Saturday, 24 September 2011


Around the start of April I had someone new move in.

It was early one morning and I stumbled half asleep into my bathroom to take a shower. As I stood there with the water hitting my face, muttering, “You can do this” and trying not to fall back asleep under the soothing warm flow, I turned around with shampoo in my hair to see a tiny spider building a web in my open bathroom window.

Now my normal reaction when seeing any spider is to let out a non-manly scream, run around for a bit with flapping hands, and then find the nearest rolled up magazine to twat the little bastard into oblivion, and this was the exact same reaction I had when I saw my new housemate for the first time. So as I stood there with a bottle of Lynx shower gel in my hand, ready to unleash furious, yet great smelling, vengeance on the home intruder, something magical happened that made me stop and actually watch him.

The effort that this tiny creature was making in creating a new home for himself was phenomenal. His little body was contorting left and right as he spun little threads from himself, hooking others with his legs and connecting them up, building something beautiful right in front of my eyes. I must have lost myself for at least five minutes in just watching this amazing feat of nature taking place before me, until the sudden realisation hit me that I was in fact standing soapy and stark bollock naked in from of my window for all my neighbours to see, and quickly ducked down out of sight before they called the police.

As I dried myself off, the spider was still building and I just simply didn’t have the heart to destroy it and the new home it was making. The almost superspider effort that it took to even get the basics of the web up and running was almost too pure and good for my stupid and ignorant hands to tear down. So after wishing it: good luck, I got ready for work and forgot all about it.

When I returned home, the web was complete and the small spider was sitting proudly in the centre, tiny legs splayed out around it to detect the stirring of anything stupid enough to fly into its strands. The web swayed gently in the Spring air, a monument to hard work, unwavering self belief, and the heart rending beauty of the natural world.

There was no way I was getting rid of it. What right did I have? When had I ever creating anything half as beautiful as this?

“I shall call you......... Stephen,” I said with awe in my voice, feeling as if we were going to live together, he might as well have a name.

So Stephen he was.

Stephen and I began cohabiting in an almost serene sense of bonhomie. Every morning I would jump into my shower after wishing Stephen a “Good morning” and upon seeing me he would bounce up and down in his web, shaking his miniature body into a blur of motion. Now those of you armed with “facts” will tell me that spiders do this in their natural habitat to warn off predators when they get too near their webs. This is false. Stephen did it because he was pleased to see me every morning. That’s what it was, yeah? Deal with it.

As I showered every morning, Stephen would dodge steam, flying droplets, and the sight of my naked body (easy ladies). He began to see me at all stages of my daily routine. When I was half asleep in the morning, just before I went to bed sleepily at night, getting ready to go out, coming in tired from work, coming home drunk, he saw it all. And he never judged, nor passed comment like others would. He either hung there, getting fat from all the insects that passed near the open window, or would retreat to the tiny crack between the window and wall, where he would sleep, the only evidence of him being tiny legs just sitting on the threads of his home.

He also became part of my home.

I had never formed a friendship with an insect before (there was one time when I got close to a woodlouse, but in many ways, neither of us really want to talk about that much anymore), but this arachnid became a regular staple of my daily life. He was something constant, always there in the background, and it surprised me how OK I was with this and how quickly I accepted it.

And then yesterday, something happened.

I got into my shower and did my morning ritual of turning to see how Stephen was.

He wasn’t good.

H e was moving sluggishly in the centre of his web, fumbling to latch onto the different strands with weak legs. It was obvious something was wrong, but there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t help him; all I could do was watch.

After giving him one final glance, I left for work. When I returned home, the web was empty. I peered into his little home in the gap by the window, but could see any evidence of him.

Stephen was gone.

When I got into my shower this morning, Stephen was back. He hung silently in the centre of his web; body a tiny husk, devoid of any life. I stopped and blinked for a few moments. I actually felt a bit, sad? I’d seen this tiny creature grow and mature over the last few months and now I was privy to his death, it didn’t feel right. It felt stupid to be sad over an insect, but it was such a short life for any creature.

I opened the window wider, pulling apart his ever familiar web, and a gentle morning Autumn breeze caught his frail body and carried it away like a dead leaf as I watched it tumble away.

Having such a close proximity to something that would normally exist far outside my life has taught me two things.

1) That all life, no matter how small or insignificant, plays out in exactly the same way. You’re born, you struggle to make a home for yourself, and then you try and survive the best you can before you die. So it’s up to you to try and make the best of every single opportunity that takes place throughout that journey. No one else will do it for you; it won’t be handed on a plate. Stephen taught me that.

2) I really need to get out a bit more and talk to real people. I made friends with a spider.

Stephen, it was far too short, but it was an experience knowing you.

Sunday, 19 June 2011

What's All This Ear Then?………..

Ever since I was born I have always suffered from problems with my ears.

Now, when I say problems, I don’t mean with the actual ears themselves. They aren’t deformed or grotesque or anything like that. In fact they are quite cute. Tiny little things with pointy up ends, they look like elf ears. Maybe not so hot for the ladies, but if I ever decided to join up with those weirdo's who like to decamp to the nearest forest and re-enact the complete works of Tolkien, then I have a fairly good idea whose side I would be forced to go on.

No, my problems stems from what goes on inside the actual ears themselves. I’m a bit deaf you see.

I was born with a perforated eardrum in my left ear. Now when you normally get a hole in your eardrum it slowly closes over time. Sadly, mine wouldn’t, which resulted in a fair bit of hearing loss and an almost pathological fear of getting water in it, as it hurt like a bastard afterwards.

Being deaf sucks.

I lead a normal life, don’t need a hearing aid or anything like that. My hearing borders just on a level where I can function perfectly with what I have. But it does mean though that I miss out on certain things that go on around me. Certain environments are a nightmare to circumnavigate as I quite often won’t have a clue as to what's being said. I struggle with certain pitches, more so with female voices than male, and I definitely struggle with large groups, as it is sometimes hard to pinpoint certain voices over others.

One of the worst places for me to be is nightclubs. I realised that when I attempted to be a weapon of mass seduction in my teens, the art of seduction is virtually impossible when you have absolutely no idea as to what is going on.

“So, are you going to buy me a drink then?”


“I said, are you going to buy me a drink?”


“No, drink!”


Nightclubs weren’t the best place for meeting the ladies really.

Even now I still get myself into awkward social situations, quite simply because I can’t hear what's being said to me. I get fed up with saying “Pardon” all the time as it makes me feel like a complete tool, so my normal method to try and get myself out of these situations is to try and bluff my way through of them. This normally takes the form of either of these scenarios.

1) I just stare blankly at the person who has just spoken to me, inwardly praying that I can process some of the words that did actually penetrate my brain and form them into some basis for a coherent sentence. This normally results in me just looking a tad retarded, and the other person swiftly moving away to talk to someone else.

2) This one is more common and usually gets me into a whole area of new, fresh trouble. If someone has been speaking to me for a long while and I haven’t understood a single word that they have said, I will normally scrunch my face up into what I believe is a really interested expression and then say something which hopefully might fit in with what they are saying. This is normally something like “Really?” or “Yeah?” As you can guess, it doesn’t really work most of the time as quite often I would be so far off the mark it was unreal.

“Dan, I can’t live with how closed off you are, the way that you never talk about your feelings or problems. You’re like a closed book, and that's really something you can’t base a relationship on. I’m leaving you Dan.”

It always used to take me about three days to figure out that I had been dumped. It would be brilliant if relationships came with subtitles.

I’ve had a few operations during my younger years to try and fix the inside of my useless ear. These took the form of skin grafts that would be placed over the eardrum to make it whole again. The first took place when I was about 11, but sadly didn’t work. But I did have the satisfaction of when I came out of the operation, still heavily under the influence of the anaesthetic, I apparently tore my surgical gown off and laid on top of my bed, stark bollock naked, causing the nurse attending to me to exclaim, “He’s a big boy for his age, isn’t he?” to my shocked family.

It a strange feeling to be absolutely shamed, and yet strangely proud of something at the same time.

Still, even heavily sedated, always a playa.

The second operation I had when I was 14, there was no exposing my genitals to nurses this time round, and the operation was considered a success. So for a time I had good hearing and felt a bit normal again. But over the years scarring has built up on the eardrum and the hearing is getting worse.
I went to the hospital a few weeks ago and was given the choice. Get fitted out for a hearing aid, if I really wanted one (which I don’t), or we can go in for surgery again as apparently things have moved on a tad since I was a kid and they can do some more things within this area. The only downside is that if the operation goes wrong, I will lose all the hearing in my left ear completely.

Was a bit of a tough choice, but I have decided to go with the operation. I’m tired of always feeling like I’m five seconds behind everyone else. If it goes wrong, I virtually feel deaf in the left ear anyway.

But it won’t go wrong. I know it won’t.

And I might get stark bullock naked again.

There’s always that.

Friday, 22 April 2011


Hi. How are you?

Shhhhhhhhh, don’t spoil this. Its been too long. Let me just look at you, just to see if you’re how I remember. Yes, its exactly how I remember you. The dreamy eyes, the hair, the fire behind your expression, the sloping forehead. I’ve missed you. Its good to be back. Just hold me.

Look, I have a valid excuse for being away for so long.

Now when I say that this excuse is valid, I am being genuinely honest with you. But I’m also being honest when I say my reason can also be considered a bit retarded as well. If you want me to be more precise, I’d say its around 25% valid, 75% retarded.  But lets not quibble over facts. I’m back. Deal with it, yeah?

So, why have a been away? Well, numbnuts here forgot his password to log on to Blogger.

Yeah, lame or what, huh? But I swear its true. About a month ago I had a blog post to write that was so amazing it would have made your underpants explode. I went to log on with literally shaking hands due to the excitement of birthing this literary concoction of awesomeness out into the world, but yet when it came to entering in my password, my mind went blank and I ended up staring at the screen like a geriatric looking at the microwave and wondering why the news hadn’t come on yet.

I flicked through my minds database, past all the useless information that I have stored in there, searching desperately for the correct combination of words and numbers that would enable me to write, but all I kept coming up with was the year that Jaws 2 was directed in and the memory of my sixth birthday party when my parents hired an entertainer for me whose breath smelt like whiskey and who has now consequently made me have a phobia of balloon animals. But no  password.

I honestly think that the last few weeks I have tried every known configuration of words and numbers known to man. I have probably inadvertently stumbled onto the mystery behind quantum physics with some of the equations that I came up with, but none of them actually allowed me to access my emails or Blogger, and since my amazing brain thought it would be a fantastic idea to set up my password reminder email under a default account, I was really up shit creek on a canoe made of shit which was passing under a bridge where even more people were shitting over the sides on me.

So I gave it one last try a few nights ago. I sat at my computer and emptied my mind. This took quite some time as I couldn’t shake off the thought of: Do ants feel happiness? which troubled me for at least 20 minutes until I decided that they probably could, and then I finally reached an almost Zen like state where I was nothing and nothing was me, and I just typed a password in on my computer without even thinking what it was.

I was in!

The first thing that I could see was that I have now hit 160 followers. Party time. Welcome to anyone new by the way. Its very nice to have you here. You look very nice by the way. Respectable. My kind of people. The kind of people who I would like to sit down and have a nice meal with. Can I come round for dinner? Whens good for you? I can’t do Tuesday as I have my salsa classes. Wednesdays good. I’ll bring a bottle.

So, you may not care, but I will give you some updates anyway.

Few things happening in my personal life, which obviously I am not going to talk about on here. But there is also the strong chance that I may be made redundant from my job, which is something that I found out about last Monday. This is happened to me so many times now that I’m starting to take it personally. I’m really pissed off to be honest, but there is not much I can do about it. Although its not a guarantee, I have more chance of keeping my job if I go to work in Essex in either Grays or Basildon, which as a choice is kind of like being asked if you would like a warm bucket of piss or liquid shit poured over your head. But as I love my job its probably going to be something I have to seriously look at.

But in the midst of all this depression and grimness, at least there is one beautiful and amazing thing that is coming up on the horizon that will whisk away all my blues like a breeze cooling your sweat on a warm summers day. I am of course talking about the upcoming marriage of Prince William and Kate Middleton, or as every single fucking paper here in the UK insists on calling them, The Happy Couple.

Honestly, they are everywhere. On every front page, on magazines, on mugs, t-shirts, pizzas, happy meals and in my nightmarish feverish dreams. Its got so bad that I have now developed a Pavlovian response of yelling out “STOP SMILING AT ME!”every time I see their gormless, rich faces staring back at me from whatever thing is proclaiming their glorious union.

One good thing has come out of their upcoming nuptials though, and that's the fact that we get a day off for the wedding. Its their wedding present to the nation, and like most weddings, I am going to spend the day rowing with those close to me before falling into a drunken heap under a mound of sausage rolls and cucumber sandwiches.

I feels its what they would have wanted.

So anyway, that was me. Now over to you. Is everything OK? Is there anything that you want to talk about? You know I’m always here for you, don’t you? If you don’t want to talk about it now, we can always chat when I come round on Wednesday.

I like chicken by the way.

Just saying.

Sunday, 27 February 2011

Back To The Future…………………..

If I could build myself a time machine (and believe me, it wouldn’t be in an old Delorian, but probably a toilet, one with flashing lights and smoke that comes out the back when the flux capacitor gets turned on), I would zip back in time (which is all you can ask for a time machine really) and give my younger self some much needed advice.

These are my future pointers:

1) Fashion.
Firstly I would sit my younger and very much dumber self down and give some much needed advice on my upcoming fashion disasters. I would veto having long shoulder length hair during my indie days, as that was a faintly ridiculous look and made me look like a knobber.

I would also nix the shellsuits that I wore as a kid in the late 80’s (American chums, Google them. It’s not pretty).

And finally, during my hedonistic early clubbing days in the mid to late 90’s, pinstripe trousers combined with a waistcoat (a fucking waistcoat!) did not make me look like a sex god, it made me look like a waiter. I even had, at one point, a white suit that I used to wear on a funky night out. I mean, this suit was white. At some points, when the strobe lights hit me and created a white nimbus around my flailing body, it looked like Jesus Christ himself had decided to pop down to some dingy nightclub in Romford to dance very badly.

Not good.

Now though I am very much a style guru. I don't just have my finger on the pulse of fashion, but I'm checking its temperature, eyesight, and got it bent over for an extensive rectal examination.

Its not easy looking this good. 

2) Education.
It’s almost cliché to say to someone younger that you have to make the most of your education, but it’s definitely true. The standard response to this is a muttered, “Yeah, all right granddad”, but it’s incredibly powerful advice. I would sit myself down, and then explain how I really needed to knuckle down and actually try and do well at all my subjects.

Seeing as I was a massive know it all tit at that age, I would probably just agree with my future self and then just completely ignore what was being said, as my want during those teenage years.

The annoying thing is that at the time, no subject interested me at school, but now I am fascinated by history, English, science, and basically everything else. Be much better if you could do all your education at an age where the subjects might spellbind you, such as your late 20’s, so when you are younger you could just run around playing war games and snapping girls bras.

3) Combine your career with your passions.
Everyone hates their jobs, so wouldn’t it make much better sense to actually combine the things that fascinate you most in the world with an actual paid role? Too often we end up slogging our guts out in a role that, in fairness, most of us would never have foreseen us doing when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

My normal response to that question, at the tender age of ten, was a marine biologist, because that was what Matt Hooper was in the film Jaws and Matt Hooper quite clearly rocks.

Couple of major issues with this role as a career though. Allow me to run through them.

Can’t swim, can’t get water in ears, scared of the water.

Other than that, ideal role, dontcha thunk?

So what would I advise my younger self to do?

i) Writing- I would advise my younger self to sit down every day and write something, anything, so over time I would get used to writing every day and it wouldn’t be the chore that it is now, plus the practice would turn me into a multi-skilled author over the years, so by the time I reach this age, I would be a bestselling writer with numerous classic titles to my name, and film offers flying through my letterbox, plus chicks hanging off every limb of my body. Because there is nothing more that gets the ladies going than a writer. Forget film stars and football players, we all know that every girl’s ambition is to bag themselves a writer. Writers are cool.

ii) Animals- I love animals, so why not combine a career with them? I could become a circus performer? Or a lion tamers? Or even a vet? I know that to become a vet you need to study for years and years, but the end result is that you get to see a lot of dogs every day, and that’s a happy thought, no? Only downside I can see is that as a vet, I would be required to put animals down, and I can’t really be doing that. It wouldn’t make a very good impression on the owners if I was striking their pets on the chest whilst doing CPR and screaming, “You’ve never given up on anything in your life! Now live!” Especially if they had only just brought their tortoise in for a check up.

4) Let people in more.
People aren’t the annoying, self centred arse monkeys that I probably take them for. In fact I’d hazard a guess that some of them may be very nice. Trouble is that, if I like you, then I have all the time in the world for you. If I don’t like you, then you’re dead to me. Do you hear me? DEAD.

This probably isn’t right and I would advise myself to love all people, no matter what idiotic things they say, or how stupid their haircuts are. In fact, I would tell myself that every time I met someone new, don’t just shake their hands, but hug them and hold them tight, then whisper in their ears about how much you love them.

I’m sure there is nothing wrong with this suggestion, and it may even lead to some new and interesting friends.

Or prison.

Either way, could be fun?

These are just a few ideas as to how I could go back in time and improve my life, I have hundreds more. But the main problem is that my younger self probably wouldn’t listen to any of them. Even more so when he takes one look at the bloke sitting in front of him and then runs away screaming, “I turn into that!!!!!”

Precocious, know it all little fucker.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

Abscess All Areas……

So, this lump thing I have on the base of my spine. After my last post railing against the injustice of getting old, turns out that I didn’t in fact have a bad back, but instead had a lovely abscess making itself at home.

Mmmmmmmn, abscess. 

Early Thursday morning the pain was just too unbearable. I woke up about one after rolling over on my lump and getting woken up by a short, sharp jab of pain. Walking into my bathroom, I tried to look in my mirror at my back to try and see my lump. After getting myself into positions that a contortionist would be proud of, I still couldn’t get a good look at it. I then came up with the wonderful idea of using the video camera on my mobile to film it.

Genius, no?

I have to say the footage was great, it was almost like a film as the camera swooped slowly over my lower back, Spielberg would have been proud. I almost considered posting it on YouTube  with the 2001 soundtrack playing and a Morgan Freeman voice over. But I still couldn't get a good look at my lump to see how bad it was.

Sod this, I thought. I need to get to a hospital. So at around three in the morning I booked a cab to take me to Romford A&E. When I arrived I knew I was in Romford because there was a drunk guy wandering around mumbling bollocks into his beer can, which he kept clutched tight to his chest with a Kung Fu grip, while a trail of blood splattered the floor leading up to the reception desk.

“Hello,” I said to the tired looking receptionist. “I have a large lump at the base of spine which is really hurting, I think I need to get it looked at.”

She motioned me to sit down and I waited to see a Doctor, all the while hoping that the Doctor wouldn’t be female, hot, or Brazilian. The chances of there being a hot Brazilian Doctor working in Romford A&E were slim, but knowing my luck this would be the time when one would be working on a secondment, traveling to the poorest countries to see how Third World Healthcare operates, and I would have to drop my trousers in front of her.

Lucky for me my Doctor was male. For some strange reason this made me feel better about dropping my trousers in front of him. I somehow seem to have got my priorities all wrong on this, haven't I?

Upon seeing my lump the Doctor made a kind of “Hmmmmmmmmn” noise.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“You have an abscess I’m afraid, and its quite a nasty one. I’d like you to see the surgeon today if possible.”


“Yes, we have to drain it and then remove it.”


Now I’m not a great lover of operations. Due to my hearing problems, my whole life has been a session of operations and procedures to keep my hearing at a good level. So I try and avoid them whenever I can. But this Doctor was adamant that i would have to have this done.

Eventually I was led up to a hospital ward where I was given my own bed. After waiting around for a few hours I eventually saw a surgeon. After examining me he told me that I probably wouldn’t be able to have the operation today and would have to stay over night. Now this really wasn’t an option for me as I had no overnight stuff, hadn’t showered, and there was no one there to feed my cat (all poor excuses, but they are the only ones I have), so I asked him if it was possible to come early tomorrow to have it done as the operation would only take about half an hour.

The surgeon agreed to this and then suggested that he drain the abscess to make my night a little bit more comfortable. After lying me on my front, he then pierced my lump with a needle, causing a small jet of fluid to arch prettily from it like a delicate water feature. It wasn’t very nice.

The best thing about being able to go home was that I was given Codeine to take home with me. I like Codeine, it makes everything better. I could have had small pixies emerging from my lump, playing fiddles and dancing merry jigs, and I was so high that I probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Codeine rules.

When I got to the hospital early next morning I checked in at reception like I was told to. And brilliantly for me, the guy behind the desk failed to tell anyone that I was there. So for four hours I was sat in a hard plastic chair, my lump leaking and hurting, and my mood getting steadily worse. When they finally realised that i was there for a reason, a young intern took me aside and began to question me as to why I was there, not having a clue who I was, why I was there, and what was wrong with me. Now she was obviously new and didn’t really have a clue what she was doing, and therefore scared the shit out of me. She unsuccessfully tried to take blood from me about five times, missing veins, spilling the blood over me, and jabbing me more times than a pincushion. She then tried to put a tube in my hand for a drip, fucking this up about three times as well. In the end I snapped, stood up and told her not to worry about it, and walked out the hospital, aiming to get the treatment done privately through my work.

So now I have to wait until tomorrow to find out what hospital I am going to. Luckily the lump seems to have gone down quite a bit and isn’t as painful as it was, but I still need to get it opened up and cleaned out otherwise it will just come back again.

I don’t like abscesses very much. I have given it a name though. My abscess is called Colin, and with luck, by tomorrow Colin will sod off and leave me alone.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock……………

I’m bloody annoyed at the moment.

In fact I’m so annoyed right now that I’m not in fact typing this with my hands, but instead I’m headbutting each key and saying slanderous things about each of their mothers with each slam of my forehead (which means its taken me ages to write these last few sentences, and has given me an awful headache as well).

Why am I annoyed, you’re not asking?

Well, I’m off work today.

Why are you off work today, you’re also not asking?

Well, I’m off work because……oh this is so hard to say…….I’m off work because…… I’ve done my back in.

Quick, somebody throw a blanket round me and stick me in an old peoples home.

I don’t know what's wrong with it. I woke up on Sunday and it was tight. Come Monday it was on fire, and when I woke up this morning I couldn’t move. After doing some medical exploring with my fingers (mmmmmmmn, filthy) it seems as if I have a small lump at the base of my spine that hurts to touch. 

Now this could mean either one of three things.

1) I have pulled something and its really swollen.

2) I have a real deep spot and its in the most awkward of places.

3) I’m starting to grow a tail.

Now naturally out of those three things, its the tail one I’m hoping for. How cool would that be? I could use it to fan myself if hot. If I’m ever giving directions I could use my tail to point the way instead of my finger. And it would be a brilliant aid to gauge what mood I’m in ( Swishing around: Angry. Hanging between my legs: Scared. Pointing up in the air while the end makes a “Come here” motion: Horny), the possibilities are endless. Tails are cool.

But nevertheless, my back is in tatters and its resulted in me hobbling round like a geriatric who has just soiled himself. This isn’t right. I’m 32. not 82. The fact that I have just rung in sick due to a bad back was something I was hoping to avoid for, say, oh I don’t know, another 15 years?

Is this it? Does this mean that I’ve reached the summit and the only way to go now is down? I mean, I’m half deaf as it is, and I’m borderline incontinent anyway, so what other delights are coming my way? Will I start to grow hair from my ears? Will II start to buy jeans with elasticated waistbands? Will I take up line dancing? I’m nothing more than the rotting carcass of the man I used to be.

Growing older never really used to bother me. OK, I’ll admit that the passing of another 12 months and a move up on my age bracket did sometimes play on my mind a little. But in my head I’m still the same idiotic bell end I’ve always been, but now as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I find that its been transported into the body of a slightly stupid looking adult, one who constantly wears the bemused expression of someone who is desperately trying to remember where he has left his keys.

When did this happen? And more importantly, how can I stop it?

How will I feel when I start getting my first grey hairs? What if its in my pubic hair? My only option will be to shave them all off. So then I’ll be a man in his 30’s with the genitalia of a toddler. That can’t be right? (though I would imagine it to be very bracing). Can you dye your pubic hair? What if I try and dye it and it goes wrong and I end up with green pubic hair? I’ll look like I’ve gone mouldy. This is a pubic nightmare. I need to do more research.

Maybe worrying about your age happens at all stages of your life? When I was in my teens, thinking of being 25 seemed ancient to me. Now that I’m in my 30’s, the thought of hitting 40 is terrifying. Most likely when I’m in my 40’s, I’ll look back at my young and care free 30’s with a wry smile. I’m never happy, me.

The only plus point I can see about getting older is that I will now have an excuse for being rude and not caring what I say, where as now I have none.

I know they say that you should enjoy your life, no matter what your age is. But how can I enjoy it with a bad back, non-functioning ears, and the future onset of pubic Armageddon?

Saturday, 15 January 2011

I’m Your Whore……….

*Warning: This blog post does contain some aspects of self psychological prognosis. Its pretty stirring stuff so I would advise sitting down and strapping yourself in whilst reading. Things could get bumpy*

During my brief hiatus from blogging (if you can call a month brief, it was more like a weekend city break away really), I was idly reading through some previous posts trying desperately to come up with something vaguely interesting to write about that didn’t involve some form of warm, wet bodily function, when I suddenly had a rather disturbing notion fly from the screen and hit me straight in my mindscape, whirl around for a bit, and then settle in my stomach like a big fat worry baby. You see it suddenly occurred to me that for the last year I have been laying out my bare psyche over the internet for literally anyone to come along and have a good old rummage round.

Now for most people this probably would really amount to much. Maybe a pair of raised eyebrows and a shrug and then nothing more would be thought of it.  But for a normally intensely private person such as myself, it really does seem like a strange activity to have been involved with. In person I can be guaranteed to give nothing away,  something that has been commented on frequently as I am often referred to as a closed book, and yet on here I have been offering up massive slices of my experiences and thoughts with almost blatant disregard for any kind of self censorship. I have even written about when I pooed myself in the middle of London, miles away from home and with an almost uncontrollable urge to suddenly commit suicide, which is a strange thing to offer up to a complete stranger and isn’t normally something I bring to the table when I first meet someone. I at least normally wait a day or two before giving that one up.

So something's not quite right here.

When I first started this blog my main intention was to just write about things that were happening in the world in a wry and insightful manner, just to get me into the habit of writing on a weekly basis. I wasn’t going to be someone who would regularly write about themselves, as in my opinion that would be about as interesting as listening to someone go into minute detail about a really wacky dream they had the other night and how they soooooo had to tell me about it. But I soon realised that my attempts at commenting on the big wide world were as insightful as a blind man who was required to do something that involved…….sight, so I found myself writing things that were a little closer to home. I began writing about me, like the big self obsessed freak that I am.

And yet you came, didn’t you? You came, and you commented, and you joined up, and I became drunk with the power of it all. I wasn’t just writing blog posts anymore, I was standing on top of a mountain, arms stretch wide as you, my children, my flock, came from miles around, from different lands and cultures, to gaze in wonder at me, to swim in my words, my rapture. You had come to see me, what I was doing, what I was feeling and thinking, it was all about me, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Regardless of what it was, you’re here and it rocks, take my hand and everything will be okay, we can do this, you and I, we can do this together. But as a rather unfortunate side effect, in order to fill these pages I have had to plumb my very depths and offer up stuff that I may not normally do in person. Some of it may be obvious if you knew me, other bits you may not have known about even if you had gone into my subconscious armed with a map, a torch, and all-over protective clothing. And yet I’ve just given it all to you on a plate, haven’t I? I’ve whored myself out to you with no form of self-regard whatsoever. I feel so cheap.

And yet for myself, rereading over the things that I have written, it paints a pretty disturbing picture. I’m not right up there, am I?

Lets break it down, just for old times sake.

1) People Person.

I don’t like people. Obviously I like you, you’re great. We’ve always gotten along, me and you, ever since we first met really. I think it was your smile that did it. But its all the others, those with their haircuts and skinny jeans and stupid opinions and inability to navigate anywhere without getting in my way, its them that do my nut in.

2) Sentimental.

Despite the cynical outlook there also seems to be a sentimental streak in the things that I have written that is a mile wide, which therefore must be in me. Most people think that the pained expression on my face is when my Irritable Bowel Syndrome is really bad, its not, its just these two conflicting emotions battling themselves out in me to finally claim my body. I’ll either end up alone in a gutter, drinking myself to death with whisky in a brown paper bag, or end up a pipe smoking hippy who just wants to hug everyone and talk about “feelings”. I am unsure if I like either to be honest.

3) Whore.

I just want to be loved. I just want to you come along and smile at something I have written, tell me that you like me, and then never leave my side. That's all I want. Is that to much to ask?

4) Over Analytical.

This blog post is a prime example.

5) Self Indulgent.

See above.

6) Odd.

I have some odd hang ups, don’t I? Ranging from OCD through to odd phobias. Its amazing that I can actually leave my home without crumbling into a massive pile of quivering jelly, shitting myself and mumbling about germs.


So I’ve just literally splashed all of the above over the internet like an elephant with explosive diarrhea. Well, not anymore. I’m keeping all this crazy stuff in from now on. This blog is now going to undergo a transformation into a political one where we can all debate political philosophies and how they relate to society and each class as a whole.

There will still be poo jokes though.

So, to start us off, a question for us to discuss:

Should ties among individuals composing a group form a bond that takes precedence over the needs and wishes of the individual members of the group?

Please feel free to leave your thoughts and opinions on the above question.

I look forward to the cut and thrust of intelligent discussion that the new direction of this blog will no doubt bring to us, rather than the puerile and infantile stuff I was writing before. I look forward to taking your hands as we all head out into a bright new dawn. It may seem scary at first, but you will like it, I promise you that you will.

And you will always have me there to stroke your hair.

Wearing gloves, obviously.


Germs everywhere.