Home……….

Hello you. Let me take you by the hand for the moment, for you see I am about to guide you through my world. You may want to put on this waterproof rain mac and slip on these boots; it can get a little bit sticky at some points. And whatever you do, please don’t look down to see what you’re stepping in, not unless you want to eat in the next few days.

There, now don’t you look spiffy? Now, are you ready? Let’s go........

When I think about home there are a whole swirl of emotions and images that flow through my mind that are linked to that particular connotation. Home to me represents warmth, lamp light, the smell of cooking, chaos, the sound of life when you open the front door, black night pressing against cold windows while you curl up in front of the TV, and most of all, the feeling of security, of actually belonging somewhere.

And yet, in reality, you only get this feeling at two stages in your life, firstly when you’re a child, and secondly when you have you own family. For nearly everyone, there is this huge section of your life where technically you don’t actually have a home; you just have a base of operations. Normally this section of your life is based around the periods of when you leave home for the first time, right up until the point where you meet someone and decide to set up your own home together. Then your base of operations gets upgraded from base camp to starter home. When you get married it then upgrades further to a home in progress. Finally, when you have your own children, it morphs into an actual home and you then suddenly realise that you have taken the place of your own parents. Then your own mortality hits you round the face, screaming “My god, we’re old!”, and you then start growing your hair into ridiculous styles and start thinking about wearing leather trousers, all in the hope of regaining the youth that has snuck out the back door without you even realising it.

But anyway, I digress.

I like home. I like the whole idea around home. It pleases me. Even writing about it pleases me. I’m smiling now in fact. But that whole chunk of your life where you are just at base camp level. Don’t really like that much. That sucks.

So what makes the transition from a building just being a collection of rooms for you to just store your belongings in, to a place that is filled with memories and laughter and makes you feel like you are actually a part of something. Is it the amount of people living there? Would two people make a place feel more like a home rather than one? Does the relationship between these people make a difference? If you lived with a friend rather that someone you were in a relationship with, would that lessen the feeling of home? In all honestly, it’s all very confusing and is making me want to lie down and have a seriously long and hard think about it all.

I myself have been at base camp level for as long as I would like to remember. I guess you could call me an institutionalised man now. You stick me in an actual home and I start freaking and start wondering who all these people are and how the hell did they get in my living room? And yet I like the trappings that a home provides. I like the warmth. I like the sensation of being a part of something and try to replicate it at my own place. Kates totally understands me and my need for things to be “cosy.” I like the winter and the heating being on, I like there being lots of things going on around me, I like cooking meals in my kitchen. I think I like all of these things because maybe, and I could be totally wrong here, I’m trying to replicate my own home life from when I was a child.

And yet, me being the total contradiction of a human being that I am, I also like living on my own as well. But that is growing less and less now as I am getting older, and I think that pretty soon the urge for me to start me own home will become unavoidable, which in turn makes me wonder if it’s the same for most people. Is there a point in your life when you stop living in a base camp and actually have the need to build something of your own?

Now this is where this blog gets interesting (no, seriously, it does!) I’m going to take you on a journey around me own base camp (or man cave as Kates called it-which I love). This section may contain flashing lights and scenes that may disturb some readers.

I live in a place called Romford. I’ve lived in Essex all my life, just on the outskirts of Romford to be precise, but sold my house last year and bought a little flat near Romford town centre.

Now how to describe Romford? To be honest, words can’t really do it justice. Romford isn’t really a place; it’s more like a state of mind. If that mind in question was suffering from some quite server mental deficiencies. It’s filled with strange looking people that scurry around like parasites, cramming junk food into their gaping red mouths whilst trying to have sex with each other. This is exactly what its like. Totally. All the time.

Okay, I may be exaggerating slightly here. It’s not that bad, that’s just the roaring snob in me speaking. As much as I hate to admit it, and try to hide it, I come from these parts. These are all my people 

*Spreads arms, Christ like*

My childhood was spent around these parts. I grew up in its parks and schools, took my first drink in its pubs, kissed my first girl on its streets, its part of me, and no amount of pretence is going to hide it, no matter how hard I try. But it still doesn’t stop me from sometimes pulling a face like a man who has just licked his own shit when I see a huge fat hefferlumper waddle past, gigantic arse spilling out of a pair of low slung tracksuit bottoms, so her tramp stamp tattoo that she has had etched above this monument for obesity bursts forth from her waistband like the flapping wings of an eagle, desperate to break free, but locked for all eternity to her quivering back fat.

Yeah, that’s a bit grim.

Anyway, my man cave is based here, a nice little block of flats.



I moved here about a year ago and it’s only now that it is starting to feel like something to me. I wouldn’t say home, but whatever it is, it feels like mine.

Wanna have a look inside?

Course you do, nosey.

This is my living room


 
 
This room is good for many things. Watching films. Chilling. Monging.Notice the film geek posters? Yeah, I rock.
 
Here is the kitchen.

 
 
Now most days you will either find me trying to do one of two things in here.
1) Cooking a fancy meal from one of my many cook books
2) Making beans on toast
 
Now ladies, please try to contain yourselves. This......is where the magic happens.


Yes, this is the room I like to practice card tricks in. I was going for a slightly gothic ambience, as quite frankly, I could think of nothing better to wake up to at half six on a Monday morning than all that blackness.

It’s the only way I can feel.

I was going to stick up my study (ohhhhh, get me!) and bathroom, but then thought, do you really want to see that?So I didn't. Its a bathroom. Use your imagination.

So that’s my man cave. I wouldn’t go as far as to call it a home as such, for me it’s just purely my base of operations. I feel no warmth there (mainly because the heating is fucking terrible) and certainly no real connection to the place. It’s just a few rooms for me to sleep and store my things.Thats all it is to me.

And if I’m entirely honest with you.

I really miss having a home.

Babe Of The Day…..

There are many reasons why I have a great girlfriend. This is just one of them.

About three weeks ago I was lying in bed with Kates, indulging in some pillow talk. Well, me being an insomniac, I was indulging in pillow talk, she was just grunting into her pillow.

After uttering some inane question that was playing on my mind at the time, probably something along the lines of: When spiders die, can they come back as ghosts, she realised that I wasn’t going to allow her to drift off to sleep and begrudgingly joined in with my chattering.

The conversation freewheeled its way round various topics, as a conversation often does, when somehow we ended up on a topic that I hadn’t planned, or wished, to stumble into.

The topic being what type of woman I go for?

Being a man, I immediately knew that I was on dangerous territory. I suddenly had my head talking to my heart like a gruff army sergeant talking a wet behind the ears soldier through a minefield: Careful son, one false step and this could blow up in your face, sending your ass to Kansas.

“I bet I know your ideal type of woman,“ she told me.

“Oh, is that the time? It’s late, we really should be getting some sleep,” I replied, rolling over and snoring loudly.

“I bet I do,” she carried on, shaking me roughly by the shoulder. “I bet I can picture your exact perfect woman.”

I wasn’t going to win this one.

“If you want to picture my perfect woman, then all you have to do is take a look in the mirror baby,” I said, taking my hand and stroking it down her cheek.

“You’re such a twat,” she replied, swatting my hand away like an annoying fly.

I sighed. “OK, well, whatever you are going to say, you’re wrong. And whatever happens, it’s not my fault. Remember that. Its. Not. My. Fault.”

“I’m going to prove it to you. Check your work email tomorrow. I’m going to send you a picture of what I think is your type of woman.”

“OK. Now can we just snuggle?”

We snuggled.

Just as I felt her drifting off to sleep, I whispered in her ear, “Can you make sure she has really big boobies?”

Kate has very sharp elbows.

I totally forgot about our conversation the next day, but when I went to log on to my work email, I saw her name nestled amongst the rest.

“Bugger,” I muttered to myself. This was only going to end in one way. Me in the wrong. I didn’t know how, or why, but I knew it was going to be.

I opened up the email and was confronted by the picture of what Kate thought was my perfect woman. Brunette. Dark skin. Tall and leggy. Basically the complete opposite of Kates.

“Shit,” I mumbled into my hand. “This could be bad.”

Later on that night I got my phone call from her. The one I was expecting.

“So was I right? Brunette? Leggy? Dark skin? Totally not like me at all?”

“I....er..I....I love you? Is that the right answer? That’s normally the right answer, right? I love you?”

“Bye!” she replied, and the receiver went clunk as she hung up.

And she was basically right. My “type”, if you want to give it a label, is nothing like what she looks like.

Now let me get one thing straight, my girlfriend is gorgeous. Not in a kind of “well, she’s my girlfriend so I have to say it” kinda way, but actually gorgeous. Whenever anyone sees me with her, or sees a photo, I normally get the same reactions.

Wow, how did you get her?
What’s she doing with you?
Where do you get your rohypnol from?

And I like that. It makes me feel special. But if I’m honest, Kates is nothing like what I am normally attracted to. I do like brunettes, and she is blonde. I do like dark skin, and she is very fair. But I do fancy the pants off her. I can’t help it, I just do. Imagine a blonde with the prettiest face going and the body of Joan out of Mad Men. Without sounding like a sexist pig, what man wouldn’t like that, regardless of whatever constraints you place upon yourself on what “type” of person you allegedly find attractive?

And it’s not just looks either, it’s the whole package. She makes me laugh, like, really laugh. And that’s a very hard thing to do. She puts up with me as well, which is also a very hard thing to do. Basically she ticks all the boxes that I need, and all without dark skin and brunette hair.

But, naturally, it’s very hard to convince someone that you like them if they are the complete opposite of what you apparently like. So she is always thinking about this mysterious brunette who is just lurking in the wings, just waiting to pounce. I have tried to use the terminology of the fact that I like pepperoni pizza, but if I was told I could only have cheese and tomato for the rest of my life, I would love that, because I like cheese and tomato as well.

It was only as she sat there opened mouthed did I realise that I had just compared her to doughy, cheesy pizza, and was now officially the worst boyfriend in the world.

I am amazing with words, but only if I keep them in my head. If I let them loose on the world then they mutate into evil little shit bastards whose sole purpose is to get me into bother.

I was having a conversation with a work colleague about this exact same topic, and she was in the same position as me. Her boyfriend is totally the opposite of what she goes for, but she loves him more than anything. And that’s where I find myself today. In love with someone who transcends looks and ideals and goes into something that is a lot deeper.

Plus with really big boobies.

It’s a challenge convincing my other half that she is the one for me.

I like challenges.

But if there is one good thing to have come out of this situation, it’s that I now get, freshly delivered to my work inbox every morning, my own babe of the day.

Every day I get a fresh picture, with an accompanying funny message, which always makes me smile. I have had a whole range of smoking hot babes delivered to me and it’s the perfect way to start your morning.

So now I throw requests in. The night before I will ask for a girl next door type, or a sexy sports person, and I will get one delivered to me. At this moment we are now going around the world, Thursday will be a sexy oriental, Friday a hot Indian. But I’m quite excited for tomorrow. As it’s my birthday, I am getting a birthday surprise. I don’t know what it will be. I have a feeling it will be Gemma Arterton, as she is my type, and I have asked for her.

I’m hoping I will get a surprise and it will be one of Kates.

A Genius Plan…….

(Megan Fox Soapy Tit Wank) As I am a friend to all my fellow blog writers, I am now going to pass on an amazing tip which will enable you lovely people to get many more visitors to your blogs.

I know it has been a feature for awhile, but I have only just had (Anne Hathaway looking all sexy like) a little look at the stats section of the Blogger dashboard, which is a veritable mine of information as to when, where, and what, the readers of this blog have been looking at. One of the best sections is the one that informs you of (Jessica Biel in a leather catsuit) what posts  have been getting the most views during the last week. It threw up a rather interesting surprise for me. Interesting, and a little disturbing.

Now on average my blog posts have been getting about 50 views a week. Not astronomical, I know, but it’s enough for me. But there was one post that I wrote that got an eyebrow (BOOBIES!) raising 392 views last week. And it was this one here

Now naturally the egotistic side of me automatically thought (Scarlet Johansson is a dirty bitch!) that this was due to the powerful, and quite frankly, life changing brilliance of the words that I wrote on that very page.
Sadly I was wrong. When I clicked on the traffic source section, which would tell me what link my readers clicked on that led them to my blog; at the top of the list was the link that led to this little lady’s photo (eyes left).
Hmmmmmmn.

And right underneath, in the keyword search, i.e. what people typed into their browsers that led to the link that led to my blog, were the search terms: Gemma Arterton, Gemma Arterton’s cleavage, and Gemma Artertons Big Tits.

So the popularity of this blog post was nothing to do with the writing, but more to do with ( Mila Kunis and her filthy sex tape!) the photo displayed on it, and people clicking on the link to get their perv on.

Now this could mean either two things.

1) There were an awful lot of teenage boys who really, really liked Gemma Arterton.
2) There was actually only one person who had a serious fixation on Gemma Arterton, and has just spent the last week tugging himself around his bedroom with my blog displayed proudly on his PC monitor. 392 times!

At first I was pretty horrified. I felt defiled and used for someone else’s sexual gratification. Now some men would pay good money for this feeling, but they would normally be (dirty bitches play fighting for you!) chained to the wall in some suburban fuck den while a rather bored and listless woman who is dressed as a Nazi kicks them repeatedly in the balls and tells them that they won’t amount to anything. It won’t be from an amazing piece of writing that they have quite literally poured their heart and souls into, and was now being used as a gateway for masturbatory fantasies.

But after my initial disgust had faded, I came up with a rather spiffing idea (why not watch Kate Beckinsale and Salma Hayek wrestle!). Why not use the power of the internet perverts to gain some more readers?

Picture the scene. Little Johnny is sitting at his computer, box of Kleenex at one side, Johnsons baby oil at the other, and is getting into his groove. All of a sudden his eyes twitch from the photo displayed on the screen to the words surrounding them. His is distracted from (Elisha Cuthbert playing volleyball) the beautiful, porcelain features of Gemma Arterton by the amazing sentences that I have created.

I’m torn, thinks Little Johnny. I literally have balls the size of cantaloupes right now, but I can’t concentrate on anything else but finding out how this blog post actually ends.

Visibly shrinking, Little Johnny pulls up his trousers, his heart ruling over his neither regions, and finishes reading my post. Like a crack addict jonesing for their next fix, he has to read more. So he does. Before you know it, he has joined up, thrown aside his favourite past time of (Ashley Dupre-Spandex-Need I Say More?) seeing how many times he could jerk off in one hour, and has now immersed himself fully in my writing. Who knows, perhaps I could even inspire him to start up his own blog?

He could discover a fire in his belly that never knew existed and eventually becomes a bestselling novelist. And it would all be because of me. All of it, all down to me, because I am great.

Now naturally I would never dream of taking sole responsibility for his sudden change in life, nor the success that would befall him. Maybe a dedication in his first book perhaps: Dan, you were a hero and an inspiration to me. I would never have done it without you. You are more God than man.

Something simple like that.

Now in order to harness the untapped potential of the pervert market, I am now going to pepper my posts with pictures of hot women, and subliminally insert the types of search terms (Alison Stokke and her lovely watermelons!) that these sexually frustrated individuals would use to get their rocks off, hence making them flock like moths to a light bulb to my blog.

Genius, no?

Now you may say this is cheapening my blog, but in all honestly, guys, you have been reading the shit that I put out, right? Seriously, it can’t really get any lower than this. Just think of it as natural progression. And my soul was screwed years ago, believe me.  

So please feel free to use this plan for your own blogs. I expect to see each new post literally plastered with smoking hot babes, and hopefully contain sentences that would make a sailor, who is just on shore leave, and hasn’t even seen a womanly shape for about nine months, but is now faced with a hot lady who is making sexy eyes at him, and is making “come here tiger” motions with her hands and jiggling all her lady bits in his directions, blush.

There is only one major drawback to this plan though. Anyone who now joins up to my blog after this post is now going to be singled out as an internet masturbator and will have everyone pointing at them and whispering “We know what you do”

But hey, no one said that you don’t have to make some sacrifices in life, right?

(A pair of gigantic enormobooobs literally bursting out of the screen at you and waving about in your face. You want that, don’t you?)