through the computer system, cleared everyone’s fines and helped myself to as many Kit Kats as I could shovel down myself. And believe me when I say that was A LOT.

2. Budgens. It’s 1998. It’s Friday afternoon and the Bank Holiday weekend is about to kick in. All my assignments are complete. I am planning on celebrating with a night out into London. I am in Budgens, buying groceries and attempting to get cash-back when the wonky-eyed, slab-cracker behind the counter takes my debit card off me at the request of the bank. I get home and ring the bank, only to find out that I’d inexplicably gone £900 over my overdraft limit. Like, whoopsy. Shame and social ostracision follows in the form of a SOLO card.

3. Mamuzin Pizza. Still in business today and with good reason. They make the best pizza in the world and happily accepted cheques back in the day, which meant that I could still purchase delivery pizza even when I was £890 over my overdraft limit. *slaps arse twice*

4. Beaver Travel. Again, still in business today. Call me puerile and childish, but I always chortle at the name of the place. What with that and The Round Bush. And I’m a gay. Fancy.

5. Being a penniless student, I once tried to jump the train at Radlett. I got caught and despite an Oscar winning performance of, ‘must have left my ticket on the train, missus’, the conductor wasn’t having any of it. Thinking that there was nothing more to be done than just cough up, I proffered my gorgeous SOLO card. The conductor took one look at it and laughed in my face. Fortunately, it wasn't checked when I ended up giving a fake name. I still haven’t paid the fine to this day. Ronan Keating, if Network Rail ever caught up with you, I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not. Consider it your punishment for Life Is A Rollercoaster, which still haunts my dreams to this day.

What's Wrong With People?

2010-07-30T20:12:00.000+06:00

Apparently, a fan of Coro (not me, I hasten to add), has paid £844 at auction for the ashes of Frisky - the moggie who appeared in the opening sequence of more than a thousand episodes of the soap, crouched on the roof of Jack Duckworth's pigeon loft. Not only did the cat not belong to the buyer whilst alive, but it has also been been dead for ten years.

Now, I love me a bit of Corrie the same as the next person with a distinct lack of life and to each their own, etc., but WHAT THE EFFING JEFF IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? If you had the ashes in the first place, why would you consider auctioning them? And if you were strange enough to buy them, where would you put the ashes of the decade-dead cat? That sat on a pigeon loft. On the mantlepiece? More to the point, why would you want them? And why would you spend the best part of a grand on them? And why would you call a cat Frisky? It probably died of shame. Or cat-clap.

Shocking. There's nowt so queer as folk, save for me and thee, etc.

Fat Lad Rules For Life #1

2010-07-29T18:33:00.000+06:00

'Nuff said...

Memories are made of this...

2010-07-29T16:33:00.004+06:00

I've not aged a jot... :-)

In order to access my first ever memory we have to do the Timewarp back to 1977/8... It's just a jump to left... And then a step to the riiiiiight! Etc. Sigh.

My first ever home was in a place called St Anns, a sprawling housing estate teetering on the edge of Nottingham’s city centre. Back then, it was supposed to have been quite a nice place (according to my Dad), but that much concrete and clumsy regulation council housing could never have passed for being even remotely tasteful. These days, it’s the place to be if you want to get shot, stabbed or both and serves as the main reason that the press hype Nottingham up as 'Shottingham'. Oooh, I do love a good bit of punnery! Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, St. Ann’s is, I’m afraid, an utter shithole and don’t let the name of the street we lived on – the pleasantly monikered Bilberry Walk – convince you otherwise.

In my memory, it’s pitch dark outside and I am intrigued by both the vile yellow/brown patterned curtains and the equally nasty wallpaper. The fact that it may or may not have been fashionable in the seventies is no excuse for how pug-ugly it is… Highly doubtful anyway, as trends of any description, particularly those that pertain to interior decorating, have never tempted Dad in any way, shape or slovenly form.

For some reason, I think it’s a Sunday evening. There’s a ‘last day of the weekend’ malaise fixed to the memory, which is odd because I’m probably around the age of eighteen months, so shouldn’t really have a concept of weekends, thinking about it. In real money, this means that it’s winter 1977-1978. History records this as the year before the Winter of Discontent, but in my mind, it’s come early.

My memory tells me that there are toys scattered around me. The thin carpet is hideous - swirls of brown overlapping each other in a way that sends you almost dizzy. I can hear my brother squawking in the background and Mam is clunking about in the kitchen. The big light, hanging awkwardly in the centre of the room, is swtiched on and gives off an unflattering, somewhat depressing glow. There is a faint whiff of veg, possibly left over from the Sunday dinner. Dad is – unsurprisingly – laying on the sofa, holding fort and probably dictating what is being watched on the TV, which seems massive to me. Typical Sunday evening programmes are being broadcast, which do less to entertain and do more to grimly remind the viewer that tomorrow is Monday.

My sister Amber ( who would be around the age of 12) is ironing nearby. As she irons, I become bored with my toys and search for something more interesting to do. I locate a pair of discarded scissors and attempt to snip the cord supplying the iron’s electricity. There is a sudden white spark that appears to my immediate left, as if by magic. Accompanying this mysterious flash of light is an almighty bang which brings with it a round of shouting and cursing, courtesy of Dad. My sister, cowering nearby, and utterly alarmed at what has just transpired, is the sole recipient of the dirty, ugly blame. Mam intervenes and more shouting ensues. I don't know how long this goes on for, but as a result of the mêlée, the ironing is abandoned (let's face it, I've just knackered the iron, so what can you do?) and my sister runs upstairs, followed by Mam.

To this day, I don’t know if I electrocuted myself. If I did, it would explain a lot in the years to come. What I do know is that my sister is in a lot of trouble for something that she’s probably not responsible for (ie. The welfare of a curiously troublesome infant.) There is a sense of injustice embedded within the memory. Anger is dished out generously in the form of exclamations, threats, screams and recriminations.

I didn’t realise what I was doing, obviously. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.

'Big Society': A RANT...

2010-07-27T23:26:00.002+06:00

God, I REALLY can’t stand David Cameron. Or George Osbourne. Or Nick TRAITOR Clegg, for that matter. It’s no secret AT ALL, that I regard the average Tory in the same light as I do RAOUL MOAT, but after the election and all this talk of ‘the new politics’, I thought I’d bite my tongue and give them a chance. Early signs were good: the Lib Dems’ idea of taking the first 10K earned out of tax seemed progressive and positive. Lots of red tape was axed and the debt reduction plan got under way. Then the budget came and it all seemed to go HORRIBLY TITS UP for everyone except those who are quite comfortably off. There was much talk of everyone SHARING THE PAIN, but I can’t quite see how the well off are going to feel the same amount of pain as the poorest in society.

At the forefront of the governments cost-slashing mission appears to be Cameron’s ridiculous, unworkable and FRANKLY FUCKING STUPID idea of BIG SOCIETY.

Big Society? Big Bollocks, more like… I don't even want to go into one of my rants about this, but I’m about to, so look away now. All I can say is POPPYCOCK.

Call me stupid, but it appears to me that the entire plan is based upon the notion that the people of our nation actually give a toss about other people. I don’t know how you feel about this, but in my experience the majority of people don't (I’m looking directly at those who voted Tory in the first place – does HISTORY TEACH US PISS ALL?) I’m not saying that EVERYONE is a selfish so and so, but when the main reaction to George Osbourne’s (boo, hiss, spit, happy slap) budget earlier this year is ‘OOH, IS IT GOING TO AFFECT ME? HOW DARE YOU cut things THAT AFFECT ME? Cut the BENEFITS and the SERVICES my family don't use! And kick out all the immigrants whilst you’re at it!’ then SURELY even the Tories can surely gauge the overall, overwhelmingly selfish public mood? There is no concern for the general wellbeing of the country. The government cannot be entirely blind to this, CAN THEY?

Now transplant this attitude to a new system in which the government outsources public services to this general public that don't really give a toss about anyone else and herein lies your problem. Add to that the fact that even those who are interested in doing something don't know a MONKEY’S PISS FLAP about the complexity of running a competent and reliable public service. HECK, most of their opinions of politics are drastically generalising and ill-informed in the first place. This sort of set-up ALWAYS attracts power-hungry Daily Mail reading types with FAR too much time to spare and FAR too much of an axe to grind for their own good. If this is the public they're dishing out "power" to then MADGE HELP our public services. And if public services fail, who suffers the most? Those in need.

Of course, it's not just the fact that people don't want to help, or that they don't know what the fuck they're doing but also the VERY OBVIOUS QUALM that even the most well-meaning of folk SIMPLY do not have swathes of their own time to dish out for NO PERSONAL GAIN of their own. Whilst there are people out there who can and do volunteer for the greater good, my feeling is that they are VERY MUCH a MINORITY. Try finding some school leavers or some of the millions unemployed who are willing to work for nothing whilst their family is already staring the breadline right in the face. Not to mention that we have a populace so obsessed with self-gain and financial reward that it's made us far more unlikely to all PITCH IN AND HELP ONE ANOTHER anyway. One of the most obvious demographics for the ConDem(n)s to turn to are the pensioners, who not only have free time but also some scraps of feeling of societal togetherness (possibly left over from the war, rationing and the 1950s.) But even though there are masses of them, you seriously can't expect people to just want to give up their time to prop up ill-advised government BOLLOCKY IDEAS?

Volunteering, whilst a valuable and honourable thing to do, is also one of the most unreliable ways of running what are VITAL SERVICES. They need funding (and where the hell is that going to come from, exactly? Charity boxes?) They also need people – not those who can down tools and SOD OFF without a moment's notice. Can we really cope with such a fragile framework propping up these operations?

WELL, NOT REALLY, NO.

(Oh look a rant. With lots of CAPITAL LETTER SHOUTING SHENANIGANS. Well done me.)

Alternative Career #7: Sandwich Van Operative

2010-07-19T00:49:00.001+06:00

Pros: There’s been many a time when I’ve worked in an office where the general work related-malaise has been broken only by the jolly horn of the sandwich van. As soon as this happens, someone will inevitably shout, ‘SAAAAANDWICH VAN!’ as though their lives have been saved at the eleventh hour or they’ve just won at bingo. Or something. Everyone will then down tools and hot-foot it to the van, shouting, ‘last one there gets the warm black cherry yoghurt,’ or ‘bagsy I get the last tuna and onion baguette,’ or simply, ‘get the fuck out of my fucking way you fucking fat fucker.’ It brings out the very best and the very worst in people, trust me. There’s also been many a time when I’ve felt envious of said Sarnie Van Driver. Rather than return to the coal face with my warm can of Diet Coke and my black cherry yoghurt, I’ve wanted to hop into the van and pootle around office car parks myself, bringing a wealth of smiles, calorific treats and an unspoken nur nur ne nur nur that I haven’t got to go back into an office and listen to people eat crisps and suck their fingers like the rotten heathens that they probably are. Just think: all those sweaty cheese rolls at my disposal. More Kit Kat Chunkies than you can shake a stick at. The open road. As much Magic FM as I can handle. Helping the nation get their five a day. I’d be giving back. Making a difference. I’d be my own boss. My own comestible-related empire. And I’d call it something childlishly suggestive like, Baps Out.

Cons: I’m not great at mental maths, so I’d probably charge one person four pounds and six shillings for a packet of ready salted crisps and another person three new pence for a veritable schmorgasboard that could satisfy the appetites of a family called Porky-Pants. Oh well. Also, where do I get a van from? Or could I just chuck everything in a cool bag and serve people out of the back of my lovely little car? Of course I can. Hmmm, but what about my arteries? Surely they’re gonna take a hammering, as will my profit margin. Putting me in charge of food is a bit like giving cherries to pigs.

Chances: When can I start? Oink!

Dear Diary #2

2010-07-18T14:38:00.002+06:00

Sunday, 18 July 2010
Weather: Bit overcast and a little chilly. Am wearing my dressing gown which could do with a wash. A wood pigeon outside is making a twit-twoo noise, much like an owl. Maybe it is an owl. Yes, I think it might well be.
Mood: I’ve got wind. That about covers it.
Song of the day: Kylie, Your Disco Needs You (you’ll see why in a mojo). La disco, a besoin de vous!
News events of the day: Some budget airline has gone bust and there are loads of people stranded abroad. I know it’s terrible, but my advice would be to simply just get caught up in the drama and enjoy yourself. Stuck in paradise and can’t get home? What a shame. Suck it up and get over it, people. I’m partially jealous.

Dear Diary,

As I write to you, I am bleary eyed and fresh from slumberdom where I had a rather odd dream. Yes, I know that other peoples’ dreams are usually fist-munchingly dull (same goes for their holiday snaps, truth be told… Hmm, nice pointless picture of a yacht that you just walked past and never went on, lovely! Oooh, non-interesting blurred photo of generic sunburnt person drinking beer and looking a tad simple in an English themed pub, great!)… Where was I? Oh yes, I am writing this (probably boring account) down in case any of it comes true. This will then serve as proof that I am some sort of soothsayer and can be legitimately sponsored by Uri Geller. Or some fruity chewing gum. Probably.

So! Last night I was extremely busy being fast a-kip when my subconscious exported me to the library at work. I was minding my own business and smelling lovely when Kylie (yes, the Kylie, of hotpants Spinning Around infamy) came in and said that she wanted a word. I was like, ‘yeah, whatever, I’ll just put these books away and then I need a wazz and I’ll be right with you, chuck,’ which was a sure sign it was a dream because if it was real life, I’d probably just go to the loo in my pants on the spot. When I finally caught up with her, she gave me a big hug and told me that she had nominated me to become an OBE. Turns out that when she had been poorly a few years ago, I’d been a rock and as a result, she thought I was worthy of a royal honour. Next thing you know, I’m at the Palace and the Queen was pinning a badge on me. Strangely, she had a really broad Mancunian accent and all she said was, ‘Well done, lover. ‘Elp yersen to Piccalilli Cake. It’s friggin gorgeous.’ She looked terrible. She had one of those horrible pastel get- ups that she’s fond of wearing. But this one was too big for her and she had clearly dropped her Piccalilli Cake down her. I know she’s 487 years old or whatever, but come on Liz, pull yourself together, woman. I didn’t say that to her, as I was concerned that she’d have me for high treason and lob my bonce off. Armed with my OBE badge, I floated back to my friends, (ie. Kylie and entourage) who were waiting for me with a large slab of the Queen’s finest Piccalilli cake. Truly scrumptious, etc. As we giggled and guffawed, Kylie’s mood suddenly turned. ‘Okay you big fat bitch,’ she snarled. ‘Now it’s time for you to do something for me.’ I almost choked on my mustard pickle treat. ‘Give me your stylist,’ she screamed. ‘Mine’s rubbish – look at me.’ I stood back and drank her image in. She too was in an oversized pastel frock and she had a bit of pepper stuck in her teeth. Crestfallen and slightly gutted that Kylie was in fact a bit of a cow, I kneed her in the fanny and legged it. That’ll learn her, won’t it? And don’t worry about me hitting a woman – when I got home and looked in the mirror, it turned out that I was Victoria Beckham. Aka, Ethiopian Spice.

Conversation with a Seven Year Old…

2010-07-18T14:31:00.000+06:00

Me: So what’s your favourite subject at school?
Child: I like English and playtime and singing. And RE.
Me: I used to like RE too.
Child: Did you?
Me: Yes, I loved it.
Child: Are you a Christian?
Me: No.
Child: Are you Jewish then?
Me: No.
Child: So if you’re not Christian and you’re not Jewish, does that mean that you’re a lesbian?
Me: Er... Er… Er… Look at that dancing pigeon! *runs off*

Dear Diary...

2010-07-11T21:22:00.000+06:00

Sunday, 11 July 2010.
Weather: Oppressively hot. Am sweating like an infidel.
Mood: Shy/wild.
Song of the day: Happy Birthday – dedicated to my dearest darling Dombo who is aging as fabulously as a good bottle of wine. Gorgeous simile, methinketh.
News facts of the day: The family of infamous, self-defunct gunman Raoul thingymejig are up in arms about the fact that he shot himself, claiming that he is not a nutter. I am not sure I believe them. Tis also the day of the World Cup Final in South Africa. Spain v Holland. Come on Spain, etc. Not that I really care. Am a bit sported out to be truthful. I just want the telly to go back to normal. And James Corden to get the fuck out of my face.

The future has been revealed to me – and it’s Cilit Bang. Truly, it is. I’m not normally the sort of person that falls for advertising shtick, but my shower door was getting beyond a joke. Despite priding self on obsessive, OCD-levels of clean and possessing the nose of a well behaved, flea-free bloodhound with an arse that won’t quit, the waxy limey water stains on the door were infuriating me. (Note to self: must get a life at some point. Possibly tomorrow.) I tried all sorts, from normal old cleaners (Mr Muscle, if you're reading this, you're useless and can shit off) liberally rubbed in with a large dollop of elbow grease, neat bleach and Kim and Aggie’s long term fave, vinegar. Not the recommended white vinegar, though. I can’t seem to locate it in the supermarkets. Nope, I just used Sarsons, fresh from the cupboard. It didn’t work. It just made the bathroom smell like a rank old bag of chips. Meanwhile, the water stains continued to mock me as I bathed. Pah!

Anyway, you’ll be fascinated to know that today was the day where I thought enough was enough. Enter Cillit Bang. Being the recessionista that I am, I’m usually averse to paying £4 for a bottle of cleaning liquid, but you can’t take your pennies with you when you slip off the dish and these water stains were pushing me further to a stress induced death by the day. Yes I am that sad. Speaking of which, I have decided to embrace my flaws (namely: obsessive cleanliness, moderate chubbarama, snoring, irritability when tired, a love of musicals, refusing to hear a bad word said against Lord Madge, text-message response apathy) rather than continue the exhausting fight to be a better person. Sod that for a game of soldiers. This is as good as it gets, folks. Am probably off to Hell once I check out of Hotel Life’s presidential suite, so what’s the point?

Where was I? Oh yes; to cut a short, rather dull story a little shorter, I Cillit Banged my shower door big style and it’s come up a bloody treat. People in my family swear by certain commodities as cure all evil products. Eg. My Mam would slap Nivea on anything untoward (spots, broken arms, third degree burns, aching joints, military dictators, people who vote Tory) and my sister does the same with Sudocrem. I think I will liberally apply Cillit Bang to any problematic areas of my life. Seriously, it’s a marvel.

*breathes*

In other breaking news, I was passionately ravished all night long... By mosquitos, sadly. Mr Blokey remains bite-free, despite being truly scrumptious and much tastier than I. But no, the low-rent mozzies decided to dine out on me instead. I look like a well worn dot-to-dot worksheet. Malaria, anyone? No fear, I will simply treat my bites will Cillit Bang.

Hurrah.

Ten Signs that I am Getting Older...

2010-07-10T16:12:00.002+06:00

1. Youthspeak. Both amusing and terrifying in equal measure. This week a ten year old sucked his teeth and then said to me, ‘Innit that Justin Beiber is sick?’ ‘Innit who is ill?’ I said, concerned and slightly smug that I was rolling with the kids by using innit in the right context. ‘Innit that he is your friend,’ I asked, gilding the lily somewhat. My concern was met with a face full of sneering guffaws. My ancientness was cruelly exposed: it turns out that this Justin Beiber chap is a prepubescent pop star currently setting fire to a trillion hearts the world over. And he’s in fine fettle too, it transpires - despite his ridiculous hair style. Sick means cool apparently. How distasteful. How wrong. How SICK. Get them all to boot camp and teach them slang that doesn’t give me rectal itching.

2. Youth attire. Pull your fucking trousers up or at least wear some nicer pants. Why would you wear your britches around your ankles? Surely it must be like running the three legged race by yourself? And that’s just STUPID.

3. I have just reviewed the Top 40. I can hum ONE song. And that’s the Kylie song. The rest is just noise. NOISE, I tell you. What on earth has happened to the HIT PARADE? What is N-Dubz supposed to be about? Is it a joke? They have some manchild in their band called Daffy who looks like a malnourished battery farmed chicken with a tea cosy plonked on his head. How do people take him seriously? He thinks he’s extremely attractive too. Inexplicably. I know that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but he’s a ten-pinter with a rohypnol chaser, and no mistake.

4. Technology has left me behind. My touch screen phone is that complicated that answering the phone is stressful enough to induce a minor stroke. It does things that I don’t want it to. Eg. It tells me the weather when all I want to do is text someone. Or I’ll be on the phone (to Help the Aged, most probably) and it will decide to put me on hold and then dial someone else. The only way I can remedy the problem is by turning everything off, removing the battery (whilst sweating profusely and swearing like a navvy) and then turning it all back on several hours later, when I’ve got my breath back… I yearn for simpler times. Yoghurt pots connected with cotton. Carrier pigeons. Ice pops. Rationing. Crisp sandwiches. My Aunty Eileen’s jam tarts that taste of sawdust and give you an asthma attack even if you don’t have asthma. A Ten pence mix that now seems dangerously unhygienic on reflection… Hmmm.

5. I make the old man sound when I sit down. You know the one: one part death rattle, one part mediocre orgasm, one part wet fart, two parts creaking yelp.

6. The realisation that I’ve been alive in five decades… 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010s. Fuck and bugger. I bought my first record (There Must Be An Angel Playing With My Heart) twenty five years ago… I can feel the buzzards circling above, I swear…

7. I MUCH prefer Radio 2, Magic FM and Heart FM to Radio One and Capital. And I secretly love a bit of LBC.

8. The idea of going clubbing makes me itch. And not in a good way… All that DUFF-DUFF-DUFF rubbish (by N-Dubz, most probably.) You can’t hear what people are saying to you. And I quite like being in bed at a reasonable hour.

9. My middle age spread has come early. Nothing to do with being greedy. Nothing at all. Uh uh. No way, etc. My thyroid is perhaps shagged. Or is my prostate? Or is due to damp weather?

10. Incontience. Oh.

Does anyone have the telephone number for Dr. Euthanasia?

July? Already?!

2010-06-27T00:14:00.001+06:00

Mother of Madge, can you believe that July begins next week? I can’t believe it… Well, I can, because, well, y’know, it’s almost July… Hasn’t it gone quick though? Only one short blog ago, it was April and – crash, bang wallop, etc – May and June go sprinting past quicker than you can say, ‘Ra-ra, ooh, la la! Gaga! Ooh, la, laaa!’ and we’re almost at the dawn of 2010’s seventh month. July. Seriously, I can’t believe it. The ticking of the insisting clock, etc…

So what’s been happening in the last couple of months?

1. I got a job! Hurrah! And I love it! Double hurrah! I’ve finally found what I want to do forever and ever, amen! Triple hurrah! And it’s close to home so no more commutes that make me want to stab self in face with a wooden chip fork that’s been wazzed on by vermin! Quadra hurrah! No more having to sign on! Penta (or whatever it is, am sure you get the picture) hurrah!

Am working with kids, which is brilliant, but they are very observant and quite ruthless with it. Sob. Example conversation:

Me: So everyone, you know what to do. Take a worksheet and colour it in. Are there any questions?
*Porky child thrusts hand skywards.*
Yes, child. What appears to be the problem.
Child: Are you fat or just chubby?
Me: What? *breathes in*
Child: Are you fat? Or just chubby?
Me: *wincing* Erm… Well… *apologetic tone* I suppose I’m a bit of both…
Child: And sir, why is one of your teeth yellow?
Me: Er… Who can spell liposuction?

2. I have had many conversations with my father, who remains on the cusp of madness. Any day now and the men in the white coats will be round with industrial strength drugs to keep him in a constant dreamy smooth state. Sounds quite appealing actually.

3. I have – for some strange reason – received lots of chain emails instructing me to forward said email on to everyone I know in order to receive a free iPod / car / highstreet voucher / multiple orgasm at the stroke of midnight whilst surrounded by tranny dwarves singing Simon and Garfunkel or similar. Such glorious promises come at a cost: failure to comply generally results in unsavoury threats where my unmentionables will drop off. Even though I know such threats are ridiculous I still find myself forwarding the email on, just in case. Needless to say, I am yet to receive my voucher for my iPod dwarf orgy type extravaganza, which is just as well, really.

3. I have re-read A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Housini. It’s epic. It’s fantastic. It breaks my heart every time. A masterpiece. If you haven’t read it, I insist that you do it now. Go on, then. If you do, you will receive a brand new 50 inch TV delivered by horny dwarves at the stroke of midnight. If you don’t, then you will wake up tomorrow with spots on your forehead that spells the word FLAPS. You may scoff, but do you really want to take the chance? DO YOU?

4. Eurovision came and went. Britain came last again. We were crap though, but not as crap as Germany who inexplicably won. The girl singing it sounded like I did the time I had caught nonovirus and ejected violently from every available orifice. It’s all political. Spit!

5. Britain’s Got Talent came and went. Although next year they should really consider changing the title to Britain’s Got Street Dancers and Ugly People Who Can Sing and a Lad Who Plays the Drums That Won’t Sod Off. I did quite like the dancing dog though. I don’t mind Simon Cowell so much, but Piers Morgan needs euthanizing and Frankie Boyle was on the money when he described Amanda Holden as, ‘having a face like haunted Tupperware.’ Cackle.

6. My beloved football team – Nottingham Forest – got to the play offs, where, true to form, they spectacularly capitulated and massively failed to gain promotion. As we conceded our third – and most horrific goal – there was a news flash to say that evil Tory bigot David Cameron had managed to persuade Nick Clegg to sell his soul and form a coalition government. It was a dark day in every sense. I voted LibDem only to watch them climb into bed and go bareback with the Tories. Needless to say, I shall NEVER vote for them again. EVER. Note to Vince Cable: get out now whilst you can. The rest of them can SHIT OFF.

7. The sun has had his hat on and I shouted hip, hip, hurrah. And then I got brown. And a gazebo!

8. My car tax – fascinatingly – came up for renewal. I always get six months at a time but I promised self that this year, I would get twelve as it means that I won’t have to renew in December. I failed. Come Chrimbo, if anyone finds themselves struggling to get me a present, then you could do worse than getting me twelve months car tax, for Nelly the Nissan. Cheers. Come all ye faithful, etc.

9. I won the lottery! Yes, me! Ten whole pounds. Ker-ching! And no, I won’t spend it all at once. I hope it doesn’t change me.

10. I meant to re-join the gym. But I haven’t got round to it yet. It’s too hot. I shall do it once England crash out of the World Cup. ie – tomorrow.

Anyway, enough about me, how are you?

Job Centre Checklist...

2010-04-28T22:19:00.003+06:00

Rape alarm. Check.

Taser gun. Check. Just in case rape alarm fails. You never can be too careful, etc.

Industrial strength hand sanitiser / Bleach. Check. It's not OCD, it's common sense.

Valium. Check. Procured from dodgydrugsthatwillprobablykillyou.com

Vodka. Check. To help wash down Valium. Procured from Lidl as am now forced to economise. Yum.

Sunglasses. Check. Yes, tis rude to stare at people less fortunate than self, but with sunglasses, they’ll never know. And it also prevents people from recognising me, see, so it’s win-win.

Pen. Check. As do not like using theirs because a) you don’t know who has used them and b) They are often chewed or have been coughed on and have reams of sellotape inexplicably wrapped round them which attracts hair and bogies. Not mine, I hasten to add.

Anti-boredom drug Eg. Suppository / Ecstacy / Miaow Miaow or similar. Check. For employees there. I’ve never met people so uninterested, despondent and jaded. Apart from my Dad, but he doesn’t count.

Coldsore cream. Check. Everyone in there seems to have one.

Bible. Check. So I can read the bit where Baby Jesus has a hissy fit and screams, WHY HAVE THOU FORSAKEN ME, PA? (or something along those lines) and feel empathetic and sage-like.

Please note, if you ever have to sign on and see someone who appears to be off their tits on drugs and booze, who also appears to be wearing sunglasses and is reading the Bible as he strokes his chin... do NOT say hello. If you do, you might get tasered. You have been warned.

Alternative Career #6: The New SuBo...

2010-04-28T21:43:00.001+06:00

Pros: I said, SUBO not SUMO. You know, as in Susan Boyle. I could do with being plucked from obscurity whilst having global fame, riches and a council house in Scotland thrust my way. I’m not doing anything else at the moment. Besides, I’ve got as much stubble as her, I’m equally as rotund and after a few sherries, I look just as vacant. Mentalism is in my family genes and I even know ALL the words to I Dreamed a Dream. I know, get me.

Cons: Whilst I may know all the words to I Dreamed a Dream, I fear that my rendition might not go down as well as hers. I think I might struggle with the ‘money note’ at the end. Besides, it’s a bit depressing isn’t it? All that woe and self pity – that’s not what Joe Public want is it? I’d sing something more uplifting and joyous. Like Aga-do. Thinking about it, I don’t know how I’d cope with someone like Piers Morgan rejecting me by hitting his buzzer as I approach the climax of my performance. I may attempt a spinning-bird kick on him – and that’s no good for humanity. Believe me.

Chances: What do you mean, the Britain’s Got Talent auditions have been and gone? Oh bugger. Oh well. Maybe next year, eh?

Confessions of a (Formerly Obsessive) Madonna Fan... Woooo!

2010-04-27T18:22:00.000+06:00

Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m rather partial to a large portion of Madge. As the years have gone by, I’ve thankfully become less obsessive, but whilst watching last night’s GLORIOUS tribute episode of Glee I thought about the most LOONY depths of Madge fandom that I sank to. I’m afraid that the following makes pitiful reading. And much like Madge herself. I’m not sorry. HURRAH! (Please note, all capital letters are intentional and are meant to convey a sense of SHEER DRAMA.)

1. It’s February 1994. It’s freezing outside. The bleak midwinter, etc. Where am I? I’m in London, sporting a terrible haircut and am wearing a Madonna T-shirt with no coat on. I am 150 miles from home standing outside Madonna’s hotel with about 100 other fans who The Times will describe as ‘bedraggled’ the following day. On the front page, no less. Check me out. I always wanted to stand outside the hotel and get caught up in Madgery-related drama and now is my time. Hours later Madonna will come out of the hotel (she’s in town to perform at The Brits) and the army of obsessives will go mental, mental, chicken oriental as soon as she is in sight. In the ensuing confusion, I will be PROPELLED forward from the HEAVING THRONG and will REBOUND off Madge’s car – whilst SHE IS IN IT. After THWACKING the car, I am THROWN TO THE FLOOR and some other fan trips over me and goes FLYING in a way that would have easily bagged me £250 if I’d been savvy enough to record it and send it in to You’ve Been Framed. I am left bruised and slightly hurt, but I EFFING LOVE IT and am almost FOAMING AT THE MOUTH. Who else can legitimately boast that they were RUN OVER AND LEFT FOR DEAD BY MADGE? And why do I still think that this is a good thing?

2. As a child – actually, who am I kidding? I still do it now – I always TIDY UP THE MADGE SECTION in HMV and other CD retailers. Furthermore I used to always take a stack of Madge CDs and place them over the artists I considered to be her SORRY, INFERIOR competition, namely: Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, Britney, Michael Jackson and his rubbish sister Janet who CANNOT SING. The fact that Madge remains successful whilst the others slip into obesity (Mariah), crack whoredom (Whitney), head shaving bonkery (Britney), can only seem to get to number 73 in the charts (Janet) or are simply just dead (Mickey J. Please don’t haunt me, etc), means one thing: mission accomplished. Watch out Gaga. I’m coming for you. Tee! Hee!

3. As a teen, I would listen to the Late Night Triple Play on my local station, Trent FM. As it’s name suggests, they would play three songs by one artist, usually syrupy-ballady-lovey ones and encourage people to ring in and dedicate it to their special someone. It pains me to admit this, but I rang up and dedicated it to myself. I was 18 at the time. I could hear the pity in the DJs voice when he realised what I was doing. He employed the same tone when announcing it to his audience over the waves. All four of them. It also pains me to tell you that I recorded this and took it into school the next day where I played it AT FULL VOLUME over the sixth form stereo. At the time, everyone was into stuff like Nirvana and ‘serious’ stuff which seemed to feature lots of skinny men who liked to moan a lot whilst playing the guitar, so you can IMAGINE how BEMUSED people were as I feigned SHOCK and SURPRISE at hearing my name being read out.

4. I wore a Madonna T-shirt until my mid twenties. I even had a Madonna JUMPER, which I wore that much, it almost bonded itself to my skin. I came home from university one year to find that my Mam had turned one of my MOST PRIZED T-shirts into a DUSTER. The scale of my distress was DISPROPORTIONATE to say the least. One queeny strop with a side order of hissy fit, coming up! In my defence, the T-shirts did feature lovely pictures of Madge. So there.

5. I once sent off for a Madonna mug. I’d wanted – nay, needed! – a Madge mug for years, but they didn’t sell them round my way. One day, my prayers were answered in mail order form. For the bargain price of £20 (plus postage and packing, obviously), I could have a picture of Madge STRIKING A POSE on a mug. Twenty pounds did seem a bit steep, but I DESPERATELY wanted one. Yes, really. Anyway, I sent my twenty pounds in cash form (cheerio money!), and then ran to the door when the post came every day for six months. It NEVER ARRIVED. I still live in hope that it’s on its way.

6. I once thought it would be a good idea to decorate a wooden chair with as many Madonna song titles as I could fit on it. She has an extensive back catalogue, you know. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise my artistic vision. IE. It looked a bit shit. Mam wasn’t best pleased either, but that’ll LEARN HER to desecrate my most prized T-shirt and transform it into a duster. Not that I was remotely bitter, oh no. Spit!

7. As a child / teen I wanted a Madge tattoo. Something tasteful, like the True Blue album cover trailing down my arm, or perhaps the word, LOVED, in big letters on the back of my neck, like Madge has in the What It Feels Like For a Girl video (which is the BEST VIDEO IN POP HISTORY, closely followed by the bit in the Hung Up video, where she walks across the floor on her front bottom.) I secretly would still like a Madge tattoo, but let’s face it, I’ve got enough problems as it is. I’m also not a fan of tattoos, truth be told. Maybe I’ll just write VOGUE or 4 MINUTES or MOTHERFUCKER (which she says too often, tsk!) on my leg with a biro or a felt tip. At least that will wash off when I realise just how sad I am.

8. I once re-enacted Like A Virgin from The Blonde Ambition tour. On stage. You know, where she simulates having a frig in the name of performance. And no, I didn’t compromise my artistic integrity, before you ask. In my defence (a phrase becoming over-used in this spiel), it was a) for charity and b) I went down a storm. I also accidentally flashed the audience. Get in.

9. When I was younger, if anyone said anything bad or horrible about her, I would immediately HATE THEM. I am much better these days but slag her off and I will kill you like a dog in the street and spit on your grave. Try me.

10. I once wrote to Madge telling her how brilliant I thought she was. I also offered my services, should she need a chubby 14 year old to provide backing vocals, say, on tour or a new album. I still think the Erotica album would have benefitted from my vocal input. Erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body, etc. It doesn’t end there. Oh no. Once I posted the letter (to America of all places! The money I’ve spent on her!) I started to panic that she might write back and take me up on the offer. For weeks, I worried about telling my parents I was leaving school to go on tour with Madge. Strangely – and much like the mug – I am still waiting for her to get back to me.

Don't Count Your Chickens...

2010-04-27T13:03:00.001+06:00

Three months ago, I finally landed a job that ended a miserable run of six months unemployed. Granted, it was only a temp job... and it was based on a sewerage treatment plant... and it involved talking to a lot of FUCKING IDIOTS... and the office was FILTHY - using the keyboards was a bit like running your fingers through the lice-ridden mane of the local Big Issue seller... And the 'cleaner' stank of sweat and unclean heads and always did phelgmy-smoker coughs near me, which made me gag... And some bloke who worked there thought it was a good idea to pick his nose whilst at the urinal and wipe his bogey-booty above the urinal... And the fridge seemed to be lined with velvet - oh no, silly me, it was just fur from the mould that had run riot in there... Oh where was I? Oh yes, I was overcome with gratitude at being gainfully employed. It wasn't the best job in the world, but it was a job all the same. Most importantly, it meant that I didn't need to go through the depressing process of claiming Job Seekers Allowance anymore - easily the most hideous thing I've ever done (not counting the time I went skinny dipping in Magaluf and slipped on a used condom. Scratchy sand in special places. Ouch, etc.)

On my first day, my journey took me past the jobcentre - an imposing, grey, happiness-free erection (snigger) on the cusp of the town centre - and a huge sense of relief washed over me because I realised that I would never have to go back there, line up and justify my life for £64 a week. Relief quickly turned to elation which morphed into mirth and the next thing you know, I was giving a jolly V-sign to the building when I should have been changing gear (maturity, you'll be pleased to know, wasn't a fundamental requirement of the new job). 'I'm never going back there!' I melodramatically chirped in the manner of a wrongly imprisoned person, freshly sprung from a maximum security prison.

However, my optimistic prediction aside, my job at the shit-shovelling factory finished last week and depsite the gazillions of job applications that I have submitted over the last few weeks, it transpires that no one wants me... apart from the Job Centre that is. They were only too happy to welcome me back into the fold and book me in for a non-patronising, non-pleasant and non-useful 'back to work' interview. Sob, wail, choke.

Better dig out my egg-stained tracksuit bottoms. Like, hurrah...

A Little Bit of Anti-Tory Propaganda...

2010-04-19T20:56:00.004+06:00

Why I will NEVER vote Tory..

2010-04-09T23:41:00.004+06:00

I arrived home yesterday after a hideous day at the office to find a badly written pamphlet hanging through the letter box. It made a lame, ill-fated attempt to persuade me to vote for a fat, smug, sweaty Tory with bad hair. It did nothing to lift my mood. It's now sitting in my recycling box and that's where it will stay, unless I run out of toilet paper.

You see, ever since I was a kid, I've always thought of the Conservative Party as a selfish, spiteful bunch of old bastards and for all of the slime and tiresome shite that they're currently spewing, my view hasn't changed.

I grew up in 1980s Britain as part of a community that was decimated by a Conservative Administration hell bent on bloody-minded ideals and relentless economic growth. I cringe when people champion Thatcher and what she did. So she was a conviction politician and got things done? She was a bully and a tyrant whose policies sewed the seeds of the economic catastrophe that we're facing now, although things weren't any better then. For many, they were worse and the minority were allowed to prosper disproportionately at the sake of the majority. Unemployment was higher in the 1980s as interest rates skyrocketed. Our industry was sold off to the highest bidder. For a woman who offered a petulant, 'no, no, no,' to parliament over Europe, it was amazing how eager she was to sell our 'family silver' to them... And at the centre of their economic policy was the deregulation of the banks. Remind me, how did that turn out again?

As a nation, we don't own anything. We don't own our gas, we don't own our electricity, we don't own our transport network and we don't own our own communication networks. We are utterly reliant on foreign investment to stop us from going bankrupt. Please don't think that I'm supporting or endorsing the Labour Party by default, because I'm not. Tony Blair removed the 'labourness' out of the Labour Party when he banished Clause Four from the Labour Party's constitution, thus aligning New Labour with Tory political ideology. To that end, they have failed Britain by perpetuating Tory principles and because of that, Tony Blair will forever disgust me.

However, the economy isn't the deal breaker in terms of securing my vote...

My biggest concern is equality. To that end - and without wanting to start screaming GAY RIGHTS FOR GAYS - I will never, ever, EVER support a party with members and a leader who rejected the repeal of Section 28 - a vile piece of legislation that portrayed gay people as abnormal. In general terms, Section 28 - brought in by Thatcher's backbenchers - legitimised homophobic discrimination across the board. In doing so, it reinforced the belief that it was perfectly acceptable to discriminate against people on the basis of their sexuality and went as far as to state that if you were a teacher, not to discriminate could land you in jail.

As a gay kid growing up in the 1980s and early 1990s, this law had a pernicious effect. Simply stated, I suffered under it and I cannot forgive it.

You might think that it was 20 years ago, that society has moved on and that the Conservative Party has changed. I'm not too sure. Cameron's voting record on gay rights - the rights that directly affect me as an equal human being in society - is worrying. He opposed gay adoption and voted against the rejection of Section 28 in 2003. Despite this, in order to curry favour with the queer vote, he issued a paltry apology for Section 28 - and then aligned Tory MEPs with two of the most right wing, homophobic parties in the European Parliament. They have done nothing about Chris Grayling's (Shadow Home Secretary) bigoted comments that supported gays being turned away from a B&B on the basis of their sexuality. The prospect of Tory rule horrifies me - mainly because under their leadership, I will not feel 'equal' to the rest of the straight population. To me, asking a gay person voting Tory is a bit like asking a black person to vote BNP...

David Cameron and George Osbourne? I'd rather vote for the fucking Chuckle Brothers

RUBBISH BASTARD FRIDAY...

2010-04-02T19:47:00.004+06:00

I am considering constructing a letter to someone in power (possibly God) in the hope that Good Friday can be renamed - otherwise I will sue under the Trade Descriptions act. You see, there is nothing good about Good Friday. So there.

Irrespective of my personal grievances about Good Friday (which I'll come to in a minute, don't you worry), I don't really understand the religious branding of the day. I mean, it's supposed to be Good because Jesus - the alleged Lord and Savour, hallelujah, clap yo' hands, etc) died for us. Apparently, his Dad sacrificed him because we couldn't behave and are dirty old sinners. Hmmmm... So the leader is as dead as a dead thing and the followers decide to name the day GOOD FRIDAY. I don't know about you, but I think it sounds a bit spiteful. It's a bit like calling it GLAD HE'S DEAD FRIDAY. Or even DING DONG BABY-J HAS GONE FRIDAY. Innit? If my personal saviour - Lord Madge, peace be upon her, etc - decided to slip off the dish, I wouldn't think, 'Oh HURRAH!' (The Daily Mail, hetros with inferiority complexes and rubbish, self-loathing gays might, but they can SWIVEL ON IT. DRY.) Nor would I name it VOGUE FRIDAY. And if she died FOR ME, then I'd feel obliged to live out the rest of my life striking guilt-laden poses whilst looking after her kids - although I might have to send the adopted ones back - it's not as though I'm on mega bucks and four might be too much of handful.

Anyway, I digress... This particular Good Friday is anything but for the following reasons...

1. I'm at work. Whilst the rest of the populace (or so it seems) luxuriates in the splendor of a four day weekend, I am at work, dealing with miserable people and their overspilling-sewerage related problems. It's actually LESS fun than it sounds, if that's possible. In addition, I have been shouted at by three people and spoken to six people who don't speak English - which makes discussing all matters shit-worthy a right laugh. Like, ho, ho. I am also working tomorrow - NOOOOO! DOOOOOM! - and Sunday, which is difficult to swallow as a) It's Easter Sunday! He is risen (which I don't really believe, but hey ho) and Tescos isn't open for business, which is a sure sign that I shouldn't be either. Pah!

2. I have spent the last year working towards getting on a teacher training course. I've volunteered for three months, during which time I became no stranger to Lidl, Primark, Superdrug facial wash and reusing tea bags. Okay, that last bit isn't true - I'm just being dramatic. So sue me. Crushing disappointment came in the form of a 'thanks but no thanks' type letter yesterday. Apparently, I don't have enough experience. They have suggested that I get a job as classroom assistant (which I can't afford to do) and try again next year, although there is no guarantee I'll get on even if I do as they suggest. The gravity of the situation (ie. what the effing-jeff am I going to do with my life, other than sit on a park bench and drink meths through my eye) is still dawning on me, causing my stomach to flip muchly. I am trying to convince myself that kids are evil little fuckers (with limited success) and they generally turn adults very boring (which is true). Am also reminding self that most teachers I know seem to complain hugely about their jobs - they really ought to swap positions with me for a day. Hmmmm... Pass the Special Brew and fuck 'em all, etc.

3. I have just had a hot cross bun at my desk. It did not taste good. Also, something made a scary sounding crunch noise whilst chewing/inhaling (my preferred weapon of ingestion-related choice). I am now concerned that I have eaten glass, or the shell of bug with a horrible name that sounds something like DUNG and can be located under the 'parasite' section in a tropical wildlife book.

4. It is raining outside. When will winter end? I know that we're officially in British Summertime (snigger) as the clocks have propelled themselves forward by an hour, but all that seems to have happened is that it's grey and dull for a little bit longer. My car has also got a leak. And a dodgy back light. And she needs a new exhaust. And a new tyre. And the indicator light on my dashboard has decided to stop working. As has the internal light. I wish the sun would put his hat on and shout hip, hip, hip, hurrah. I'm sure I'm getting rickets - and that's all I fucking need.

5. I am having a fat day. Not surprising, since I have taken out my stress on my arteries. God bless Double Deckers, Grab Bag sized packets of crisps, M&S Sandwiches and Cornettos, even though it's not really the weather for them. Might have to stock up on male girdles. They do them as Asda, apparently.

So there we have it, GOOD FRIDAY my ARSE.

Blast From the Past II - Mr Soft!

2010-03-08T00:28:00.000+06:00

Whilst I'm pludering the YouTube vaults as I indulge my childhood memories, I thought I may as well post this for the people over 30. Move over Kinder Egg - it's all about Mr Soft! I can still still along to this advert!

I wonder what Mr Soft is up to these days?

Blast From The Past - Kinder Egg Advert... CHOCADOOBY!

2010-03-08T00:20:00.001+06:00

I’m glad that I’m the age that I am – the world that I grew up in was a universe away from the technologically advanced times of today and all the better for it, if you ask me. I mean, what next? Every whim and fad is catered for… Every domestic chore has been eradicated thanks to technology. We have mobile phones that do everything (even pervy things if you’re a fiercely heterosexual premiership footballer, cough, splutter), we have sat-navs so we never get lost, electronic books, personal stereos the size of postage stamps and the internet rules the world. Every year there’s something new but other than a ‘beam me up’ machine, I’m not sure what else there is to invent. Although if any inventors out there want to have a go at making a cut-price home-liposuction kit, I’d gladly be a willing guinea pig. Or human wings. I’d like to fly to work with my miniscule personal stereo that channels Madge’s thoughts. Whilst exfoliating. Yes please.

Annnnyway, back in my day (oooh, don’t I sound old?), it was slim pickings, technologically speaking. I remember the days when we didn’t have a telephone and the TV was only black and white. There were only three channels and they weren’t very good. Kid’s TV was confined to Jim’ll Fix It and something involving Johnny Ball – who scared me. At school, there was one computer – called a BBC computer. It was massive. You had to turn it on at the back and it made a two-tone noise – DUH-BEEP – at which point you were presented with a flashing cursor that induced an epileptic fit at fifty paces. You could type on it but that was it…

We finally got a video recorder in the days when renting your telly was all the rage. We were probably one of the last people to finally get a one, but with so few channels there wasn’t a lot to miss. I recall the main reason I desperately wanted a video: to tape the Kinder Egg advert. Does anyone remember it? It used to transfix me – a strange little Humpty Dumpty figure making odd noises and strange new words as he ruminated upon the benefits of a treat that provided a) strange tasting chocolate and b) a toy that was far too fiddly to put together and even if you did, it was crap, quite frankly. I once tried to feed my toy to the cat, but even he wasn’t interested. But the advert though – mesmerising in its weirdness: Kinder… Me unscrabbly… CHOCADOOBY! It used to scare and tantalise me in equal measure and when we finally got a video, my main aim was to record this advert so I could watch it at leisure.

They don’t make ‘em like they used to…

Guilty Pleasures... WESTLIFE!

2010-03-07T22:16:00.004+06:00

Rather unshockingly, I was never considered cool at school. Not even a little bit. Nothing changes, you’ll be happy to learn. Rather marvellously, I had quite a thick skin - metaphorically speaking, that is. My complexion has always been winning. Cackle. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes – I was busy self disclosing my status as public dork number one throughout my formative years... In short, coolness simply eluded me on every level. I think I wanted to fit in, but the pull of bad hair cuts, obsessive Madonna tendencies, academic success, terrible clothes and a propensity towards obesity proved too strong. Thus, I remained on the social periphery throughout my time at school. Not that I was particularly bothered. Whenever I was pissed off, I would take to my bedroom and spin some Madge whilst singing into a Mars Bar / Twix / Lion Bar / slice of toast that I would later reward myself with by eating. Happy days, etc.

One thing that my lack of cool has fostered is the freedom to like and love things that most people (probably quite rightly) shy away from. I suppose it’s a bit like having a shame-bypass and it's effing wonderful. I’m willing and able to admire things publically without fear of persecution, witch-hunting and a public outpouring of vitriol and general hatred. Yes, I am talking about loving Westlife…

Yes, they might make music aimed at children / bored middle aged housewives who come over all unnecessary at the multitude of key changes that permeate their music. Yes, they might be as exciting as Songs of Praise: The Movie, but I love them. And I’m not sorry. In fact, someone once compared my physical profile to that of the ugly one – can’t remember his name. Mark is it? You know, the gay one that no one fancies. Yes, him. Pah!

Anyway, I don’t care if I’ve gone down in your estimation as a result of my admission. I don’t care if you whisper behind my back or point and laugh at me in the street or invent a crap joke at my expense where the punch-line references a Westlife song title. Actually, I would like that.

In fact, I am going to put their CD on now and sing into an unwrapped Double Decker chocolate bar, which will act as both a microphone and a Grammy Award. And also a post-performance treat.

See. I am not cool. I am thirty three. I am sad. But I love it. Hurrah. In fact, I am going to play Mandy now and revel in their uncool glory. Loving it longtime. In fact, why don't you join me. Come on, it's cool to be uncool.

Some Fascinating (No Really...) Facts About My New Job...

2010-02-12T18:41:00.002+06:00

Sitting comfortably? Splendid!

1. On my very first day, I approached the security gate at a respectful speed in my highly sexual Nissan Micra. Check me out, etc. Even though it was freezing, the sun had his hat on, hip, hip, hoooooray, etc. I'd like to say that the birds were chirping, but I was too busy having a decibel-heavy disco to notice. Anyway, the security guard - think WWII veteran with a white handle-bar moustache and snazzy high viz parker coat - lifted the barrier so I could pootle through.

I waved my thanks (in time to the music, natch), when a magpie swooped down in front of me. Now, I'm not saying that I'm superstitious, except that I secretly am. One for sorrow. Sorrow? Marvellous. Just what I needed as I stood on the cusp of a new job. In order to snuff out the ill-luck winging its way to me, I saluted said magpie. Normally if this happens in public I try and style it out to look less of a fucktard if anyone is watching. I'll try and make it look as though I'm scratching my head, rather than performing an impromptu army-style salutation to a random bird flying by and minding its own business as it looks for shiny things to steal or roadkill to eat. However, in the privacy of my car, I didn't bother with the disguise and simply saluted the bird with impunity. Next thing you know, the security guard stood rigidly to attention and saluted me back. It was like the war, without the war.

That was on my first day - which was doom-free if you're wondering - but every day since, both the security guard and I salute each other.

2. My new work place smells. Absolutely funks. It's on the site of a 'water treatment' plant, which is a nice way of saying: it's a place that removes the wee, poo, spew-spew, spent prophylactics, jam rags, waxed-up cotton buds and anything else that the good public elect to throw down the loo. Then it's fine to drink again. Yum. As you can imagine, the smell isn't that kind on the old conk. There are days where I get out of my car, only to be smacked around the chops with a gust of wind that smells like Satan has just belched in my face after eating something particularly exotic and garlic based.

3. There are several grammatically incorrect posters attached to the walls within the office. Simply stated, looking at them irritates me and it's all I can do to stop myself going mental with a red pen all over them. I shall resist though: I'm not returning to the scum-bucket jobcentre on account of responsible, educational graffitti. I won't go back there!

4. You know how they say that the camera adds ten pounds? Well, the camera that they use to take your security-pass-picture here adds ten stones. Perhaps more. In fact, I look that rotund of face - still not as fat as Wonga Man though, make no mistake - that I'm surprised that they managed to fit my fizzog on one card. And I look slightly boss eyed. And my ears look wonky too. And my collar isn't straight. I look like a tragic amalgamation of something out of Oliver, an Oompah Lumpah and Chunk out of The Goonies. Not my finest photographic moment, that's for sure.

5. I have to work shifts, which sucks a fat one, but a job is a job and I'm going to need money for invasive plastic surgery, a double moob lift / resculpture and multiple chin reduction if my security pass is anything to go by. Working weekends is particularly harsh, especially on a Friday night when all I want to do is consume wine by the litre and not have to watch the clock whilst worrying about eye bags and turning into a pumpkin if I stay up past the ten o'clock news... Even though I don't tend to roam far of an evening these days, I still feel somewhat swizzed, knowing I'm at work whilst the rest of the world gets trolley rage in Asda. Puh.

Signing Off Is Bad For Your Health...

2010-02-11T22:54:00.000+06:00

Hurrah! After six months I'm back in the world of work which means that I'm no longer a baseball-cap wearing, shellsuit fashioning, dangerous dog breeding, benefit draining statistic. Daily Mail readers will be pleased. No longer do I have to make my fortnightly trek, my walk of doom, to the underworld shame hole that constitutes the job centre... A human-unfriendly place that makes Albert Square seem quite cheerful and India's slums rather sanitary by comparison.

Signing off was fun. No really, it was. Firstly, I rang the job centre-hot-line-main-line-all-singing-all-dancing-number approximately twenty three thousand times before I got through, at which point I spoke to an old woman who sounded as though she was masturbating violently. Between huffs and puffs and scary frigs she asked me which job centre I wanted to speak to:

'Watford, please,' I answered cheerfully whilst trying not to visualise her thwacking at her unmentionables.
'Bedford?' she asked, gasping inappropriately.
'No, Watford.'
'Wh-Where?'
'Watford.'
'Watford?' Said as though I'd asked to be put through to Bethlehem.
'Yes... Watford - between Hemel and Bushey.'
'Aaah... Watford. You want Watford?'
'Yes. Please.'
'Not Bedford then.'
'No.'
'Putting you through now...'

A few grunts ensued, followed by a click and then five minutes of ringing. Just as I was about to put the phone down and go about killing myself, a brand new masturbatory-free voice came down the line.

'Hello! Bedford job centre!'
'Nooooooooooooooooo!' I cried, as though I was free falling into a lake of fire and brimstone.
'Can I help you?' asked the voice.
'Yes, I need Watford job centre.'
'Oh, you've come through to Bedford. We're not Watford...'
'You're Bedford are you?'
'Yes, that's right, how can we help?'
'By putting me through to Watford...'
'Sorry, no can do sir. You need to phone...'
'But I just have done - they put me through to you...'
'But we're Bedford. Not Watford...'
'Really?'

In the end, I had to ring the wanking old woman back. After an eternity of hearing the engaged tone (I think she takes the phone off the hook whilst she sorts herself out, either that, or she's ringing pervarama numbers), I managed to get through to Watford, where a disinterested, petulant girl picked up.

'Hello,' I said, breathlessly, almost on the verge of tears that my marathon mission was almost accomplished. I pictured myself drinking Gatorade whilst being wrapped in a foil blanket and congratulated by well wishers as I brandished my medal... By now I'd been trying to speak to Watford job centre for three hours and my hair was starting to fall out in clumps.
'Yeah?' came the response.
'I need to sign off,' I boomed, 'I have a job!' My good tidings were met with a sniff. Then silence. 'Hello?' I asked desperately.
'Hello?'
'Is that Watford job centre?'
'Yeah.'
'I need to sign off.'
'Right?'
'So what do I do?' My question was met with a thunderous sigh. Non verbal language for 'Fuck off and leave me alone.'
'Fill in your form, yeah. And then send it back.'
'What form?' Another sigh followed by a sniff.
'In your BOOK, yeah?'
'Sorry, what do you mean? My signing on packet thing?'
'YES,' was the spiked response from someone who was approaching Thatcher territory in the hatred stakes. I was being shouted at. And just as I was about to hit 10 on the bitchter scale and tell this ignorant trail of rat sick what I thought of her, my phone decided to die on me. Perhaps for the best. By now I was starting to get shooting pains in my left arm and an unruly tightness in my chest.

Later on that day, I decided to simply make the walk of doom one last time. Upon arriving, I was met by a lovely lady who smiled and seemed - gasp - professional and interested.

'I've come to sign off. Sorry to bother you, but I did try and ring up to find out what to do.'
'Aaah... what was the problem? Couldn't you get through?'
'Actually I did - and that was the problem.'

Later on that night as I polished off a bottle of wine (a reward for surviving the day without self harming), I was surprised to see on the news that unemployment figures had fallen by 0.1 per cent - how so many people had managed to sign off from the Jam Roll seemed unbelievable. Or maybe they just tried to ring up and ended up spontaneously combusting.

It's a government conspiracy, I tell you!

New Years Resolutions No.1: Lose Weight. Again.

2010-01-12T22:54:00.003+06:00

Lose weight. Yes, that old chestnut. If someone (I’m thinking Steven Spielberg, James Cameron, or Madge, seeing as though she can direct moooooovies these days) asked me who should play me in a film about my life, then I’d probably plump for Oprah Winfrey. Not because of my propensity for fabulous tanning, talk show-empathy or marvellous business acumen. Oh no. I think she’d be perfect to tackle the role due to the similarities in our battle with the old flab. And if Oprah's not available, then Chunk from The Goonies will do.

If I was to list my talents - or at least the things that I am good at - then putting on weight, losing it and then putting it all back on again would probably be somewhere towards the top. Take last year for example. Weight-wise, I was doing quite well up until November. I’d been out of work since the August and was regularly going to the gym and eating healthy meals that would make Gillian McKeith’s unmentionables tingle. Then I got a cold. Or did I? Was I just hungover? Perhaps I sneezed a couple of times and felt a bit crappy for half an hour. Either way, I took solace in the age old remedy, which instructs folk to feed a cold, starve a fever. And feed it I did. I gave it what it wanted: Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food, meat pies and mash, sausage and mash, mash and mash, sandwiches and crisps, pizzas, lots of things made by Ginsters and takeaways in every available incarnation. I even tried to flush my cold out with red wine. And beer. Turns out it was quite a demanding cold. Next thing you know, my ‘cold’ has kindly left the building – like hurrah, etc – but just to avoid any sudden relapse, I decide to continue with my remedy, justifying it on a level of delusion not seen since I last claimed to be straight. In my head it was like continuing with your antibiotics after the infection has cleared up. I was finishing the course, etc. Suddenly Christmas was in sight so in the name of Baby Jesus I did my rightful Christian duty and partook in every available calorie at my disposal.

Shockingly, 2010 finds me porky of waist. Thankfully, I’m not in Wonga Man’s league, but I avoid the mirror at all costs and find myself recoiling in horror if anyone accidently fondles either of my love handles as they attempt to clamber past. There was something on the news recently about obesity being the new cancer. Like, hoooooray, etc! As the newsreader spoke, the camera panned to a random high street where the headless torsos of a multitude of fatties wearing horrible clothes clumsily huffed by. I suddenly found myself worried that one day soon, I will watch a similar item and recognise my own voluptuous form wobbling by before falling over a tramp. Or something. That’s when I spat out my sixty ninth Quality Street of the day and made my number one resolution for 2010.

Depressingly, this has been my main goal for the last, what? Twenty years? Fuck and bugger. I’m not going to join a fat club or give myself a weight goal. Nor am I going back to the doctors to get tablets that make me accidentally shit my pants whilst bending down to pick up economy cheese in Tescos. I would just like to get to next New Year and not see ‘LOSE FIVE STONE AND THREE CHINS’ at the top of my resolutions list. I want to be able to buy trousers and not go straight to the back of the rack or sigh wearily as I discover that the shop doesn’t cater for my size. I want to be able to take off my clothes and not find that they have scarred me. I no longer want my shadow to scare children or domestic animals.

Wish me luck, good people.

Where Are They Now? Bride of Chucky...

2009-11-20T14:11:00.000+06:00

Anyone else spot the resemblance:

<< Left: << Bride of Chucky, last seen in 1998 film of same name having it off with another doll (yes, really) and generally killing humans. Allegedly scary. Hmmm.

>> Right >> Daniella Westbrook, aka Sam Mitchell from EastEnders, aka former coke head / former nose owner who was that off her face she even went out with Brian Harvey from 90s pop group East17 (see also: Seed of Chucky). Couldn't act if her new nose depended on it. Last seen in EastEnders last night 'fleeing' Walford yet again (like, yawno), leaving the strangely attractive Ricky (even though you wouldn't) and Bianca to have it off. Finally. Phew.

God Hates Fags, apparently...

2009-10-04T22:22:00.003+06:00

The doorbell rang just as I was cramming a (whole) Milky Bar into my mouth. I opened the door whilst chewing frantically and trying to mime the phrase, Sorry, am having a glorious fat lad moment. I raised my eyebrows repeatedly to show that I was a jolly old soul and shrugged before throwing in a cheeky wink, just for good measure. In front of me stood a chap I vaguely recognised, but couldn’t quite place. ‘Hello there, John,’ he chirped happily. ‘After our lovely discussion the other week, I thought I’d bring my friend round to meet you.’ As I swallowed the hastily chewed kids treat with a slight cough, the penny dropped. The chap in front me – also called John – was a Jehovah’s Witness, who’d knocked on my door a couple of weeks ago.

When he originally came round, armed with his well-thumbed Bible and some hilariously illustrated leaflets (that he eventually left with me), I indulged him. A long discussion on the merits of religion transpired. We exchanged opinions, seemed receptive and respectful of each other’s viewpoint and said goodbye with a handshake. But it seemed that I’d been earmarked as a potential God Squad convert and now he was back. With backup.

He remembered our conversation with remarkable accuracy and launched straight into his mission statement: ‘Last time we spoke, you told me that you thought that religion was flawed, didn’t you?’ I nodded, only half listening. I was still trying to finish off swallowing my sneaky treat and I was suddenly aware that the day-old yoghurt stain on my trackie bottoms probably made it look as though I’d been furiously masturbating before they came a-knocking. And I’d not done my hair, but what can you do? ‘So, remind me, if you’d be so kind… Why on Earth do you think that?’

His attitude seemed different this time. I don’t know if it was because he was training the young lad up who was with him, but the light hearted, Godly banter that prevailed last time had evaporated. In it’s place was a steely, decidely non-angelic, determination.
‘Well...’ I said, huffing, puffing and generally trying to conceal my suspiciously-stained trouser garments, ‘It’s just that ultimately, I think religion tries to define something that we, as humans, can’t really define. I believe in something, but I don’t know what it is.’
‘Jesus?’ John asked, hopefully.
‘Erm, not so much. Christianity holds short shrift with me – as I, erm, told you last time,’ I added awkwardly. John looked a bit crestfallen as I said this, which liberated a modicum of guilt on my behalf. I started backpeddling: ‘I did read the leaflet though,’ I lied. I'd put it straight into the recycling after chuckling at the sketch of a Panda and wholesome looking child playing chess.
John’s friend – also called John (would you Adam and Eve it! Like what I did there? No?) - stepped forward and pushed me further on my rejection of Christianity and all things Jesus 'n' Mary. ‘It just doesn’t work for me and as a gay man, I find the Biblical ramifications for my lifestyle both insulting and ridiculous.’ My revelation sent the pair of Johns reeling. John 1 took two steps back as he reached for his Bible.
‘You’re… gay?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Er, yeah.’ I replied. I almost invited him in to see my collection of Madge CDs to prove it. ‘And I’m aware of the general religious consensus on it, which I disagree with wholeheartedly…’ I went on to discuss the irrelevance of a person’s sexuality in the modern world and how, surely, it was their character that was important rather than who they fell in love with, but John wasn’t having any of it. He referred me to the tale of Sodom and Gommorah before telling me that ‘Gays, paedophiles and people who partake in bestiality will be punished by God.’

And that’s where it all got a bit nasty.

At first, I was utterly dumbfounded. I hadn’t heard such shameful vitriol since my Dad went on a particularly memorable rant one summer when I was back from university. I tried to remain calm, but to be compared to a paedophile or someone who shags pigeons and goats – and all on your own doorstep – isn’t acceptable. Funny how relgious people put you off religion, isn't it? I quoted him some facts, namely that 98% of convicted paedophiles identify themselves as being heterosexual and the remaining 2% includes women in addition to hell-bound homos.
‘And where did you find that out?’ John enquired, his eyes narrowing at me.
'National crime statistics,' I said matter-of-factly.
‘Aaah! But that’s not the Bible is it?’
'No,' I said, 'they are national crime statistics. Facts, in other words.'
‘But God says…’ and off he went again telling me that it’s okay, he can see that I’m a nice bloke, that I’ve been tricked into a life of poofery by the Devil himself no less, and all I need to do is to turn to Jesus, renounce all things cock-related and HEY PRESTO! Salvation. ‘Can you do that John?’ he asked, whilst reaching out to me. ‘Can you do that for Jesus? For yourself?’

Needless to say, I am still going to burn in hell (and the leaflet they left behind, happily titled, What Hope for the Dead? is already in the recycling bin.)

Confessions of a Hyperchondriac...

2009-10-02T20:34:00.003+06:00

The worst thing about going to the doctors is the waiting room, especially when you throw in a healthy dose of boredom, OCD and paranoia. Case in point: this week. I took myself off to see my GP. Don’t worry, nothing was wrong, but as I’m unemployed and bored for most part of the day, you’d be surprised at the lengths you find yourself going to in order to avoid Jeremy ‘Chucky’ Kyle, Shit In The Attic (or whatever it’s called) and Angela Lansbury in her many horrific televisual offerings. Feel free to send flowers and Lucozade anyway… Where was I? Oh yes, so there I was in the waiting room, armed with a vat of industrial strength hand sanitiser whilst wearing oversized sunglasses - I once heard that germs often like to penetrate humans – snigger - via the eyes. Fancy that.

As waiting rooms go, it isn’t too bad, although it was chock-a-block with spluttering old people and children that cried AT A MILLION DECIBELS without managing to produce any tears. As a result, I couldn’t hear the television in the corner and I didn’t fancy flicking though the decade-old magazines slung haphazardly in the corner as: a) I also once heard that germs like to travel in paper (don’t ask me how and whatever you do, DON’T rub a magazine near your eye); b) these magazines are usually aimed at people with a transparently higher boredom threshold than I.

In order to kill time, I found myself reading the notice boards and posters around the room. And this, dear reader, was WHERE I WENT WRONG. Because now I am DOOMED. I looked at one poster. ‘Pain in the abdomen?’ It asked. Well, yes, I thought, although it usually passes when I fart, but that’s by the by. ‘Bloated?’ Yes, I thought, I have been accused of being a bloater once or twice in my life… Fuck and bugger. It turns out, that I have knackered ovaries and not very long to live. Like, gulp. My eyes scoured the wall further only to maximise my stress levels. Everywhere I looked I was smacked round the chops with horrible words like CONTAMINATED and FUNGUS and BACTERIA and STOOLS and VERRUCA. It didn’t end there, the information-fest was just beginning. It turns out that I haven’t got bags under my eyes at all. Oh no, I need kidney dialysis and possibly a transplant. The wall then told me that there aren’t enough donors out there, which I took as a hint that they really wanted me to end it all so they could have my one fully functional eye and my spleen. As I took all this in, I found myself breaking out into a cold sweat whilst suppressing a slight cough. This could've been caused by terror-inspired blind panic but according to the wall of bastard doom, it’s probably SWINE FLU, which, given my underlying medical conditions, probably means that I’m about to slip of life’s crappy dish. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it seems that I’m possibly autistic too, which probably serves me right for laughing my way through Rain Man when I was fifteen.

I tell you, going to the doctors is seriously bad for your health.

So how have you been?

2009-09-02T21:57:00.003+06:00

Dear Bloglet,

I can call you that can’t I? See, I’m trying to be affectionate after neglecting you over the months that laboured under the misapprehension of Summer. Pah. Anyway, lo siento and all that jazz for my relative quietness… It’s not as though I haven’t had the time – what with being a resting actor (sounds better than unemployed, no?) for the last month, you’d have thought that rattling out a few words would be easy peasy lemon squeezy. Apparently not.

Firstly, and as you’re well aware, my propensity towards obesity, (mobid or plain old regular) has been stalking me again. Yup, I got fat. Okay then, fatter. You know those resolutions that I wrote about over Chrimble? Well, in terms of quitting smoking, I’ve been rather triumphant. I’ve not smoked since December and nor do I want to. I woke up one day with the lung capacity of a dwarf fly with pleurisy and thought, ‘Okay, am done with that…’ Like, hurrah. Anyway, as my lung power increased a thousand-fold, so did my waistline. Oh and no, etc.

I got on my scales t’other week and almost suffered a coronary as I took in the information blinking back at me from the screen. Apparently, I was 120 stones. 120 stones! Can you believe it? As the shooting pains in my left arm eagerly spread to my chest and my face turned a rather delicious (but slightly alarming) shade of purple, I realised that I’d accidentally flicked the switch from stones to kilos. I hastily switched it back, only to find the real-money equivalent equally horrifying. I mean, I knew that the cheeky bottles of wine and Tesco Finest chocolate brownie dessert thingies were inconducive to good health, but come on…

Later that same day, I was in the shower, trying to avoid my reflection in the mirror – which was quite hard, given my ballast – anyway, there I was, scrubbing away, when I went to cleanse my bot-bot, only for my love handle to get in the way. I couldn’t believe it. I was so depressed, I almost popped my head in the oven, but it’s electric. Fan assisted, though, whatever that means. So there we are, am currently fat, round and bounce on the ground. Fuck and bugger, etc.

What else is new? Well, I’ve had the misfortune to sign on a few times as and it’s about as much fun as headbutting glass that a tramp with VD has pissed on. I mean, I’ve never been out of work. Ever since I was a nipper, I’d babysit for a few quid before going on to work at the now defunct Kwiksave for £2.80 an hour. Fancy! At first, it was quite nice not having to get up in the mornings, especially as it meant that I didn’t have to complete a hideous commute only to spend the whole day doing possibly the world’s most boring job in an office with an atmosphere that could rival a morgue for it’s thrills. However, the novelty of a leisurely start has long worn off. As I’m keeping busy, even if I do find myself scraping through the bottom of the barrel. For instance, if I take my diary and look up, say, August 21st, my ‘to do’ list is a bit... well, desperate. The first 'action' instructs me to ‘unplug the video.’ You see, we never use the video, yet it remains plugged in, happily drinking an unlimited source of electricity which will no doubt cause the destruction of the Northern Hemisphere, if not the whole world. Every day I look at its flashing clock and think, ‘such a waste, must turn that off,’ yet never get round to doing it. But how absurd to remind self to disconnect it, when it would be quicker just to lean over and effing well do it. I wouldn’t mind, but it tragically remains plugged in as we speak. I failed on August 21st, didn't I?

I could go on and on and on about the mundanities of my existence even further, but bearing the above sorry tale, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I do however, hope that I’ve elicited sufficient sympathy that you will forgive my neglect. I am more sorry than a sorry thing in sorrysville and I promise that I won’t do it again. Cross my heart and hope to die. Probably of an obesity related illness, but hey ho.

Love you longtime,

Johnny Red Pants xxx

Fabulous Weight Loss Tip of the Day…

2009-07-10T15:16:00.005+06:00

Who is in agreement that women's magazines are infinitely more interesting than their male counterparts? They are, it can be argued, the ultimate in guilty pleasures you never own up to, rivalled only by the Hollyoaks omnibus, cold macaroni cheese (inhaled directly from the tin), and Westlife's Greatest Hits. Oh.

My favourite part of these female weeklies aren't the excitable titles that always finish with an exclaimation mark (eg. Chat! Frig! Knickers!, etc), nor is it the life affirming reader stories or the knitting patterns. Oh no. The best part are the Readers Top Tips, where people write in with their own personal nuggets of convenience, in the hope that by sharing, it will illuminate the lives of others. They're not wrong.

Up until this morning, I thought that the best one ever was the following:

Worried that your teeth will be stained after a heavy night drinking red I wine? Drink a bottle of white wine before going to bed, to remove the stains.

But no, as I frantically fingered the pages of a discarded weekly at work this morning, I came across a tip that has, in a heartbeat, revolutionised my life. Oh yes. Apparently, a ‘GOOD SMILE’ (and I must admit, I choked on my lard-infused Krispy Kreme when I read the next bit), can take ‘A WHOLE TWO STONES OFF YOU.’

Really? REALLY??? I’ve got a toothy beam! I can lick my pearly whites and say, ‘Wow!’ My grin could be sponsored by Crackerbarrel! Ooh, I feel thinner already!

*Beams in manner of drunk loon having marvellous Acid trip*

That’s my weight target SMASHED then…

Who’s for a Big Mac-lyrca fest?

Say CHEESE!

Alternative Career #5: Rapper...

2009-07-09T15:14:00.002+06:00

PROS: Seeing as though my erm, singing voice, isn’t what it was (think: sound of a newborn being hacked to death in an acid bath), becoming a rapper is like being a pop star by the back door, isn’t it? Isn’t it? It all seems relatively easy either way. Look at Eminem: all formulaic if you ask me: get a nursery rhyme-esque tune and put some daft rhyme about hating your Mam on top of it. ‘Hey Mam, you big fat cow / Make me a cup of tea now / And some cake / Don’t make a single crumb / Otherwise I’ll kick you up the bum… Bo!’ It’s not rocket science is it? The rest of it seems text book too: I can flail my arms about and repeatedly point at floor for no apparent reason and I’m good at swearing, which seems like a staple of the rapper community. Baps, shit and fanny, etc.

CONS: Rappers seem to take themselves quite seriously, which could be a problem for me. Also, the clothes are ridiculous. I refuse to wear my jeans halfway down my legs. I mean, what’s the point? I’d only end up tripping over myself and screaming ‘motherfucker, bo!’ as I landed in yet another dignity-free heap on the floor. I don't do hats or baseball caps either. I’ve simply not got the right shaped head. I’d look simple. And what would I call myself? Feminem? MC Snot Gobbler? Bogroll? I couldn’t. I just COULDN’T. Besides, isn’t there something slightly ridiculous about being a rapper and being over 30?

CHANCES: Despite the lyrical genius that I have demonstrated above, I doubt that the record companies would be keen to recognise my talent. And whatever way you look at it, I’m not street enough, issit? Or to put it another way: I ain’t got no guns, no war, no disco / record exec is my foe / I once had a manky toe / It smelt of motherfuckers! Bo! Mam! Stop being a twat / Get back in the kitchen and put the kettle on. White no sugar. And some biccies. Oh.

Ungrateful Admission...

2009-06-10T19:42:00.002+06:00

I have a poorly throat.

My colleague has kindly given me some throat sweets to relieve my agony and all round near-death suffering.

They taste of wee.

I do not like them.

I am feeling sorry for self. Boo, hoo and sob, etc.

Sympathy on a postcard, pretty please...

*croaks*

Twat Speak...

2009-06-10T18:37:00.005+06:00

Picture the scene: I am in a mind numbing, ultimately pointless meeting staring at a piece of paper where the word 'agenda' should actually read: BOLLOCKS WE WILL CHEW OVER BEFORE COMING TO NO CLEAR CONCLUSION. In order to relieve the boredom, I have a few cunning distraction techniques up my sleeve. Normally I make lists: food shopping, things I need to do, such as check my car oil and tyre pressure (this never happens, but I feel better for reminding myself to do it), and so on and so forth. When things get really bad and I’m all listed-out, I’ve been known to decorate my note pad with stars or even practice alternative signatures as though I’m fifteen years old.

Today’s list was altogether different. Due to the alarming amount of office speak that was being used throughout, I found myself compiling a list of what I think should be done to the speakers of this utterly irritating twat-language. Sadly, I never got past point 1: Kill them. Now.

I work in a place (admittedly not for much longer), where we are encouraged to LIVE THE VALUES of the company… I kid you not, but every employee has to justify their commercial existence year on year by explaining how they are IRREPRESSIBLE, EFFERVESCENT and (because they’re a broadcast company) how TUNED IN they are. Tuned in. Do you see what they did there? Fist-eatingly bad.

These days, we don’t send emails, we FIRE THEM OFF as though they’re some sort of incendiary device. If this isn't terrifying enough, we don’t tip people off or give them advance warning that a communicative firework is heading their way, we give them a baffling HEADS UP. Then there are the managers who tell us not to REINVENT THE WHEEL, but to THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX instead. What’s wrong with the phrases, think laterally or please don’t be so fucking obvious? Apparently, THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX is the most overused ‘business cliché’ – ironic then, that proponents of the term couldn’t think outside of their own bleeding boxes enough to come up with a fresh, brand new phrase. The gimps REINVENTED THEIR OWN WHEEL. What they ought to do is BRAINSTORM some ideas. No, wait – brainstorming is a bit too 80s. These days, we have IDEA SHOWERS. Oh yes we do. (Actually I don’t, I am busy collating lists of goods that I need to procure from Tescos or making my signature more superstar-friendly, remember...) When having these ridiculously-titled collaborative exercises, we are urged to employ BLUE SKY THINKING. I mean, what the frig is that supposed to mean? It transpires that Tony Blair is responsible for such a wanky term. So if the Iraq war wasn’t enough to get him lynched, maybe talking like a pretentious, maddening prick is.

As the meeting went on, my mood got blacker – particularly when we were confronted with a CHALLENGE – a seemingly innocent word that disguised the term, ‘HUGE FUCK-OFF PROBLEM’… It wasn’t all that bad though! Apparently, certain action would result in QUICK WINS. This was also referred to as LOW HANGING FRUIT – at which point I nearly fainted. Reports were produced, which we weren’t supposed to read. Oh no, we were invited to do a DEEP DIVE and then DRILL DOWN. People hastily scribbled notes, presumably entitled, how did my life come to this?

After an eternity, the chair wound up the meeting, but rather than ask us if we had sufficient time before the deadline to complete our actions, we were instead quizzed to see if we HAD THE BANDWITH. Upon hearing this, I had to resist stabbing myself in the eye, but as we left the room with an instruction to HIT THE GROUND RUNNING, I found that the only thing I really wanted to hit was the bottle.

Amusing Spam Message of the Day...

2009-06-10T15:42:00.003+06:00

Lovingly titled, 'Bang her hard! Make her scream and suck your hard golden cock!'

Apparently all I have to do is buy some tablets from Nigeria (after sending my bank details) and I'll, erm, soon be banging away with my oddly coloured rhythm stick. Do you get free ear plugs I wonder?

Other thoughts:
1. Jaundiced pee-wee?
2. Is this entirely consensual?
3. Goodbye, last remaining thread of heterosexuality...

To Crop Or Not To Crop?

2009-05-28T19:02:00.006+06:00

Whilst there are many aspects of my physicality that frankly disappoint me (eg, size of big toes, size of nostrils, size of belly, perma-tired look, etc, etc, etc), at the pinnacle of my self-dislike is my hair ‘do’...

On the plus side to my questionable barnet, I don’t think I’ll ever go bald, but this is generally because my follicular structure seems to be made up from a half-chewed brillo pad, old straw, cheese wire and the sort of fluff that only ever collects in the belly button.

If I foolishly allow my locks to grow, I end up looking like Michael Jackson when he was black. He might have looked quite good in 1973, but fast forward to 2009 and the image does not transfer well to a 32 year old chubby honky (with curiously large nostrils and big toes, don’t forget.)

Growing up, I naturally adopted the ‘basin’ cut. My hair would grow at an alarming rate; a bizarre sort of human ivy that rose majestically from my (almost completely spherical) bonce. There were times when I would hold my hand to my head and wonder – a tad forlornly – if the Mop Tops were modelled on me. (Remember the Mop Tops? A plastic head with plasticine inside… Twirl the handle and – HEY PRESTO – the hair miraculously grows! Like, gasp! Despite it sounding thoroughly crap now, I always wanted one, being quite the non-camp child. Didn’t get one though. Nor did I get one of those Slush Puppy ice crusher drink maker things that I hankered after for YEARS. My plan was to set a stall up outside and sell them for five pence a pop. Thinking about it, I was a bit like a fat Ben from EastEnders. Tremendous!) Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, terrible hair plagued my upbringing, blah, blah, bollocks, blah. Put it this way, my family nickname (and I kid you not) was Fathead. And they had a point.

I once tried to side-part my hair for my final year school photo, using half a bottle of hair lacquer and a trowel that I found under the stairs, but the results got me bullied. ‘Look what he’s done to his hair. Doesn’t he look a fucker!’ the bastards would yell… and that was just the teachers. Around the age of 19 I became tired of looking like a bad tranny with rotten knackers and got myself to the barbers.

Mad Slasher, whose premises stank of cheap fags and sweat, operated out of a little hut in the local town. After pointing to one of the better pictures of the 70s porn stars that adorned the walls, I came away with the hair cut that I have since worn to this day. A number one on the sides and a trim on the top, to which I then add gel/wet cement-like substance. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Lately though, I’m thinking of shaving it off and becoming a slap head for a bit. There are numerous benefits to this, namely…

Pros: by using Mr Blokey’s clippers, I could save myself a few pennies and the amount of money I’d save on gel would undoubtedly pay for an exotic holiday of a lifetime (okay, maybe not, just humour me.) It would save me time in the mornings not having to sculpt, texture and generally piss about said tresses, which has a mind of it’s own and an agenda that seems to suggest that my hair HATES me. Also, there are quite a few fit people who have a lack of mane sprouting forth: Grant Mitchell (or whatever he’s called in real life), Becks, Mr Blokey, that Wentworth Miller bloke…

Cons: I’m not sure my face can carry being a slap-head off. My eyebrows look like well fed slugs and in order to accommodate my generously portioned nostrils, I’m never going to win Smallest Nose in the world. And yes, there are numerous beautiful fit blokes that wear their exposed scalp well… But I have a horrible feeling that I’ll end up looking like Uncle Fester from the Adams Family...

Is it a Bee?

2009-05-28T14:18:00.001+06:00

TOO MUCH LOL!

Why Madonna Rules #2

2009-05-28T14:14:00.003+06:00

Awww....

Screw You, Delia...

2009-05-27T15:47:00.004+06:00

Delia Smith hasn't got anything to worry about, you know...

I can see her now, sat in her Norwich based castle, cackling wickedly as she reads through my recipes. Evil old drunk. (Actually, I imagine that she’s quite nice. I’m just being a dramatic contrary-Mary, so ignore me.)

You see, when it comes to creating a tempting schmorgasboard, I try. I really do. Ask Mr Blokey. Actually, don’t. His opinion of my limited culinary repertoire is less than generous. How ungrateful, etc. That said, at Chez Red Pants, we play to our strengths: he is in charge of all things cookery whilst I find myself staring at the wrong end of a bottle of Fairy and a half chewed Brillo, night on night.

There are times when I wish that I could reverse the trend and present him with a veritable banquet, but when your shepherd's pie comes out of the oven looking (and smelling) like a syphilitic rat that's met the wrong end of a double-decker bus, or the millionth person gags animatedly PRIOR to an attempt at scrambled eggs, you tend to lose heart. There's only so much scorn a wannabe chef can take. These days I favour dishes that ding. You know, in the microwave. Ready meals may make today's nutritionists weep openly in the street, but they're so easy to, er, cook, it's rude not to take advantage. Especially as I often kid myself that I am very busy and important.

Picture the scene: you've had a crappy day at work on the back of a terrible night's sleep. You finally arrive home after a nightmare journey and you're so hungry that you're humming Mickey J’s schmaltz-fest, Feed the World as though the gloved one wrote it especially for you. Rather than fannying about with eggs, flour, lean cuts of meat and the worrying confusion that a pre-heated oven with fan combo extravangza fosters, it's easier and quicker to withdraw said meal from the depths of the fridge, ignore the fact that it passed its sell by date three weeks ago last Wednesday and ding it. Even stabbing the film lid is cathartic. I often pretend it's Delia mocking my culinary shoddiness. Or David Cameron’s punchable face. ‘That'll learn you,’ I cackle wickedly as I drop it in the microwave and wait impatiently for my food to cook in three minutes. And then DING. Perfection. Or not.

Why Madonna Rules...

2009-05-21T17:55:00.002+06:00

*Enters gay coma*

Diary of a Jobseeker #2

2009-04-07T22:02:00.004+06:00

Current annual leave used up to look for new role: 2 days (unfair!)
Actual job hunting done on that day: 0 days (power to the people, I heart Karl Marx, etc)
Motivating power walks taken to inspire said job hunt: 1 (v. admirable and noteworthy)
Ankles injured on power walk: 1.5 (v.v. painful)
Complete abandonment of job hunting in wake of new found disability: Total (understandable)
General inane wonderments about the availability of oversized spaz boots, Satanism-related fear, window licking merriment, selling internal organs and incapacity benefit: 666 (number of beast – coincidence?)

As a kid, Crimewatch scared me. Even the theme tune was enough to make my eyes water and my unmentionables tingle. And not in a nice way, either. I would tremble at the images of men with tights pulled over their heads, scaring pensioners into incontinence. However, it was the photofit IDs that struck fear into my pre-pubescent heart. Looking back, I suppose they're quite funny and if any convictions were ever made on the back of positive identifications from what can only be described as Mr Potato Head meets Desperate Dan meets an old chamois leather meets an unfortunate looking Romanian (with acne), then my faith in the criminal justice system will be handsomely replenished.

At the time though, I would try and discreetly clamp my eyes shut or flee the room in order to escape the images that flickered back at me. I lived in fear that one day I would see a photo of my Dad looking back at me from the screen whilst my Mam scoured the house for a missing pair of American tan tights that she swore blind that she’d left in the washing basket.

On a deeper level, I think the programme affected my psyche quite significantly, although I’ve always loved a bit of melodrama, so ignore me. I’m just showing off. That said, I thought that savage criminality abounded everywhere. And not only that, I harboured a profound belief that at some point, I would either be the victim of, or mistakenly fingered for one of these heinous televised acts. If I was on my own in a street, I would try and remember minute details of random banal events in case I was hauled in by the fuzz, thrust under a spotlight and tortured until I came clean as to my whereabouts at 6.42 last Tuesday evening. If I heard an unusual noise, I’d automatically check the time and then come up with an alibi for my alibi.

This mindset came back to haunt me yesterday as I spectacularly failed to hunt for a job. I woke up in a bit of a haze, due, in part, to the bottle of wine I’d inhaled the night before and decided that in order to stir and stimulate myself, I'd go for a walk, believing that nature would inspire and propel me job-wards. Like most things, it didn’t go to plan. I arrived at Aldenham Country Park late morning, slapped my iPod on and made my way determinedly down a bridal path, taking care not to flounce through the horse poo that infiltrated my every step. As I ventured further, I smiled as the sun broke through the ceiling of leaves and illuminated the woods, revealing its secret treasures to the sonic backdrop of deafening birdsong.

So there I was, basking in the natural world, telling myself that everything was going to be okay. I was just on the brink of singing VOLDAREEE! VOLDARAAA! MY MANBAG ON MY BACK! when I noticed something strange in front of me. I stopped in my tracks and eyed the scene suspiciously. Before me laid the body of a mouse with its head bitten off. Who or what would do that, I asked myself. I peered at it cautiously and caught myself gurning at the violent, seeping image when the sound of a single footstep infracting a branch somewhere behind me liberated a modicum of panic.

An uneasy silence descended which made me feel uncomfortable. There could only be one explanation. Okay, two, but I didn't like either. As far as I could surmise, it was either a solitary dogger with rodent issues and a penchant for hungover fat lads… Or Satanists! Either way, I had no intentions of hanging around to find out. I scurried along the path way, much in the same way as the innocent mouse once did when the track came to an abrupt end. Beyond the path was a mass of undergrowth and trees that had fallen. I had no choice but to continue unabated as the drama queen from within played out the Crimewatch reconstruction: Me (played by an ex-Dingle from Emmerdale, knowing my luck) found beheaded by a ropey old man walking his dog one Thursday morning. Head never recovered. Family and chums devastated. Local people expressing shock. Community aghast. Photofits aplenty revealing a suspect resembling a cross between Willow the Wisp, an oversized marrow in a string vest and Geoff Capes. Don’t have nightmares, do sleep well etc.

Such thoughts impelled me further into the woodland. By now, I was hot, clammy and in mortal fear for my overall head-health/life when I stood on what looked like a branch-twig thing. Instead of it giving way, my ankle decided to instead. Marvellous. The rest of my escape was made by half walking / half hopping whilst sending apologies to Baby Jesus and requests for salvation. After an hour of Krypton Factor-esque fighting through natural habitat, I came to a back road. I want to tell you that I flagged down a passing vehicle who whisked me to safety in one of those tin foil capes that they give to people who have just run the London Marathon but tragically it wasn’t that exciting. I hobbled along and finally came to a place that I recognised… which was about 2 miles away from where I’d parked.

What seemed like hours later, I finally arrived home, in pain, sweaty and of the opinion that as I was probably going to be wrongly imprisoned for rodent killing, looking for a new job was pointless.

Fuck and bugger, etc.

Diary of a Job Seeker...

2009-04-02T20:44:00.003+06:00

Dream jobs applied for: 0 (poor)
Jobs applied for in desperation through fear that I might end up selling the Big Issue and smelling of wazz: 21 (mildly alarming)
Responses: 3 (tragic)
Rejections: 3 (harrowing)
Rejections that imply that my CV has not even been looked at: 3 (devastating)
Conversations with uninterested, bored-sounding recruitment consultants: 5 (maddening)
Murderous thoughts: 5 (coincidental)
Suicidal thoughts: approaching infinite (v good)
Positive thoughts: -58 (irresponsible)

OH GOOD GOD, BUGGERY AND SAVAGE TWATLIPS. AAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

This job hunting farrago isn’t going as swimmingly as I’d hoped. In fact it’s going TERRIBLY. I have eight weeks to get a job and despite declaring an all out war on impending unemployment, I appear to be losing this battle. Bit like the fat fighting debacle in that respect.

Everyday is the same. I go online, I search on jobs, I apply for ones that appear to be within my skill set (snigger) and then I HEAR NOTHING. My CV is seemingly sucked into a black hole created by sadistic recruitment consultants with piss-all to do, as there are transparently no jobs out there. Okay, that’s not true, there are SOME jobs out there, but they are beyond me (eg. Technical Jobs that require a doctorate in Boring Studies and a personality lobotomy) or are completely inappropriate. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or sue when I looked at some (allegedly) helpful suggestions courtesy of one website today. Recommendations included NAAN BREAD MAKER. In Southall. For mininimum wage. I ask you. I can barely make toast, let alone butter it. I have also been urged to become a car park attendant (benefits included free uniform AND hat.)

But the best one of all: DOG GROOMER. Mr Blokey will no doubt be amused by this as the whole dog issue is one that causes a degree of polarization at Chez Red Pants/Blokey Towers. See, Mr Blokey loves dogs. Loves, loves, loves them. In a previous existence he was possibly Lassie, Bouncer from Neighbours, Rin Tin Tin or some other creature of dog infamy. Meanwhile, I don’t like dogs at all. In fact I hate them. Hate them, hate them, hate them. Why? Because they see me as something that they either want to malt on / salivate over / give rabies to / shag or kill. I don’t trust them. And I really can’t imagine cleaning one, before applying moisturiser, lipstick, mascara, gel and other products. Especially not for £6 per hour. Is this what it’s come to? Washing a dog’s arse for peanuts. Is it?

IS IT?

Come Dine With Me!

2009-03-31T19:55:00.004+06:00

Has anyone seen Come Dine With Me? If not – and in a nutshell – the format runs thus: you have four people who can only be described as… well… boring fuckwits, I suppose. These are the people who Big Brother turned down on the grounds that… well… they’re boring fuckwits. The idea is that they all take turns to host a dinner party and afterwards, the three guests rate the night out of ten, using extremely inexpensive looking cards. (Think: slightly sozzled guest in a taxi being driven haphazardly by a pissed Romanian with pathological hatred for boring fuckwits. Pissed guest rebounds off either door whilst trying to give a quick sound-bite to summarise their night: ‘The food was overcooked! Soggy veg and rock hard chicken that was as dry as a Nun’s unmentionables! The wine was chewy! There was no toilet roll and the dog tried it on with my leg as I fingered my sweaty cheese and stale biscuits. I’ll give the night a… (at this point said guest raises cheapo card aloft)… RESPECTABLE SIX’) At the end of the week, the guest that scores highest wins the life changing prize of £1000. Altogether now: oooooooooooooh. It’s hardly Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (a show that I still claim should be re-titled Who Wants To Win £32,000)…

Without wanting to sound like my moderately insane father, it’s just a chance for a collection of… well… boring, stale old fuckwits to tell the world that:

a) They can devise a recipe that sounds nothing short of immoral (last night a woman who was desperate to get her big, fat tits out thought that it was acceptable to serve people prune and salmon roulade. Now, I don’t profess to know what a roulade is, as am common, but I get the impression that it probably tastes of feet.

b) They aren’t anywhere near as funny or clever as they think they are – the jokes on last night’s show were fist-eatingly unfunny and made me want to headbutt myself.

c) They have terrible taste in wallpaper, clothes, hair and pet names. You can’t call a dog Wayne. Nothing should be called Wayne, come to think of it, but least of all, a dog.

I love to hate this programme – it’s a glorious car crash of a television show - although Mr Blokey isn’t as keen. ‘I’m bored, please can we turn it over,’ he can oft be heard crying in manner of a record that is broken. ‘But I like it!’ I exclaim defensively. ‘You can’t even cook,’ he spits in manner of an evil genius or the bespectacled one out of Scoobie Doo who has just fathomed out who the baddie is. ‘I CAN!’ I counter-claim, mock-crestfallen. I know he’s right, but pride ensures that I fight on to the bitter end ‘I’d win this easily,’ I say, trying to convince myself. ‘I would! Don’t look at me like that!’ I shoot, defensively. ‘Go on then, he retorted. What would be on your menu?’ So, ladies and gents, I present you with the following gastronomic, undoubtedly prize winning schmorgasboard that you can expect to feast on at Chez Red Pants.

Starter:
Gaelic Mushrooms. Sounds exotic, no? It’s more simple than it sounds, so there’s no need to be so awestruck, It’s erm, mushrooms (raw), eaten to the sounds of The Corrs. Or Lulu. Take your pick. Failing this, I could do my old favourite, Marmite Surprise, but I don’t think that would secure me the grand at the end. Marmite’s a risk, you see. Love it or hate it, etc. Or I could serve up a Milky Way with salad garnish. The chocolate bar won’t fill you up and the garnish will add to the 5-a-day razzamatazz that the health conscious swear by.

Main:
Zombie Turkey. I’m not quite sure what this is. I’m just trying to be creative with titles. It’s erm... green turkey splattered with blood (or ketchup if you haven’t got any blood to hand and don’t fancy slashing your wrists) and finished off with sunken eyeballs, prized from the nearest domestic pet. Sounds gorge, dunnit? Best served at midnight, Halloween or to people you don’t like, which would probably be all of them at the table. Might season the dish with some LSD – that way I’d probably get me ratings of about 24 out of 10 and comments about how they loved the moonbeam. Which I didn’t serve.

Pudding:
A stick of Twix drizzled with warmed up black cherry yoghurt and sprinkled with soil and diced onion so I can say it’s organic.

I would also award all of my rivals a generous 0 out of 10 on the grounds that I’d rather lick my own arse than eat the swill they served up. Not that it’s necessarily true, but why award people high marks when they’re competing against you? Doesn't make sense, does it?

That grand is in the bag, baby!

As One Door Slams Shut... Right in your Face...

2009-03-04T22:07:00.004+06:00

Damn and blast and fuck and bugger and shit and tits on toast. I've just checked my contract and it transpires that unless I get off my size zero (and a bit) buttocks, I will be unemployed as of the end of May. As the great Edina Monsoon once said, ‘Do you know what they do to the unemployed? They give them COMMUNITY SERVICE… Installing loft insulation into piss-stinking old people’s homes!’ I could’ve sworn that I had at least another months’ grace before the maternity leave cover I’m doing finished and it transpires that the permanent role is a no-go. This week is not going well. Not at all. And it’s going so SLOWLY… How can it only be Wednesday? HOW? On a normal week, it’s usually Friday morning by now…

I should get myself down to the gym tonight, but I’d rather do the following instead:

1. Drive home at break neck, yes, break neck, speed with scant regard for pedestrians, fellow road users, the Highway Code (most of which I've either forgotten or never quite understood) and bus drivers who should really be lined up against a wall and stoned with frozen pork pies. Actually, there could be a problem with achieving break neck speed. I drive a one-litre Nissan Micra that does 1-60 in about 7 hours. And that’s with the aid of the wind…

2. Stop at Tescos, procure cake, biscuits, an industrial sized bottle of wine and a DIYdrip that I can attach as soon as I get in.

3. Flail dramatically through the door, cursing the world. Self medicate.

4. Eat dazzling schmorgasboard lovingly prepared by Mr Blokey. Perfect comfort foods include: crisp sandwiches, anything with cheese, boiled egg mayo sandwiches, anything with chocolate. And lots of it.

5. Weep in manner of person who has just sat through Beaches, Forrest Gump and the theme tune to Black Beauty. But with dignity. Not because I have subjected self to horrific sob-fest film marathon, but because I want to. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, etc. And I feel fat.

6. Avoid being slapped around the chops by a Mr Blokey whose patience with my pity-party is quite rightfully slim to none.

7. Promise to wash up but instead simply deposit soiled plates into the bin on the sly, thus securing the jobs of bin men and lesbians throughout the land. Okay, the maybe not the land, but certainly the borough of Hertsmere. In doing so, also save lots of water, which is precious commodity, much taken for granted in the greedy consumer-heavy Western World.

8. Reward self for such altruism and social awareness with a relaxing vodka eye bath.

9. Have insightful ‘Eureka!’ type moment where I realise what I want to do with my life and not just sit there dismissing every profession on the basis that I might kill people (teaching, medical), I’m too clumsy (NASA, anything with my hands), I’m too corrupt (police, banking, local council, anything with a cash till), too fat (super model), or simply do not want to do it (prositution, most other things.)

10. Talk an alarming amount of slurred bollocks and pass out in a fog of self importance.

11. Avoid being smothered / choking on own vomit.

12. Wake up tomorrow feeling on top of the world, looking down on creation.

Sod the gym.

The Madness of My Father Part 2

2009-03-03T19:32:00.003+06:00

For Lent, I really should've given up phone calls.

My father has passionately embraced a worrying hatred for all humanity. It’s been coming for a while but now no one is safe except the profoundly disabled, the elderly, the infirm and children under 12. Oh, and animals, except for the dogs that live next door as they keep barking and shitting. ‘That’s ALL they DO,' my father spat. 'They bark and they shit. Shit and Bark. Bark. And. Shit.’

At this point an uneasy silence lingers on the line between us. Mentally, I am considering hitting the bottle, even though it’s still early doors. This is the effect our conversations tend to have on me these days, Gawd bless 'im. Just as Daddad (so called, because this is what the grand-kids call him, it actually suits him and it just seemed to stick) takes a sharp breath which makes me think that he’s about to change the subject, he continues unabashed. ‘But what do you expect when you’ve got Slag for a neighbour?’

A few years ago, his old neighbour, who he was quite fond of, did one of these home-swap thingymebobs that you often see advertised in a scruffy newsagent's shop window. You know the type. It usually reads: ‘I have a one bedroom, scabies infested hovel that I share with a man with three teeth, one arm and a tropical disease. On an estate. In Brixton. That has been condemned. Has to be seen. I WOULD like a ten bedroom mansion complete with stables and car park that is popular with doggers.’ Anyway, anyway, anyway, the old neighbour took advantage of one of these swaps and in her place came Slag. Not her real name, shockingly, but again, it suits her and it just seemed to stick. Poor old Slag has never been popular at Daddad Towers and Daddad himself has never forgiven his old neighbour for landing him with Slag and her catalogue of anti social issues: too noisy, hideous collection of bastard children, killer dogs (that serve only to bark and shit, don’t you know) and an alarming line of offensive looking lovers, ending in the latest one, who is affectionately referred to as Lurch and has - so I'm told - an IQ lower than his combined age and shoe size.

Everyone else, as far as Daddad is concerned, is a big stinking C-word. Even Santa Claus and Kylie Minogue but particularly Ruby Wax and especially Slag. Dad has also taken to coughing and burping down the phone and rather than excuse himself or apologise afterwards, he sighs and then says, ‘Fucking Hellllllllll’ and takes a moment, as though he has been given some terrible news, even though he hasn’t. His latest Nemesis is any mechanic this side of Neptune (something to do with either his brake pads or windscreen wipers) and, I'm sad to say, Noel Edmonds.

‘But I like Noel Edmonds,’ I said, startled by this shocking piece of brand new information.
‘You WOULD,’ Daddad admonished. A silence followed, broken by a burp. ‘Fuuuuuuucking Helll…’ winced Daddad. He then had one of his moments.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I said, my voice raising an octave or three. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Noel Edmonds!’ I was getting emotional about Noel Edmonds. I have no idea why. Neither did Daddad.
‘I don’t know WHY you’re getting emotional. I mean, what good has he ever done FOR YOU?’
‘Erm….’ I was at a loss. ‘He invented Mr Blobby?’
‘Mr Blobby? Mr fucking Blobby? That twat? I’d like to set fire to Mr bleeding Blobby,’ he said, before releasing a hiccough down the line.
‘What about Deal or No Deal?’
‘Whhhhhhhhhhhhat?’ said Daddad, incredulous. ‘You don’t watch that SHIT do you?’
‘Errr-'
‘I bet you do! It’s utter rubbish. Rots your brain! What have you got? A dozen or so prize TWATS who pretend they love the person in the middle when really, they wish it was them. Secret selfishness! The WORST kind! I can’t stick how they give them tips and wish them luck and tell them that they deserve riches beyond the Kingdom of Heaven! It’s a fucking guessing game. It’s CHANCE! It’s BOLLOCKS! All this talk of game plans and what’s left on the board. On the board! And then you’ve got that TWAT Edmonds with this RIDICULOUS hair walking round in a shirt that looks like a cat’s SPEWED all over it. And then that banker. WITH a B.’ I open my mouth to argue back and then think better.
‘So erm, yeah. Erm, er… How’s everything else?’
‘Well, I’ve told you about the car, haven’t I?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘Several times. My, erm, condolences?’
‘I’m sure. You know the rent is going up to, don’t you? On this shithole! I’m waiting for some woman to ring me back about it.’
‘Oh right!’ I say, my tone intentionally bright in the hope that it may prove contagious.
‘And Ted’s coming round tonight. Another pain in the arse.’
‘Why don’t you cancel?’
‘Cancel? CANCEL? It’s the only bit of company I have! You NEVER come up and see me do you?’ I pretend this question hasn’t been asked. ‘He’s alright anyway, is Ted. I’m gonna fuck off now anyway. I need to get some bread before the shop shuts. I’ve only got two loaves left.’
‘Two loaves? Isn’t that enough?’
‘Don’t argue with me – I’m your father. Who you never come to see. Anyway, like I said, I’m gonna PISS OFF. Oh fuck THEY’VE STARTED next door!’
‘Eh?’
‘Slag. With that daft BOOMBOOMFUCKINGBOOM music. I need a drink,’
‘And a loaf?’
‘Don’t be clever. You’re gonna turn into me one day soon.’

Bugger.

Quote of the Day...

2009-03-03T17:09:00.001+06:00

'Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream.'

MARK TWAIN (1835-1910)

A Tribute to the Legendary Susan Mary Gare 1955-2009

2009-03-02T18:28:00.002+06:00

Friday, 27th February, 2009. It’s a beautiful Spring day, although technically speaking, I think it’s officially still winter. That notwithstanding, it’s unseasonably mild. The optimism of Spring abounds: I’ve seen crocuses, daffodils, the sun is out and my coat is making me hot. After the bleakness of winter, where softly wind allegedly made moan – actually, it didn’t – the snow gifted us with a surprise day off and much impromptu wartime-esque cheer. Everywhere looked pretty. Even Watford. Strangers would stop and chat in the street like old friends and all the kids went sledging like back in the good old days, although the insistent march of modernity was ever-present. Whereas we, as nippers, would temporarily pilfer our Mam’s tin tray to slide down the hill at a life threatening speed, kids these days pilfer the lids of recycling boxes. And not just temporarily. Hmmmf, etc. Anyway, after the unrelenting, biting cold that has plagued the winter months, today is a climatic dream. The sun warms your face. Old people have discarded their cardies. Even the ducks seem excited. When I woke up this morning, I heard bird-song and it made me smile until I realised that today is the day of your funeral.

You’re dead and I can’t believe it. You’re fifty-three, you’ve beaten cancer and it’s a beautiful day. Three good reasons why you shouldn’t be dead. But you are… And I can’t believe it.

You'll be pleased that the occasion reunited The Big Cheese, Goddess and I. But what rubbish circumstances to realise that we are idiots x3 for leaving it until now to get together; that such joy (a natural result of seeing each after so long apart) was brought about by the complete and utter tragedy of your passing.

I'm not a fan of funerals. Yes, I know that they are supposed to be a celebration of life, blah, blah, blah, but I still can’t get over the fact that when I attend one the chances are that someone I love and care for has hopped off of life’s rollercoaster and nipped over to the next astral plane for a mosey about. In other words, I will never see them again. Their passing tears a hole in the fabric of our collective and individual existence. They’ve cheated life or life has cheated them – but either way they’re dead. And while I’m off on one, why does ‘dead’ have to be such a hideous word? Where is the celebration in all of that? You know, I am yet to take part in a conga round a coffin. Maybe I’m not getting the point. I dunno.

For what it’s worth, your funeral was lovely. The Big Cheese, Goddess and I went for a quick drink beforehand. We talked about you, naturally. Good things, only good things. What else is there? At first, we spoke as though you were still here, orchestrating it all. ‘She’s picked a good day for it,’ we’d quip lamely, as we laughed and felt guilty and naughty and ridiculous and happy and sad all at the same time.

I didn’t think I’d cry like I did. Not because I have a swinging brick in place of a heart, but because I have a problematic relationship with the stereotypical idea of grief. That said, I wore black – but only because it’s thinning, okay? I just find it hard to grieve when someone tells me it’s all okay, to let it all out, that life goes on, that there is no more pain, they're in a better place and all the other death cliché bollocks. All whilst patting my back. How can it be okay? It doesn't feel okay.

So, the funeral: we sat three rows from the front on the right hand side. As we first entered the room, we were presented with a booklet dedicated to you. On the cover was a beautiful picture of you. You look almost regal on it – one arm raised, casually supporting your resting head with a cheeky hint of a wry smile lighting up your face. As the casket flowed up the aisle on a sea of shoulders, we all stood. As it passed by me, I caught my breath and the gravity of the situation sucked me down. I wept for you, my darling friend. I held my breath and sucked on my cheeks to oppress a huge belly sob. Goddess and I held hands and I suddenly felt lifted. I laughed at the anecdotes that we shared throughout the ceremony. I attempted to sing hymns even though I didn’t know the melody and Goddess mimed. We took a sideways glance at each other and grinned. I continued to smile thinking of you and the times we spent together. I smiled thinking of your attitude to life and your innate goodness and unwavering generosity. I smiled thinking of the more-than-appropriate lines to the final hymn that we sang – how great thou art, how great thou art.

Sleep well, Susan-Mary.

All my love, hugs and a cheeky (but delicious) bum squeeze,

JRP xxx

Quote of the Day...

2009-02-17T20:55:00.000+06:00

‘I couldn’t have my happiness made out of a wrong – an unfairness – to somebody else… What sort of a life could we build on such foundations?’

Edith Wharton

Some Very Random (But Not Entirely Useless) Trivia For A Monday...

2009-02-16T22:18:00.003+06:00

SOME VERY RANDOM (BUT NOT ENTIRELY USELESS) TRIVIA FOR A MONDAY…

1. Statistically speaking, you are more likely to be killed by your own fridge than winning the lottery.
This fact annoys me. I’ve been playing the chuffing lottery for YEARS. Years and years. When it first started, I was a student at Sixth Form and used to earn my weekly pennies by processing half eaten lottery entry slips from people who couldn’t really afford the £20 wager they were determined to place. Okay, I’m being presumptuous by saying that – I didn’t have access to their bank accounts or anything like that – but they did smell as though they couldn’t afford soap and they were shopping in (the now defunct) Kwik Save. I was being paid three pounds and sixteen whole pence per hour. I couldn’t afford lottery tickets in those days, so I would occasionally help myself to a free one from time to time and then shake like an enthusiastic epileptic as the balls were drawn, just in case I did win. At the time, I thought that I wouldn’t have been able to live with the guilt, but looking back, I think I would’ve managed admirably. Anyway, this murderous fridge fandango! What’s that all about? I don’t like the fact that it may harbour me ill will. Oh and no. It’d be just my luck to extract some milk from the fridge only to be coshed over the bonce by a packet of ejected sausages. This worries me. I am never going to buy sausages again.

2. If you throw a chicken in a pond, it will drown.
Really? Does it matter how you throw it in/at the pond? And come to think of it, can chickens swim? I’ve seen them rambling around grass/pens/courtyards/scruffy peoples’ kitchens, but I can’t ever recall seeing them minding their own business and swimming around lakes and such like.

3. Your entire body regrows itself within 30 months - there's not a single part of any of us that existed in January 2006.
I want to believe this, but can’t quite bring myself to. Firstly, what about teeth and brain and bones and stuff. Secondly, if this is the case, why can’t my body just forget about my flab next time? Hmmm?

4. The shortest sentence in English is 'Go.'
Followed, presumably, by ‘Twat.’

5. No two countries with a McDonalds have ever gone to war.
Ronald McDonald may be a scary mo-fu, but at least he’s a beacon of hope and peace, hey? Not for cows and chickens and stuff, but hey ho. McNuggets away, etc…

Excuse My Complete Ignorance, But...

2009-02-13T21:45:00.005+06:00

I don’t think I’ve quite got my head round this credit crunch malarkey. I did try and fathom it out, but then I found myself frantically looking around for wet paint to observe throughout its drying process, as it seemed more interesting than the world’s financial position. I mean, where did all the money go? Did it ever exist or was it a joke that got out of hand? Normally I’m quite well read (if I do say so myself), but when it comes to all things fiscal, count me out…

I’ve never been that great at economics. Ask my bank manager if you don’t believe me. I did attempt to take Economics at 'A' Level, but during the first lesson, I didn’t understand a single word that the teacher uttered. All he kept saying was, ‘It’s as easy as D-O-G.’ Not at all patronising then. Or maybe I’m just being bitter and twisted because the ease of the concepts he was attempting to lure us with could not be contextualised by elementary spelling. Oh no. I sat there twitching as he confused the law of supply and demand with a graph that reminded me of being five years old, when I would beg my parents to make a random squiggle that I would then try and make into a face. Thinking about it, I was no good at that either: I would usually just incorporate said squiggle into the (inevitably messy) hair-do whilst cursing Rolf Harris and his rather boring Cartoon Time programme that I had to watch because it was my brother’s favourite. Anyway, in sum, I am RUBBISH at drawing and if an economics teacher (with legendary halitosis) ever tells you that 'A' Level Economics is easy, may I suggest that you promptly set fire to their pants as they are nothing but a liar-liar.

So back to this Global Economy crisis extravaganza thingymejig. Is it the new War on Terror? I know it’s got something to do with sub-prime something or other and big, fat, wanker-bankers being gambling greedy guts type people, but other than that, it’s all Greek to me. I know that everyone is bankrupt and if you needed a pot to piss in, you’d do better than asking Kerry Katona, Anthea Turner or the residents of Iceland, because much like Old Mother Hubbard, it's slim pickings all round at the moment. And there’s no point in trying to secure said wee-wee in the local pub either, because the chances are, that’s closed down too. In fact, much of the High Street seems to have shut up shop permanently. All that’s going to be left, according to Trevor McDonald and co., are charity shops, Primark, something hideous called Chicken Cottage and people selling The Big Issue that I don’t really believe are homeless.

It’s not all doom and gloom though, is it? Well, it might be, if you’re a fan of pick and mix or cheap Wellington boots for kids, seeing as though Woolies is no more, but at least you can buy cheapo happy shopper type stuff in Tesco without an ounce of shame. Seemingly anticipating this monetary skulduggery, they have changed their Value range to a discount brand called Daisy. How sweet. And I thought you couldn’t polish a turd. Maybe it’s the economic equivalent of turning a squiggle into a cartoon hairdo. I dunno. It’s all pounds, shillings and pence to me. Shame no one has got any. Maybe we should start a revolution and spend the rest our days sat cross legged and saggy titted in some new age commune breastfeeding each other.

Anyone up for it?

25 Random Things About Me...

2009-02-09T23:05:00.003+06:00

1. When I put my iPOD on shuffle, the next ten artists are: Barbara Streisand, Madonna, Take That, Madonna, Madonna, George Michael, Dolly Parton, Hairspray Soundtrack, Boney M and erm, Madonna. Yes, I am a rubbish gay lord skidding alarmingly towards middle age. I’ll be plucking my eyebrows within a millimetre of my life and painting myself orange soon. Just you wait and see…

2. I eat a lot of salad but remain inexplicably two stones overweight. Such a riddle is potentially solved when my alcohol intake is taken into account. Bummer.

3. I believe that almost all of life’s ills can be blamed on Thatcher.

4. I have a very dark sense of humour. Some people call it sick. I hope they die. See, that was a dark joke. Er, tee hee?

5. I think my three least attractive qualties are: 1. The fact that my snoring can be measured on the richter scale, 2. As can my farting, which is constant, stinky and sometimes sinister – I once made my (now defunct) cat flee the room after once particularly troublesome bottom burp. And 3, my penchant for nose picking. I know it’s a socially criminal thing to do, but I like it.

6. Aged 31, I decided to leave the country on a whim. I stayed away for six months... Viva Espana!

7. I am finally in a loving relationship after a love life career that reads like a who’s who of Freaks, Fuckwits, Perverts and Losers – an Anthology. Mr Blokey is possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me and I love him that much, I could weep openly in the street. Fact. Had I not met him when I did, I would’ve most certainly converted to a militant lesbianism. I’ve already got the terrible haircut and Doctor Martins, so bring it on, bitches.

8. I am forever laughing inappropriately. I don’t mean it. I’m clearly hysterical. Slap me.

9. The first record I ever bought was There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart) by the Eurythmics, I think I was eight at the time. My brother bought a Transformer at the same time, which I accidentally broke later that same day. He cried.

10. I am clumsy. Initially people find this endearing. Then when I break something that belongs to them, their enthusiasm for my cack-handedness wanes at an alarming rate. How fickle. The most expensive thing I have ever broken was a car belonging to work. I accidentally drove it straight into a lorry and wrote it off. And the lorry too. I was in Spain at the time and rather than apologise to the lorry driver, I got my words mixed up and told him I loved him. He – rather ungratefully – didn’t look too pleased.

11. I really fancy chocolate right now. I shall resist though.

12. My Dad still doesn’t know that I’m gay. I think he does know, deep down, but chooses to believe that I am a breeder instead. He must know. He’s not stupid. Not that I think I’m a raging homo (point one of this tirade notwithstanding…) but I’ve not mentioned having a girlfriend for at least ten years. And he’s fully aware of my unhealthy appreciation for Madonna and skin care routines.

13. Thirteen is one of my lucky numbers.

14. I honestly think that my family circumstances are worthy of a spot on the Jeremy Kyle show or a disabled parking badge at least. Or both. I do not like Jeremy Kyle though. He has one of those faces you’d get lots of pleasure from slapping, don’t you think?

15. Terry Wogan rules.

16. Pork Pie utterly disgusts me. If I was made Prime Minister, my first act of Parliament would be to ban it with immediate effect. My second act, if you’re interested, would be to bring back hanging for people who let their dogs shit in the street.

17. I was two months premature and ended up being born on the Virgo/Libra cusp, when really, I should be a Scorpio. Thus, I read all three astrological predictions and tend to favour the one that tells me I am going to get laid/win the lottery.

18. I keep going to see psychics in the hope that my Mam comes through. So far, she has been busy on her new astral plane. Fuck and bugger. Mother, psychics are expensive and keep telling me I have a bad back (which I don’t have). Hurry up!

19. I find it scary that so many of my friends have children. I still feel like one myself.

20. If I won the lottery, I can safely say that it would probably change me.

21. I think that Dettol is one of the nicest smells ever.

22. I tend to name inanimate objects. For instance, I have a plant called Jesus (am not religious, by the way) and a car called Nelly. My first car was called Madge, my second, Evita, my third Butch.

23. My first ever job after university was working in a theatre where everyone was gay and they thought I was straight so I got picked on. I also got mistaken for a rent boy on my way home way one night. Even though I’m not.

24. I am germ-phobic and have slight OCD. As a result, I don’t do door handles and feel uncomfortable around visible soap dodgers. I also count to eight lots in my head. I don’t know why, I just do.

25. I don’t take anything seriously. Ever.

FIN.

Morning Has Broken...

2009-01-13T21:58:00.003+06:00

Randomly enough, someone asked me what my morning routine was today and even though it’s potentially slightly dull, I’m going to share it with you. Aren't you lucky?

Throughout night: wake up for no apparent reason / wake up due to being shaken thanks to horrific snoring on my part / wake up due to Mr Blokey shaking duvet and cursing as I’ve accidentally farted (usually on his unmentionables) whilst spooning in sleep…
6.15 – Alarm sounds. Subconscious incorporates said alarm into whatever dream I’m having resulting in a complete failure to wake up.
6.17 – Wake up after being prodded mercilessly by Mr Blokey who has been disturbed by my alarm.
6.18 – Marvel at wonder of man’s greatest invention – the snooze button – and replace head on pillow in attempt to get back to the brilliant dream I was having before being rudely awakened by life long love partner type person.
6.19 – Completely fail to get back to the dream, but soundly achieve getting back to sleep status.
6.20 – Question whole point of life and universe as alarm rings out for a second time.
6.21 – Fart.
6.22 – Get up in total darkness, wonder if I’ve actually gone blind in night as I chip pelvis on chest of drawers. Deliver favourite expletive: bollocks.
6.23 – Apologise to Mr Blokey for waking him up throughout the night with constant snoring/farting on knob combo.
6.24 – Have sit down wee with head dramatically held in hands whilst wondering how it could possibly be time to wake up. Stifle sob at injustice of life in general.
6.25 – Catch sight of self in mirror and recoil in horror. Stumble into shower whilst considering cut price face lift in Bulgaria. Wonder to self if applying thick bleach to face will result in successful DIY face peel.
6.31 – Get out of shower, avoiding mirror at all costs. Walk into door. Deliver semi-expletive: fanny.
6.32 – Demand to know why Mr Blokey would go out with a walrus such as self.
6.32 – Remind Mr Blokey that laughing at my self pity could potentially make me self harm.
6.33 – Fart.
6.40 – Attempt to drink coffee and get dressed at the same time. Invariably have an accident involving both. Explete liberally: shit, fuck, arse, etc.
6.45 – Liberally apply fine fragrance, clean teeth, engage in morning song, do hair and leave bathroom as though just stepped out of a salon, etc.
7.04 – Wonder why the last few minutes have inexplicably sped up and become emotionally distraught at impending lateness. Have a relaxing swear: bastard bugger.
7.05 – Leave house, 5 minutes behind schedule.
7.06 – Return to house for car keys/wallet/security pass for work/phone/left shoe.
7.08 – Get in car. System up, top down.
Several hours later: Arrive at work, trembling and exhausted at evil commute.

What about YOU?

Fat Club...

2009-01-06T21:37:00.003+06:00

So I went to Fat Club then…

I was unsure at first. I’d been to a different weight loss group many moons ago and became disillusioned by the woman who ran it. In order to protect her identity, I’ll call this woman Jeff - she looked like a Jeff so as the cap fits, Jeff shall wear it. She was a nice enough person, but probably not best suited to be the leader of a slimming group. She must have been twenty stones at least… And as for the other leg…

I didn’t find her particularly inspiring, if I’m honest. When people in the group gained weight as opposed to losing it – which seemed to happen most weeks – she’d shrug and smile sympathetically before adding, ‘Yer only ooman!’ That was her response to anything: simply observing the fact that they belonged to the human race. Meanwhile she would pace around the centre of the room swinging a crimewatch reconstruction-esque jelly type thing of what 2lbs of fat looks like. If you’re wondering, it looks a bit like a sepia-coloured lumpy Asda SmartPrice dildo. Ribbed, for your pleasure, etc.

In order to control the unrelenting chatter that would break out within the group, Jeff used the dildo fat jelly like a talking stick. You could only speak and share your weight crisis whilst gripping the faux-flab. It was the most sex some of those women ever got. Every week was the same: the weigh-in would take ages because people would believe the scales to be wrong and start arguing with Jeff, who could be seen choking on her Mars Bar in horror at being accused of fixing the scales… Generally the only people who wanted to talk was those who had put weight on, or as they say in fat club circles: gained. I would sit there, week on week, listening to the endless prattle from these people who just didn’t really want to be thin. And I never got to speak either. Seven weeks I went for and I never got my mitts on the blubber dildo. I did attempt to speak once and it caused such uproar that I never went back:

Jeff: So, Sue, yer GAAAAINED this week. (Jeff raises eyebrows and makes an impassive half smile.) What ‘appened, babes?
Sue: It’s just… I can’t… I can’t resist the biscuits. I try not to eat them but I can’t help it… (Sue twitches uncomfortably in her chain and stares at the floor)
Jeff: Babes, babes. Yer only oooman! Bless yer, babes! Everybody, what can Sue do to ’elp ‘erself?
Viv: (Still chewing on her fifth flab-fighter bar in succession that she bought at the start of the session) Hide ‘em! Hide ‘em! Simple. Just Hide ‘em.
Jeff: Yes! Very good! Hide them! Brilliant!
Me: Yes, but if she hides them, won’t she know where they are? She could just not eat them. Or not buy them. She's supposed to be on a diet.

With this, all noise suddenly got sucked out of the room. Jaws dropped open. Viv stopped eating. Presently, all eyes sought out Jeff, their spiritual and coronary leader. You could tell that she was angry. Her lip quivered with rage as she looked me up and down and bellowed, ‘How dare you speak without the fat in your hand!’ And that was that…

So it was with some trepidation that I found myself signing up for a weight loss support group last Sunday morning. A quick look in the mirror soon gave me the extra impotus… I arrived at the underground shame hole, I mean, basement of the local community centre feeling faintly ridiculous… But Vivien, the woman who ran the group – a lean, mean, sense-of-humour-free-seeming French woman, made me feel welcome, until I dared to speak, that is. After the humiliation of being weighed (I had to get off the scales and then back on as the first time it rather pleasantly came up as ‘error’. I was more than fine with being error stones and error pounds, but I could see the more vicious looking people eyeing me up as the fat knacker who broke the scales), oh where was I? Oh yes, after being weighed and discovering that if I was marginally lighter than a band of obese gypsies, each with an underactive thyroid, I took my seat in the circle and joined in with the general ‘Isn’t a shame we’re all porky?’ type banter until the sound of a jelly-shaped, family-sized didlo slapped resoundly on the table in the middle of the circle, silencing us immediately. Holding aloft a phallic lump of makeshift lard, Vivien looked down on us as though we were scum. ‘Zer will be no talking unless you are holding ze fat in your hands!’

‘But we’re only oooman,’ I wanted to respond.

Happy New Yeaaaaaaaaaar!

2009-01-05T17:51:00.004+06:00

I can’t quite believe that it’s 2009. Bloody Nora! I mean, I can believe it… but I can’t, if that makes any sense whatsoever – which I don’t think it does, but hey ho. It only seems like five minutes have passed since I was a tubby teenage Madge obsessive with a bad hair cut and an even worse wardrobe. What do you mean, I haven’t changed a bit? Well, maybe it’s time that I did…

I love New Year. Christmas (and the over-hyped build up to it) tends to get right on my saggy man baps (although I had a lovely one this year), but I like the infinite possibilities that a fresh new year offers. Like getting rid of said saggy man baps. If you want, you can wipe the slate clean and start again. The past loses significance as a new year comes round.

I think it’s really important that we strive for self improvement and attempt to become better human beings. It’s like the old quote states, ‘No matter what you did, no matter who you are, no matter where you’ve come from, you can always change… become a better version of yourself…’

I know I’m flawed and I want to do something about it. I know that perfection is unattainable, but I think that it’s important to realise where we go wrong and try and improve on those areas. I know I can get irritable, vitriolic, sloppy and impatient – they’re ugly qualities and I’m always at my worst when I’m being governed by such negativity. I don’t like it. I want to be able to step back and breathe – and realise that the coffin dodger holding the traffic up has every right to be doing what they’re doing, much in the same way as I am… I was talking to the gorgeous Mr Blokey the other day and he mentioned that I can be angry. It was quite a startling revelation at the time, although I don’t know why as he’s absolutely right. I suppose the good thing (for me at least) when I’m angry or pissed off is that I’m not afraid to articulate it – but again, foaming at the mouth isn’t the most attractive quality and it’s not one that I particularly want to hold on to. I think I’m a bit too young to turn into my Dad just yet... I don’t like having toxic thoughts, not that I have them all day every day, but when I do, I'm mindful that ultimately, the only person that they’ll poison is myself – and that’s just rubbish. I need some human shake and vac. Hopefully 2009 can put the freshness back.

Happy New Year! Whooo-hoooo!

New Years Resolutions – Halt the Rapid Slide Towards Morbid Obesity…

2008-12-30T23:04:00.006+06:00

Move over geese! Christmas came and Johnny got fat.. Again.

In fact, Christmas Day saw a very sorry sight: me, doing my very best impression of Moby Dick stranded on the sand. Bloated was not the word. I’ve not been that full since the summer of 1989 when I accidentally ate nine Weetabix in a single sitting. Heavily pregnant women of the world, I know your pain and I don’t care if that enrages the more virulent breeders out there, because it’s true. I laid there, slorming about and wailing in agony, demanding gas, air and a C-section. Instead, I was offered a dry cracker topped pleasingly with a slither of sweaty cheese from an unsympathetic Mr Blokey. As you can imagine, it didn’t quite make the grade: had I even attempted to shovel said cracker and cheese combo into my overused cake hole, I would have exploded in the manner of the enormous Mr Creosote in the Monty Python film. And that would be a terrible thing to happen. We’ve only just decorated, for God’s sake.

So here I am, at the cusp of the New Year, pleased that I managed to lose a stone and half during 2008, but slightly frustrated that I was also successful in putting on almost 2 stone thereafter. It’s been like this since I can remember. I always want to lose weight. Eventually I get sick of myself and do something about it. It’s just that afterwards, I subconciously reward myself with a few months of over-indulgence and before you know it, I’m having to trawl the back of the rail when I need to buy a new pair of trousers as the current ones are beginning to scar me. Either that or I’ve sat down too aggressively and put my considerably-sized arse through them.

So why do I do it? Why does my weight fluctuate in a manner not too dissimilar to Oprah’s? I don’t believe that the root is even remotely psychological. Sure, I got picked on for being a slabcracker at school, but I was more concerned with being bullied for being gay – and that clearly didn’t put me off in the same way that being called a bunter hasn’t put me off the pies.

It’s not that I take comfort in food or use it as a substitute for love or because I once shat myself on the school bus and everyone laughed (which, may I hasten to add never happened.) It’s just that I’m greedy. I like stodge and big portions. And beer. And starters. And puddings. I believe that carbs are my friend and it's a relationship I treasure. It’s a good job that I’m not American, because I’d be like one of those enormous walking blancmange-type people that even have fat eyelids and rolls of flab around the elbows and knee caps. Nope, it’s greed. That’s what it is. And in 2009, I am going to overcome it. Oh yes I am. I’m going to go to the gym and eat sensibly and I’m going to drink much less shandy booze and I'm not going to become fist-eatingly boring at the same time.

I went online earlier today to browse over some weight loss tips. One site said recommended that I make a list of the reasons I want to lose weight and stick it to the fridge to spur me on… Slightly patronising, but I thought I might give it a whirl. They were even kind enough to give some examples that should enrich one’s fat fighting commitment, such as avoiding coronary heart disease or prevent children throwing things at you in the street, etc... How, erm, kind…

TEN TOP REASONS I WANT TO BE FABULOUS NOT FLABULOUS

1. Socially uncomfortable sweating is not attractive. Not even a little bit.

2. Neither are manbaps or love handles that look like muffin tops.

3.Picking clothing out of fat cracks on an unkind windy day or having to hold clothes away from my torso when walking against a breeze to avoid them looking as though they’ve been spray painted on is also not my idea of fun. In fact it makes me want to run and hide (usually and inexplicably in Greggs where it seems rude not to have a pie to cheer sad fat self up.)

4. I once got refused entry on a ride at Chessington World of Adventures as the safety bar type thing wouldn’t fit over me. Oh, it was all kinds of hideous. It may have not been so bad if the woman in charge would’ve just let me go, but she literally knelt on my chest and said, ‘I’ll pack you into this thing if it kills me…’ The determination in her voice and steely gaze scared me. Five minutes later, my predicament began to draw a crowd of people who thought I was dying. Needless to say, the woman who pledged her life on getting me on the ride, failed (and lied, as she didn’t keep her part of the bargain by kindly slaying herself.) I don’t think I’ve ever been more mortified as I was when I skulked off the ride and found solace in a Burger King (which, naturally, I had to supersize.)

5. Oh yes I have. I once knocked on a mate’s door and was greeted by his Dad who shouted, ‘Son! Mr Blobby is at the door wobbling…’ As I self consciously plucked my clothes from under my man-baps, I held my head in shame. I never want to open a door to such a reception again. Ever. Oh and let’s not forget the time when I was having sex only for proceedings to be interrupted by then boyfriend type person who prodded my family pack (as opposed to my six-pack) and said, ‘You need to lose weight. Think about your heart…’ Goodbye erection...

6. You know when you go to a restaurant and you can’t help but think, ‘I don’t know how they DARE!’ as a fat person goes back for sixth helpings. That’s how I think people look at me. And I’d rather it not happen. I want to go and retrieve my sixth helpings with confidence. And in a tight spandex lycra suit. Okay, maybe not, but the option of wearing one might be nice, eh?

7. To be able to wear a bra that fits. Too much info? Oh…

8. So I can throw some shapes down on a dance floor without the owners worrying about the health of the building’s foundations…

9. Because I can’t seem to find magic pants or gurdles for men. Yes, I am caving into sexism. Sue me.

10. Oh yes, health reasons! Being fat is the new smoking. Recently, I was unfortunate enough to have a meeting with a bloke who decided that rather than talk about work, he’d spend an hour talking about his weight related diabetes instead. Whilst some of what he said was pretty frightening, what I found particularly horrific was the fact that he had very hairy ears. I’m fat as it is, I do not need hairy ears.

Let battle commence!

Merry Chrimble from my girlfriend Madonna and I...

2008-12-24T17:41:00.001+06:00