tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38306724975162797342024-03-13T10:06:48.826+00:00Vacant MindSearching for answers to questions that need answers.
Welcome to my Blog. Please wipe your feet.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-61337355030230051582011-09-24T16:53:00.001+01:002011-09-24T16:53:07.867+01:00Stephen………….<p>Around the start of April I had someone new move in. <p>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, “<i>You can do this</i>” 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. <p>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. <p>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. <p>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: <i>good luck</i>, I got ready for work and forgot all about it. <p>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. <p>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? <p>“I shall call you......... <i>Stephen</i>,” I said with awe in my voice, feeling as if we were going to live together, he might as well have a name. <p>So Stephen he was. <p>Stephen and I began cohabiting in an almost serene sense of bonhomie. Every morning I would jump into my shower after wishing Stephen a “<i>Good morning</i>” 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 “<i>facts</i>” 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. <p>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. <p>He also became part of my home. <p>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. <p>And then yesterday, something happened. <p>I got into my shower and did my morning ritual of turning to see how Stephen was. <p>He wasn’t good. <p>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. <p>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. <p>Stephen was gone. <p>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, <i>sad</i>? 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. <p>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. <p>Having such a close proximity to something that would normally exist far outside my life has taught me two things. <p>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. <p>2) I really need to get out a bit more and talk to real people. I made friends with a <i>spider</i>. <p>Stephen, it was far too short, but it was an experience knowing you. </p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-79222737250529723942011-06-19T14:44:00.003+01:002011-06-19T19:45:15.560+01:00What's All This Ear Then?………..Ever since I was born I have always suffered from problems with my ears.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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No, my problems stems from what goes on inside the actual ears themselves. I’m a bit deaf you see.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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Being deaf sucks.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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“So, are you going to buy me a drink then?”<br />
<br />
“WHAT?”<br />
<br />
“I said, are you going to buy me a drink?”<br />
<br />
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHAT DO I THINK? WHAT DO I THINK ABOUT WHAT?”<br />
<br />
“No, <i>drink</i>!”<br />
<br />
“YES PLEASE, I’D LOVE ONE!”<br />
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Nightclubs weren’t the best place for meeting the ladies really.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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 “<i>Really?” </i>or “<i>Yeah</i>?” 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.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
“………….<i>yeah?”</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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It a strange feeling to be absolutely shamed, and yet strangely proud of something at the same time.<br />
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Still, even heavily sedated, always a playa.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
But it won’t go wrong. I know it won’t.<br />
<br />
And I might get stark bullock naked again.<br />
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There’s always that.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-44909431174726173302011-04-22T19:37:00.001+01:002011-04-22T19:37:14.765+01:00Alright?……….<p>Hi. How are you? </p> <p>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.</p> <p>Look, I have a valid excuse for being away for so long. </p> <p>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?</p> <p>So, why have a been away? Well, numbnuts here forgot his password to log on to Blogger. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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: <em>Do ants feel happiness?</em> 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. </p> <p>I was in!</p> <p>The first thing that I could see was that I have now hit 160 followers. <em>Party time</em>. 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. </p> <p>So, you may not care, but I will give you some updates anyway. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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, <em>The Happy Couple</em>. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>I feels its what they would have wanted. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>I like chicken by the way.</p> <p>Just saying. </p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-34713689942061579542011-02-27T18:23:00.006+00:002011-02-27T18:39:07.881+00:00Back 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.<br />
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These are my future pointers:<br />
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<b>1) Fashion.</b><br />
<b> </b> <br />
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.<br />
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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).<br />
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And finally, during my hedonistic early clubbing days in the mid to late 90’s, pinstripe trousers combined with a waistcoat (a fucking <i>waistcoat</i>!) 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 <i>white</i>. 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.<br />
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Not good.<br />
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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.<br />
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Its not easy looking this good. <br />
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<b>2) Education.</b><br />
<b> </b> <br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<b>3) Combine your career with your passions.</b><br />
<b> </b> <br />
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?”<br />
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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.<br />
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Couple of major issues with this role as a career though. Allow me to run through them.<br />
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Can’t swim, can’t get water in ears, scared of the water.<br />
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Other than that, ideal role, dontcha thunk?<br />
<br />
So what would I advise my younger self to do?<br />
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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.<br />
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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! <i>Now live</i>!” Especially if they had only just brought their tortoise in for a check up.<br />
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<b>4) Let people in more.</b><br />
<b> </b> <br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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I’m sure there is nothing wrong with this suggestion, and it may even lead to some new and interesting friends.<br />
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Or prison.<br />
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Either way, could be fun?<br />
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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!!!!!”<br />
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Precocious, know it all little fucker.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-18641041598229607802011-02-06T16:12:00.001+00:002011-02-06T16:12:07.865+00:00Abscess All Areas……<p>So, this lump thing I have on the base of my spine. After my last <a href="http://brody-ninjafunk.blogspot.com/2011/02/tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock.html">post</a> 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.</p> <p>Mmmmmmmn, abscess. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>Genius, no?</p> <p>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.</p> <p><em>Sod this, </em>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.</p> <p>“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.”</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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? </p> <p>Upon seeing my lump the Doctor made a kind of “Hmmmmmmmmn” noise.</p> <p>“What is it?” I asked him.</p> <p>“You have an abscess I’m afraid, and its quite a nasty one. I’d like you to see the surgeon today if possible.”</p> <p>“Surgeon?”</p> <p>“Yes, we have to drain it and then remove it.”</p> <p>“Oh.”</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-79773940725507420562011-02-01T14:14:00.001+00:002011-02-01T14:14:28.275+00:00Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock……………<p>I’m bloody annoyed at the moment.</p> <p>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).</p> <p>Why am I annoyed, you’re not asking?</p> <p>Well, I’m off work today.</p> <p>Why are you off work today, you’re also not asking?</p> <p>Well, I’m off work because……oh this is so hard to say…….I’m off work because…… <em>I’ve done my back in</em>.</p> <p><em>Quick, somebody throw a blanket round me and stick me in an old peoples home.</em></p> <p>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,<em> filthy)</em> it seems as if I have a small lump at the base of my spine that hurts to touch. </p> <p>Now this could mean either one of three things.</p> <p>1) I have pulled something and its really swollen.</p> <p>2) I have a real deep spot and its in the most awkward of places.</p> <p>3) I’m starting to grow a tail.</p> <p>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: <em>Angry</em>. Hanging between my legs: <em>Scared</em>. Pointing up in the air while the end makes a “Come here” motion: <em>Horny</em>), the possibilities are endless. Tails are cool.</p> <p>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?</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>When did this happen? And more importantly, how can I stop it?</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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?</p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-3612986477150991292011-01-15T13:33:00.001+00:002011-01-15T13:33:04.226+00:00I’m Your Whore……….<p><em>*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*</em></p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>So something's not quite right here.</p> <p>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 <em>wacky</em> dream they had the other night and how they <em>soooooo</em> 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…..er….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. </p> <p>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 <em>me</em>, what I was doing, what I was feeling and thinking, it was all about me, wasn’t it?</p> <p>Wasn’t it?</p> <p>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<em> cheap</em>.</p> <p>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?</p> <p>Lets break it down, just for old times sake.</p> <p><strong>1) People Person.</strong></p> <p>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. </p> <p><strong>2) Sentimental.</strong></p> <p><strong></strong>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.</p> <p><strong>3) Whore.</strong></p> <p>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?</p> <p><strong>4) Over Analytical. </strong></p> <p>This blog post is a prime example.</p> <p><strong>5) Self Indulgent.</strong></p> <p>See above.</p> <p><strong>6) Odd.</strong></p> <p>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.</p> <p> </p> <p>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.</p> <p>There will still be poo jokes though.</p> <p>So, to start us off, a question for us to discuss:</p> <p><em>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?</em> <p>Please feel free to leave your thoughts and opinions on the above question. <p>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. <p>And you will always have me there to stroke your hair. <p>Wearing gloves, obviously. <p>Germs. <p>Germs everywhere. Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-36287306897901217432010-12-29T15:08:00.001+00:002010-12-29T15:08:04.270+00:00So, That Was Christmas Then?…………….<p>I always get a little down just after Christmas. Nothing to serious mind, its not like I’m going to suddenly hang myself with sparkly tinsel or anything. I think its more a combination of having a solid two months of literally everything screaming at you “<em>Its Christmas!”</em> and then the day being over quicker than the space between two heartbeats. Its bound to leave you a bit blue, and all those decorations and lights always serve to remind you that its all over and there are no more presents to unwrap. Which sucks.</p> <p>Have to say though, I have just had the best Christmas I have had in many a year, and I have also got some great gifts as well.</p> <p>Here is my list:</p> <p><em>A range of Dermalogica products (which also includes hand cream)</em></p> <p><em>A funky new scarf</em></p> <p><em>A funky new man bag</em></p> <p><em>Pants</em></p> <p><em>The Thick of It book</em></p> <p><em>Inception Blu Ray</em></p> <p><em>Expensive hot chocolate and a mug</em></p> <p><em>Scented candles for my flat (this list is not showing me in the best of lights)</em></p> <p><em>Aftershave- Hugo Boss Energise</em></p> <p><em>Chocolates</em></p> <p><em>Shower gel</em></p> <p><em>Socks (Partially eaten)</em></p> <p><em>£20 HMV voucher</em></p> <p>Now from that list you can probably get a fairly good assumption of who I am. By the looks of it I am a metrosexual male who loves scented candles, man bags, Leonardo Dicaprio, jaunty scarves, hot chocolate and who really, really smells. Oh, and I need lots of pants as well. And socks.</p> <p>Yeah, I can live with all that. In my defence though, a lot of that stuff I really need, especially the hand cream as I have been getting really dry hands and have had to suffer the indignity of borrowing hand cream off the girls at work. But with this new stuff my hands are now silky smooth and feel<em> divine! </em>They are all going to love me when I return and start letting them use it occasionally. I will finally be one of them. </p> <p>My Christmas started on Christmas Eve where I do my normal tradition of going round to Kates mums for dinner. This year was to be different though as normally I would go home alone for Christmas Day, but this year Kates, and her dad and brother, were going to come back with me to spend the day round mine, me being the genial host and everything. Check me out, I’m well adult now.</p> <p>When I arrived at Kates I was greeted by the sight of her dog Peggy, a lovely staff, running round dressed in a Santa outfit. I couldn’t tell if she was pleased about this. She looked happy, but to be honest, she always looks happy, but she <em>was </em>dressed in a Santa outfit<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TRtOzzpetEI/AAAAAAAAAaA/AUevTuliniU/s1600-h/photo%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-right-width: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: right; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="photo" border="0" alt="photo" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TRtO0PezHzI/AAAAAAAAAaE/6dZ5qlKMvMA/photo_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="184" height="244"></a> and did look pretty stupid. She also looked a little shifty as well and I soon found out why.</p> <p>“There's been a bit of an accident with your stocking,” Kates mum told me as I took my coat off.</p> <p>“Accident?” I replied.</p> <p>“Yeah, Peggy had been down it and eaten all your chocolates and some of your socks.”</p> <p>I looked down at Peggy who was by my feet, tail wagging and a lopsided grin plastered all over her face. </p> <p>“You’ve <em>eaten</em> my Christmas socks?”</p> <p>Now anyone who knows me knows how I always need new socks. Christmas was my one time of year that I get to restock. And now this little garbage can on legs had just eaten them.</p> <p>“Its only one pair,” Kates mum said after seeing the crestfallen expression on my face.</p> <p>“Its okay, honestly. These things happen,” I said with a fixed grin plastered all over my facehole, mentally plotting on how I was going to get my revenge on the little furry shitbag.</p> <p>When everyone was out of earshot, I leant down to Peggy and whispered in her ear, “You look absolutely <em>ridiculous </em>in that outfit,” and then got a big wet lick up the side of my cheek for my troubles. It was hard to stay mad at her.</p> <p>Once we were settled then the feasting began. Kates mum is a fantastic cook and this year decided that we weren't going to have a sit down meal, but lots and lots of nibbles. And believe me, there were a lot. Plate after plate came out, a never ending parade of delights that all looked delicious. The next few hours were lost in a sea of Brie and Cranberry parcels, honey and mustard glazed sausages, tiny Indian and Chinese bites, and many, many more. By the end of it I was half slumped on the sofa, tears of defeat running freely down my cheeks and the meat shakes hitting my body from overindulgence.</p> <p>“Who wants homemade Chocolate and Peanut Butter Cheesecake?” Kates mum said breezily, not noticing that I had slipped into a food coma. “Dan, I know you’ll have a big slice,wont you?” </p> <p>I could only smile weakly and make a <em>buh </em>noise that was supposed to resemble, “Yes please, I’d love a huge slice, and also a stomach pump as well if you have one handy?”</p> <p>Still ate it though. I’m hardcore me.</p> <p>Eventually it was time for bed and to wait for Santa. The feast did leave me with terrible wind though, I’d like to say it was very Christmassy and sounded like <em>Jingle Bells </em>when it came out, but it didn’t. It sounded evil, and that's because it was. But as I was sharing a bed with Kates <em>AND</em> Peggy (who always sleeps under the blanket with us), I got my revenge on the sock eating little shit by farting on her head all night. </p> <p>After present opening in the morning, me, Kates and Peggy went to pick up her dad and brother so we could head on back to mine. I was a little nervous as I would be hosting and cooking all at the same time. I had never done this before and was conscious that I could screw up everyone's Christmas if it went wrong. When we got to mine, I opened the door and was greeting by my cat Dotty running up to greet us as she always did. When she saw that her favourite dog had come round to visit once more, she quickly did a mid-air somersault and ran off to spend all of Christmas asleep on top of my fridge.</p> <p>I got everyone settled, poured out the drinks and passed the nibbles, and then went into the kitchen to start the cooking. I looked at the huge turkey sitting there and it looked back at me. <em>I will tame you bitch </em>I thought to myself, and then began to cook. We had enough to feed a small army and I only had a small oven, so it became a hot game of <em>Jenga</em> trying to figure out ways to fit all of the trays and whatnot into it. I had a momentary panic when I thought that my stuffing balls weren’t cooking, but that passed in time. I’m pretty sure it was me whispering, “ Cook you tiny bastards” at them. I felt like a safecracker as I was hunched over the temperature dial, just teasing another little extra bit of heat and watching for things that might be burning.</p> <p>“Is everything going okay?” Kates asked me as she popped her head into my kitchen.</p> <p>“YES! EVERYTHING IS FINE! GO HAVE FUN IN THE LIVING ROOM! FUN! GO NOW!”</p> <p>“Whoa, okay kitchen Nazi,” she said, backing out slowly with her hands raised.</p> <p>Eventually everything looked as if it was cooked. To be honest I was so stressed out by then that I couldn’t care less if I poisoned everyone and I was mentally planning on where I could bury the bodies in my communal gardens if it all went wrong. I dished up, served up, and sat down to eat, nervously watching as people took their first bites.</p> <p>“This is delicious.” Kates.</p> <p>“This turkey is really good.” Kates dad.</p> <p>“Pass the cranberry sauce.” Kates brother.</p> <p>And I looked round in amazement. It was a Christmas dinner. A proper Christmas dinner that I had prepared and that everyone was enjoying.</p> <p>I felt like a God.</p> <p><em>And on the 12th day Dan said, “Let there be food!” And the food was good.</em></p> <p>After we ate and nobody died (which is the hallmarks of a successful meal), we sat in the living room to play Goldeneye on the Wii. After a stressful 25 minutes trying to figure out how to set the bloody thing up, we were all ready to play the multiplayer, which basically involved running round shooting each other, something every family wants to secretly do at Christmas. Me being the ubergeek that I am, I immediately got the hang of it and was stalking the others through the level. Others weren't so quick to adapt.</p> <p>“Which one am I and why can’t I move?” asked Kates dad. I quickly spotted him as the one facing the wall, trying to run through it, and put a bullet in his head.</p> <p>Oh, someone's dead,” Kates dad said.</p> <p>“That's you Gary,” I replied.</p> <p>“Oh.”</p> <p>Kates was also struggling to work out the controls and I found her in a corner, jumping up and down relentlessly, so I thought it best to put her out of her misery. </p> <p>“I don’t like this game,“ she cried.</p> <p>“You just can’t handle my mad skills,” I said.</p> <p>“I can’t handle you being a massive geek who knows how to play these games, loser.”</p> <p>To be fair, she was right.</p> <p>After another ten minutes playing this we all realised that it was actually a bit poo and called it a day. By now everyone was feeling the effects of all the drink and food and was getting sleepy. I stuck on the film <em>Avatar </em>for everyone to watch and we slowly slipped into that post dinner semi slumber. </p> <p>About halfway through the film, Kates dad woke up sleepily from his doze, looked at the screen and said, “Blue people on the telly,” and then slipped back into sleep again. A pretty fair summing up of the film I think you’ll agree?</p> <p>Once it was over it was finally time for everyone to go home. After saying goodbye, I found myself alone in my flat to take stock of the day. Now normally, for reasons I won’t go into, Christmas is a hard time of year for me and something that I don’t really get into that much. But this year was different, this year I had the best Christmas that I’ve had in a long time. And I think it was because I was with people that I cared for, and that cared for me back. Which if you think about, beneath all the presents and the sense of occasion, is all what Christmas really boils down to.</p> <p>Plus I didn’t kill anyone, which is always a massive bonus. </p> <p>So now the final part of the holiday to get through is New Year. I am lucky in the sense that Kates hates New Year just as much as I do. All the pressure to go out and have fun, screw that. I’m not paying the best part of £40 to go somewhere that would normally cost me nothing on any other day. We always have an anti New Years Eve by having a nice meal in a restaurant in the early evening, take a stroll around London, and then go home to glare at people out of our window.<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TRtO0YqYSXI/AAAAAAAAAaI/gwJgDDwOUHw/s1600-h/mr-grumpy%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-right-width: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: block; float: none; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; margin-left: auto; border-left-width: 0px; margin-right: auto; padding-top: 0px" title="mr-grumpy" border="0" alt="mr-grumpy" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TRtO0wTwYGI/AAAAAAAAAaM/4-xw-quaJA8/mr-grumpy_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="219"></a></p> <p>I know whose the winner in that scenario. </p> <p>Happy New Year to you all!</p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-53880739920562877712010-12-23T22:24:00.001+00:002010-12-23T22:24:49.812+00:00Merry Christmas To You All………<p>I know. I know. </p> <p>He stays away for a month, doesn’t bother posting anything and then saunters back in whistling and smiling, pretending like nothings happened. I am an awful human being, I really am. I’m not even worth these words that I’m writing for you now. I’m scum. Sub human scum, and I deserve the scorn and indifference that is coming my way. But in fairness, its not like I haven’t thought about you in this last month. I have. You’ve constantly been on my mind. Its been your face, floating in front of my mindscape, looking at me, pleading, that I’ve seen everywhere I’ve looked. Its been there when I’ve slept, eaten, walked down the street, and even when I’ve been bathing. I liked that, it made me feel <em>dirty</em>. Naughty you!</p> <p>I did <em>try </em>and post. I sat down, fingers on my keyboard, just waiting for the words to come…….and they didn’t. I was dry, the muse was gone and all that remained was the theme tune to <em>The Banana Splits </em>going round on a continuous loop<em>.</em> That wouldn’t make a<em> </em>good blog post, that would be <em>ridiculous</em>. So I just sat there with a thin line of drool running from my bottom lip and felt like a failure. Not only did I let you down, in some small way, I let myself down. And I’m sorry.</p> <p>But now I’m back, freshly energised and raring to go. I even have a blog post in the chamber that is so deep, powerful and profound, there is the strong possibility that it could actually change you world views and rock your very being to its core. But now is not the time to unleash this beast, no, not now, just before Christmas. Once the New Year starts though, that bad boy is being let out of the blocks and will be coming at you like a rabid chipmunk (plus by then, that should have given me enough time to actually think about what the hell its going to be).</p> <p>No, now is all about this time of year and what it means. For many it means family, and I hope that you all have yours with you and the day is everything it could be. For others it means loneliness, and if your in that situation, I hope that your 2011 is a better one for you. For many it is the birth of the Lord Jesus Christ, and if your that way inclined, I hope you and the big JC celebrate it in style. And for most of us, its just a chance to gather our loved ones round us, take stock of the year and just be in the company of those that care about us the most, and that's pretty tip top in my view.</p> <p>So I would like to wish everyone who reads, follows, comments, passed through, looked on in horror and then felt the urge to bath in scented rose water, and those who have simply enjoyed this blog, a very Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year. Its been perfect having you here and our paths will cross again soon. I have made one of my New Years resolutions to be fully committed to my writing, both in blog and my personal stuff, so lets see how long I stick at it.</p> <p>I’m loving you all right now. Each and every one of you (even you doing that weird thing with your nostrils, don’t think that I can’t see you).</p> <p>And to round this short post off, this is my new favourite rendition of my most loved Christmas song. I hope you enjoy it.</p> <p>Merry Christmas everyone!</p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:b9b3e1bd-76ac-47d2-8ba6-c9834727dac9" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div id="de355e68-f37d-4af1-bab8-b7b51cc574a6" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; display: inline;"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHoJ3BD6xas&feature=player_embedded" target="_new"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TRPMMIiZkjI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/AQ7KS9Aj-NI/video046a8d1bec5f%5B15%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-style: none" galleryimg="no" onload="var downlevelDiv = document.getElementById('de355e68-f37d-4af1-bab8-b7b51cc574a6'); downlevelDiv.innerHTML = "<div><object width=\"448\" height=\"252\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YHoJ3BD6xas?hl=en&hd=1\"><\/param><embed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YHoJ3BD6xas?hl=en&hd=1\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"448\" height=\"252\"><\/embed><\/object><\/div>";" alt=""></a></div></div></div> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-54731337544074361432010-11-14T17:15:00.003+00:002010-11-14T20:06:24.436+00:00Things I Wish Would Happen……There are many things that I would like to happen to me in my life that sadly probably will not ever take place due to many different reasons. Here is my definitive list of them. <br />
<br />
<b>1) </b><b>Karaoke God. </b> <br />
<br />
I would love to go out one night to a bar or club and there be, to our surprise, a karaoke night going on at whatever place we decide to visit. So after listening to an assortment of people get up on stage, microphone in hand, and butcher some well known classic song, it would then finally get to be my turn. <br />
<br />
Everyone will nudge each other and smirk as I take the stage, looking forward to the car crash that is about to take place in front of them, when I raise the microphone to my mouth and out of it comes forth the sweetest sound anyone has ever heard. The crowd stops what they are doing and stares with stunned expressions on their faces. <br />
<br />
Women turn to their boyfriends in the knowledge that these aren’t really men they are with, the bloke up on stage, <i>he</i> is a man. All the men in the place will wrap their arms round each other and weep as my sweet singing voice takes them back to their childhoods and the innocence that they feel they have lost forever. After I have sung the last final note, a note that sounds as if it has come from the very choirs of heaven itself, the place erupts with clapping and cheering as I slowly walk off the stage, possibly with flowers being thrown at my feet. <br />
<br />
Now the choice of song for the will be essential. Patrick Cassidy’s <i>Vide Cor Meum</i> would be perfect. Sir Mix-A-Lot’s <i>Baby Got Back, </i>not so. <br />
<br />
Either way, not gonna happen. I have a singing voice that resembles two sperm whales mating (Snigger. <i>Sperm</i>) <br />
<br />
<b>2) </b><b>Monkey Hugger.</b> <br />
<br />
I love animals me. And I have always wanted to get nose to nose with some of the more exotic animals that can be found in far flung countries. I have longed to scratch behind the ears of a lion, to swim in the deep blue oceans with whales, and above all else, to hug a monkey. <br />
<br />
I love monkeys. They make me laugh. And I have always wanted to get up close with one and give it a hug. The nearest I have been to any primate was one time when I went to London Zoo with Kates. It wasn’t a monkey I encountered, but a gorilla in the gorilla enclosure. We rounded the corner to find a huge glass window, with the great beast just sitting behind it with an air of almost unimaginable sadness. I looked into its ancient and wise face, a face that had seen its gorilla family grow up around it, deep in some jungle, facing everything that mother earth could throw at it, and to then be captured and put on display for us humans to look at. And as I stared, I became transfixed by the wisdom and kindness that I could see in its beautiful expression. And as my green eyes locked with its warm brown ones, I liked to believe we had a connection as we stared at each other through the window, and perhaps we both wondered who the animal <i>really</i> was out of the two of us. <br />
<br />
Admittedly this wonderful scene was somewhat spoiled when the gorilla began to smear its own poo all over the glass, but it stayed with me nevertheless. <br />
<br />
But yeah, I would like to hug a monkey. <br />
<br />
<b>3) </b><b>Stand Up To A Bully.</b> <br />
<br />
I have never been bullied, nor been a bully, but I have always wanted to stand up to one, preferably in front of a crowd of people, maybe in front of the heroine I was trying to woo in my own private high school comedy that would be playing out in my mind. <br />
<br />
It would be set in a diner where everyone is hanging out on a weekend, burgers and laughter everywhere and a jukebox playing in the background, and I would just be minding my own business, maybe drinking a milkshake, when all of a sudden the bully and his gang of retards would come up to me and start giving me grief. <br />
<br />
I would stand up slowly, safe in the knowledge that I was better than the person in front of me, and just stare back at him with no fear, which would make the bully uncertain as he was used to people cowering in front of him. He would say something about me in front of his friends, just to show he was still in control of the situation. I would counter this with some smart comment that would make everyone else laugh and hopefully make Mary Beth (the heroine) take notice of me for the first time. The bully would then not like his authority being challenged in this way and would then threaten me with violence. I will not rise to this for I am above violence unless it is really necessary, and I want Mary Beth to see this. I can feel her eyes on me, judging my every move. <br />
<br />
The bully isn’t having this and is itching for a fight, so with a sigh, I knock him out with one punch and the diner erupts with cheers. Mary Beth sidles up to me and takes my arm and asks me if I want to go for a walk.<br />
<br />
As we step outside, she asks me, “How comes I have never noticed you before?” <br />
<br />
I smile back at her and say, “Because you never looked hard enough.” <br />
<br />
And then we walk off arm in arm into the sunny afternoon as the credits roll. <br />
<br />
Pretty good, huh? <br />
<br />
Now this is what really will happen. <br />
<br />
The bully comes up to me and says something rude about my face. I come back with an insult that possibly involves his mother (that part I am good at). He then hits me hard, knocking me off my stool and leaving me crumpled on the floor in a puddle of my own blood and shit, while Mary Beth goes off with the bully to sex him up a little. <br />
<br />
I hate high school comedies. <br />
<br />
<b>4) </b><b>The Returning Hero. </b> <br />
<br />
I have always wanted to have someone run to me at the arrivals gate of an airport after I had been away for a long while and wrap their arms around me, crying with happiness that I am back, while everyone around looks on and goes “Ahhhhhh” <br />
<br />
Perhaps there will even be cheering? I like cheering. I wish it was mandatory that people would cheer every time I entered a room rather than the slow air of disappointment that normally happens. <br />
<br />
I don’t like that. <br />
<br />
<b>5) </b><b>Stand Up Comic.</b> <br />
<br />
I have always been impressed with Stand up comedians. To actually have the nerve to stand up in front of a crowd of strangers and then have them eating out of the palm of their hands with funny material that they have written. That sounds like such a blast to me. <br />
<br />
There is a slight drawback in me doing it though for two reasons. 1) I am not brave enough. 2) I am in no way funny enough. <br />
<br />
My stand up comedy would probably consist of me standing up on stage going, “Cor, cats eh? What are <i>they</i> all about?” and then just stand there sweating while everyone starts getting uncomfortable. <br />
<br />
To be honest though, I have to run workshops for our clients in the place where I am currently working, so I know what it’s like to stand up in front of a group of strangers and have them instantly hate you. <br />
<br />
<b>6) </b><b>Action Hero.</b> <br />
<br />
I would love to be the hero in my own action film. The plot? It would probably be something like suave European terrorists taking over some office block that I am in. As we realise what is happening, panic spreads as no one knows what we are going to do. One person suggests that we give ourselves up to them to try and negotiate our safety. <br />
<br />
The camera then pans over to the man standing silently by the window, gazing out with an air of nobility, heroism, and a little bit of sauciness (Hint: This man is me). <br />
<br />
“No,” the man says, turning round and taking off his shirt to reveal a pristine white vest underneath. “We never give up. We <i>fight.”</i> <br />
<br />
The crowd of office workers look on in awe at this suddenly imposing figure who they had never noticed before. Men want to be him. Women want him. This is the <i>hero</i>. <br />
<br />
And then I would basically kick the ass of all the terrorists. Snapping necks, using machine guns (possibly with one in each hand whilst diving through the air in slo mo), and fashioning weapons out of office equipment (staple guns, paperclip garrotte wires, forts made out of office desks). <br />
<br />
Now if this actually did happen in real life, I would probably hide in a room and pull my jumper over my head and keep muttering the mantra, “if I can’t see them, they don’t exist. If I can’t see them, they don’t exist” until found by Alan Rickman, like the big coward that I am. <br />
<br />
<b>7) </b><b>Dancing King.</b> <br />
<br />
I can’t dance. I can do the one dance that every bloke can do, which involves shuffling from side to side whilst clenching your fists and biting your bottom lip. I can do that pretty well, to be honest. But actual rhythm, forget about it. <br />
<br />
But there are two dancing scenarios I would love to happen to me at one point in my life. <br />
<br />
Firstly I would like to be a club with a huge dance floor. I strut out onto the middle of it and start laying down some moves. We are talking about pure poetry here. Me at one with the music. The Lord of the Dance. A huge crowd forms round me, clapping and cheering me on, shouting, “go white boy, go white boy, go” while I do the worm across the floor. And yes, you guessed it; women want to sex me up. <br />
<br />
The second scenario is that me and Kates are at a swing night in the 1950’s. I’m in a zoot suit, she looks stunning in that classic vintage style, and we are jiving our little hearts out. And as the brass kicks in, I am literally flinging her around the dance floor in time to the music, not missing a beat. That sounds like absolute heaven to me. <br />
<br />
I really want to take dancing lesson. <br />
<br />
So these were a few of the things that I wish would happen to liven up my little life. I basically wish I could live my life in pop culture heaven. <br />
<br />
But in all seriousness, aren’t we all just living our own little movies?Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-8614112913722530722010-11-07T16:00:00.007+00:002011-06-26T20:53:01.843+01:00How To Survive A Zombie Apocalypse…..I am a 32 year old man. <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TNbNL_OlmdI/AAAAAAAAAZo/1H1AiuYBzpY/s1600-h/aleksi_zombies_boxcover_600_600%5B4%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="aleksi_zombies_boxcover_600_600" border="0" height="240" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TNbNMe9wlMI/AAAAAAAAAZs/GinOdxJRtZc/aleksi_zombies_boxcover_600_600_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="aleksi_zombies_boxcover_600_600" width="240" /></a> <br />
<br />
And because of my gender and age range, I have amassed much knowledge over the 32 years that I have lived so far. <br />
<br />
I have learnt how to put up shelving. I have learnt how to change the fuse on a plug. I have learnt never to trust a woman with a tattoo of a dolphin on her shoulder, but probably most importantly, I have learnt how to survive a zombie apocalypse. <br />
<br />
It’s all to do with the plan, you see. <br />
<br />
From a very early age, probably around about the late teens, every man at some point will have formulated a strategy on how to survive a zombie uprising. And this plan will have many revisions and changes over the years, which are all dependent on the lifestyle of the person creating it. <br />
<br />
When you are a young buck, with no responsibilities to speak of whatsoever, your plan is to try and survive at all costs, no matter what. It’s just you, and you alone you look out for. When you get a girlfriend, your plan then changes to include you travelling across the rioting and corpse strewn cities to try and get to her, all the while looking all butch and manly, just in case she may want to sex you up a little when you get there. And finally when you get married and have children, the man will then update in his head the zombie survival plan that will account for his family’s safety and nothing else. He is expendable. Only they matter. For he is man.<br />
<br />
Now you may think this is silly and just something I have written to amuse myself, but I can guarantee that every single man at one point in his life has thought over in his head what he will do the moment the dead start dragging themselves out of their graves. <br />
<br />
Don’t believe me? Ladies, ask your man the next time you see him. Sit him down and ask him the question, “Have you ever planned what you would do in a zombie outbreak?” and watch his face carefully. Now some of your men may just lie outright and say, “No, don’t be stupid. Why are you asking me such a ridiculous thing?” But watch his eyes. He’s lying ladies. He has a plan. He most defiantly has. <br />
<br />
Other men will just come straight out with it. “Yes I have. I have written it all down on a bit of paper in my man den. I’m actually going to pin it up on the fridge,” and will then go through in intricate detail all the aspects of this manly and wise plan and how you fit in to it. <br />
<br />
I am quite lucky in many respects with Kates. She puts up with all of my stupid childish things on many occasions, but what she doesn’t screw around with is my zombie survival plan. She knows exactly what to do the moment the dead come to life. I have drilled it in to her. <br />
<br />
We first started speaking about this many years ago when we first got together. We were watching the remake of <i>Dawn of the Dead</i>, when at the end she asked me the magical question that every male wants to hear. <br />
<br />
“So what would you do in a zombie outbreak?” <br />
<br />
After a two hour presentation that involved flip charts, marker pens, diagrams, and an almost unhealthy obsession with pie charts, she had a fairly good idea of what I would do. She also had a pretty good idea that it was probably best not to ask me that question again. <br />
<br />
So what would I do? <br />
<br />
Well, the first thing I would do, depending on location, would be to try and make my way to wherever Kates is. <br />
<br />
This is for two reasons. <br />
<br />
1) I love her and need to make sure that she is safe. Only my superior zombie survival skills will ensure this. I am her hero. <br />
<br />
2) I can’t drive and she can. <br />
<br />
Now, laws of average will dictate that the outbreak will occur while I am at work, which is going to pose a rather difficult situation as I work in London, and that will mean hordes of the undead chowing down on the hordes of the living and me smack bang right in the middle of them. Things could get a little messy. <br />
<br />
Another problem is that the moment the slow dawning realisation the this is actual, no shitting around, zombies we are dealing with, takes place, all the men in London will suddenly snap into survival mode, mentally checking off their tick lists of things that they have to do, looking around for the nearest weapons and then making their way to their safe houses. As the ladies of London are in no way sensible enough to think of their own zombie survival plan, they will immediately latch on to the man with his tie wrapped round his head, the blade from the paper cutter gripped tightly in his hand and an almost calm, “I have always expected this to happen,” expression on his face. <br />
<br />
This man will be me. <br />
<br />
Now the first rule of thumb in a zombie outbreak is to go it alone. You hook up with anyone they will only slow you down or get eaten. Another major issue with this is trying to explain to Kates, when I eventually manage to<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TNbNM4pD_xI/AAAAAAAAAZw/FAVKpynG6tE/s1600-h/dixiemall_019%5B10%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="dixiemall_019" border="0" height="180" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TNbNNZ8KifI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/ROTPQRGCTlg/dixiemall_019_thumb%5B8%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="dixiemall_019" width="240" /></a> meet up with her, what the hell I am doing with around 15 hot London ladies, all with tastefully ripped clothing (like it always does in the movies), and all of them looking at me adoringly because I had managed to save them. <br />
<br />
Believe me, I would rather face up to an army of the undead, all with an uncontrollable urge to use my testicles as hors d'oeuvre’s, than try and get that one past her. I know which one is scarier. <br />
<br />
Sorry ladies of London. You’re on your own. <br />
<br />
I have informed Kates that whenever the outbreak happens she is to stay exactly where she is and I will come get her. She knows all about destroying the brain, safe houses, blah blah blah. All she has to do is wait for me to turn up. “No matter what occurs, I will find you.” That kind of stuff. <br />
<br />
When I eventually battle my way over vast cities, slaying everything in my path, maybe just wearing a vest that is artfully dirty, I will stand outside whatever building she is holed up in and shout out her name, so when she looks out the window, I can pull my hero pose, tired, embattled, but yet with a hint of raw animal sexuality. Maybe I will fall into her arms, her sobbing with joy that I have made it, me all half dead but showing how butch I am in actually making it to her. Who knows? I will play this one by ear. Nevertheless, it will look bitchin when I do it. She will definitely want to sex me up a little when I get there. <br />
<br />
After about 20 minutes of, “I bloody told you this would happen one day,” we will then find a car and go collect her family. We will definitely pick up her mum and dad, I’m massively in two minds about collecting her younger brother, but I suppose I can always use him as bait if things get hairy. <br />
<br />
Once all the family are together, we will drive to Southend to find a boat. Zombies are notoriously bad swimmers, so my aim is to sail to Lundy Island, which is just by the Bristol Channel. It is very tiny; you can walk around it in a day, but close enough to main land for raiding parties. <br />
<br />
One slight drawback with the sailing is that I am afraid of the water due to the fact that I can’t swim. So that me out of sailing the boat. I will probably be below deck weeping. Kates may not want to sex me up anymore. Plus another drawback is that neither I, Kates, nor her family, know how to sail. But that’s not a problem; I have bought Kates dad sailing lessons for Christmas. He has never given any indication he wants to learn how to sail, but he bloody will. It’s not like you can turn down a Christmas present, is it?<br />
<br />
I’m always thinking, me. <br />
<br />
Once we hit the island, and I have recovered from my girlie, scared of the water, hissy fit, I will then get the chance to earn some proper man points by making sure the island is clear of zombies before everyone else comes on shore. Once this is all done, we will then set up a commune, of which I am the head of, and everyone calls me, “Grand Master Flash.” <br />
<br />
And that is my zombie survival plan in its most basic form. Obviously there are many sub-versions, slight tinkering depending on different scenarios. Kates has been informed that is she gets turned, I will take her down in a heartbeat; there will be no weeping and wailing, just BANG! I have asked her to do the same courtesy for me. She has told me she might even do it even if I’m not bitten. I think she was joking. <br />
If any of you are reading this and you haven’t got your own survival plan, please feel free to steal mine.<br />
<br />
Though please don’t go to the same island as me, because I don’t think there will be enough room for us all and it will just end up in all out tribal warfare. <br />
<br />
And I haven’t got a plan for that.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-1184485663420190962010-10-25T20:21:00.003+01:002010-10-25T21:57:46.915+01:00Here Comes The Fear Part 735In honour of Halloween rolling at us like a pissed up witch on rollerblades, I thought I would update my list on things that scare me. <br />
<br />
This list is in no way a reflection on my masculinity, and I remain the testosterone filled slab of man meat that all you all know and quietly admire. <br />
<br />
<b>1) </b><b>Scorpions<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYqXo-ygI/AAAAAAAAAZE/_tZJtR5aPrc/s1600-h/scorpion%5B4%5D.gif"><img align="right" alt="scorpion" border="0" height="210" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYrNMgSFI/AAAAAAAAAZI/o_PMQJZ2KaY/scorpion_thumb%5B2%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="scorpion" width="240" /></a> </b> <br />
Scorpions, like their cousins, the spider, are absolute bastards. Quite a bold statement, I must admit, but look at them. Armour plated, huge pincers waving around at the front of them, bastards, and behind them, a massive arse stinger filled with death, just to complete the whole “Spindly death machine” package. <br />
<br />
My fear of scorpions started, as most fears do, from a very early age. I was about seven and watching one of David Attenborough’s amazing wildlife documentaries. If memory serves me correct, it was about when animals invade your home. So you had cameras following spiders, ants, and other assorted nasties mooching around a re-enactment of somebody’s house. <br />
<br />
And then they focused on the scorpion. <br />
<br />
I have to admit, it wasn’t as scary looking as the ones that I had seen before. It was a tiny little one, all orange coloured but still with a whopping great stinger at the back. The camera followed it as it trundled along someone’s bedroom floor (the whole show had actors moving around the beasties, putting mugs on top of them, and reaching in cupboards with fingertips brushing over cockroaches as they reached for the jam) and then the little shit decided to crawl into a ladies slipper. <br />
<br />
This didn’t look good. <br />
<br />
And then the lady, who was lying on her bed, then decided to put her slipper on. <br />
<br />
You saw her wince in pain, pull her foot out, and then collapse on her bed convulsing. <br />
<br />
This was on at seven in the evening while I was eating my dinner. I sat there opened mouthed with a fork full of macaroni cheese wobbling in front of it. <br />
<br />
My tiny little mind was now warped beyond repair. <br />
<br />
From that moment on, shoes were turned from safe, comfortable things that you wear on the end of your feet, to dark caves of death that were filled with evil bastard creatures, whom that the moment my vulnerable toes went anywhere near, they would sting like mo fo's, causing my head to swell up and I’d actually start shitting out of my ears. <br />
<br />
I haven’t worn shoes ever since. I have tried to put it down to my free love, 60’s hippy sensibility. But in reality it’s because I know that there are scorpions living in them. <br />
<br />
<b>2) </b><b>Nightmares</b> <br />
I have suffered from bad dreams since I was about 16. Now these nightmares aren’t your everyday (or night) terrors, but full blown epic horror spectaculars, complete with state of the art special effects and a plot straight out<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYrnGUonI/AAAAAAAAAZM/QKcgg-kATXM/s1600-h/nightmare%5B6%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="dv271196a" border="0" height="240" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYr90IHDI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/bs3ZxZ2U_qM/nightmare_thumb%5B4%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="dv271196a" width="238" /></a> of a David Lynch film. <br />
<br />
Now my mind is not a safe place to be during the day when I am in charge of it, when left alone at night, and with me not being in full control, it then decides to start really messing with me. I have been known to have surreal images of pure terror that wouldn’t be out of place out of one of Dante’s paintings. <br />
<br />
And yet if told back in the warm light of day, they don’t sound that scary. <br />
<br />
Take this one. <br />
<br />
Now this is the scariest dream I have ever had. I was living back at my old house, which had a staircase that curved all the way down to my hallway. In my dream I was slowly creeping down it in the pitch blackness, the only light provided was some strobe lighting that was coming from something in my living room. As I crept down the stairs, I could see that my front door was open. I couldn’t see outside, as the door opened inwards, so all I could see was the back of it. As I got near the door, I knew that I didn’t want to look in the doorway.<br />
<br />
Whatever was there was quite possibly the scariest thing I could ever imagine. It was just a presence, something evil. As I got nearer and nearer I just didn’t want to look round the door and see what was causing this feeling of terror, but I couldn’t stop myself from doing so. When I got to the door, I put my head round it to look outside, and was immediately blasted with a gale force wind and something screaming. <br />
<br />
I don’t know what this dream means, but I’m pretty sure that it’s something to do with the fact that I might have a few issues. <br />
<br />
These night terrors have been so bad that I have been known to wake up screaming sometimes, which always makes it a bit awkward if I ever had anyone round. <br />
<br />
“I’m just off to bed now. There’s a chance I might wake up screaming at four in the morning. Night!” <br />
<br />
This is probably the reason why I was probably never allowed sleepovers when I was a kid. <br />
<br />
<b>3) </b><b>Nutter (A cat)</b> <br />
When I lived at my old house, for about three months I was attacked by a killer cat. Now I love all animals, but I could have quite happily toe punted this little fucker in front of an articulated lorry. <br />
<br />
It started one winters evening, I was walking home one night after a long day at work, when I saw a raggedy looking cat sitting on a wall. Being the soft, animal loving bastard that I am, I did what I normally do whenever I see<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYseAiNfI/AAAAAAAAAZU/RNEnXVeuvOU/s1600-h/cute-cat-jump-iphone-wallpaper%5B4%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="cute-cat-jump-iphone-wallpaper" border="0" height="240" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYsraMQ9I/AAAAAAAAAZY/mGtwNSwb0xY/cute-cat-jump-iphone-wallpaper_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="cute-cat-jump-iphone-wallpaper" width="160" /></a> a cat; I leant over to stroke it. The cat ignored my outstretched hand and immediately leapt for my face, trying to claw out my eyes. <br />
<br />
“OW! What the hell!” I cried, batting the cat away. <br />
<br />
It landed on the floor, turned, and then hissed at me, and then swaggered off like an original gangsta, while I could only watch it saunter off with thin trickles of blood running down my face. <br />
<br />
Every night for three months, this little tosser waited for me. He would hide in bushes, behind walls, under cars, and the moment he saw me, he would attack me. Now I know you think that a cat isn’t really a match for a grown man, but this wasn’t a normal cat. He had developed the taste for human blood. He was a killer. When he attacked, he would leap out, climb up my legs, and then try and claw at my vulnerable bits, which included eyes, cheeks, hands and genitals. There was never any provocation from my side, I never touched him, talked to him, and I eventually would end up avoiding eye contact with him when I saw his luminous eyes glaring at me from whatever attack point he had positioned himself on. <br />
<br />
I used to take a different route, change over what side of the road I walked home on, but he soon wised up. I think he could smell fear. He always knew where I was. <br />
<br />
My lowest point was actually running down the street with him chasing after me. Yes, that’s right. A man in his late 20’s was being chased down the road by a cat. <br />
<br />
Form a queue ladies. Form a queue. <br />
<br />
I don’t know what happened to Nutter (for this is what I christened him in the end). I sometimes think that he has followed me to my new home and is out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting. <br />
<br />
4) <b>Superman 3</b> <br />
<br />
<div class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:76f79d57-5f27-4000-bfad-66553ede97db" style="display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding: 0px; width: 425px;"><div id="cc5bbe1c-b4a0-448b-99b4-2149f8bb1186" style="display: inline; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YuSsSwg9MXs&feature=related" target="_new"><img alt="" galleryimg="no" onload="var downlevelDiv = document.getElementById('cc5bbe1c-b4a0-448b-99b4-2149f8bb1186'); downlevelDiv.innerHTML = "<div><object width=\"425\" height=\"355\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YuSsSwg9MXs&hl=en\"><\/param><embed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/YuSsSwg9MXs&hl=en\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"425\" height=\"355\"><\/embed><\/object><\/div>";" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYtIYfKnI/AAAAAAAAAZc/ggvXhjv-gpc/video73ab1a166cbc%5B3%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-style: none;" /></a></div></div></div><br />
This one scene from Superman 3 messed with my head for years afterwards. If I ever saw it on TV and knew it was coming to this bit, I would always make an excuse and go to the kitchen to make a drink. <br />
<br />
You have to admit, for a kid’s film, it is pretty fucked up. <br />
<br />
And that another small collection of things that I am a big girlie man about. Be curious to hear some of your fears. Drop ‘em in my comment box and let’s have a look. I bet they are not as screwed up as mine. <br />
<br />
Happy Halloween my chumlets! <br />
<br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYtnqr3nI/AAAAAAAAAZg/4KEUb7H4JqE/s1600-h/halloween-pumpkin%5B4%5D.jpg"><img alt="halloween-pumpkin" border="0" height="213" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TMXYtxe77XI/AAAAAAAAAZk/db7TXQeT1VA/halloween-pumpkin_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="halloween-pumpkin" width="240" /></a>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-91044490480761074242010-10-16T18:06:00.001+01:002010-10-16T18:06:38.384+01:00Routine Life………..<p>We human beanz are ridiculous creations. All we are is just a collection of neurosis and strange habits, all piled up on each other and topped by hair. All of us have these weird things that we do every day, tiny little routines and motions that define us and prove just how crazy we all are. <p>Here is my list of crazy. <p><b>The “Shower Hand” Crazy</b> <p>When I wake up every morning and stumble to my bathroom half asleep, I have a little test that is the barometer to how my day is going to turn out. As I stand in my freezing cold bathroom, all crazy hair and grumpiness due to another day in my own skin, I reach into my shower area and turn it on. Now my shower comes on like a fire hose, so I have to be quick to get my hand out of the way, otherwise it gets a blast of icy cold water, which first thing in the morning actually makes you want to stab someone. <p>So the test? <p>Hand gets wet= I’m going to have a bad day. <p>Hand doesn’t get wet= My day is going to rock. <p>Yeah, I’m weird. <p><b>The “Toilet Roll Is Comforting” Crazy</b> <p>There is one thing in my life that pleases me and makes me feel safe no matter what, and that’s having plenty of toilet roll stocked in my apartment. You can forget food, heat, and all the other comforts that life holds, seeing those stacks of white poo roll nestled snugly beside my toilet makes me feel like everything is going to be alright. <p>Basically Armageddon could occur, but as long as I have something to wipe my arse with then I can face anything. <p><b>The “Pepsi Max” Crazy</b> <p>Pepsi Max is my crack. I’m addicted to it. Every shopping trip I take I have to pick some up. My fridge is constantly packed with as many cans as I can fit in it (cans, never bottles, they lose their fizz once opened). My bins rattle with my empties. If I have run out I start jonesing big time and start mugging old ladies to get the cash to feed my habit. <p>Pepsi Max- Don’t do it kids. <p><b>The “Shopping Nazi” Crazy</b> <p>Don’t go shopping with me. I’m a horrible human being when I’m food shopping. We are not here to have fun, talk, or muck around. We are here to shop, and if we miss anything, well, then the world will end. That’s right; we will all fall screaming into the abyss because you thought it would be funny to start juggling aubergines in the fruit section. <p>Kill the laughter. Stop the joy. There will be none of that shit on my watch. <p><b>The “I Have All Day To Do Stuff, But Then Decide To Do It All Just Before Bed” Crazy</b> <p>When I get in from work I have around four and a half hours to do everything that I need to do before its beddy byes time. So why do I find myself running around doing it all just before its time to hit the sack? What do I do for the other four hours? Does time vanish? Do I fall into a black hole? The twenty minutes that I plan on surfing the internet stretches out into an hour and a half. That quick bath I want to take is now an hour (Lavender oils and vanilla candles just relax me, okay?). A reading session that I have on my sofa takes me through most of the night. So right before bed time, I am buzzing around like a fly with the shits trying to get everything done. <p><b>The “I can’t Handle Mess” Crazy</b> <p>Everything has to be neat around me. I can’t just veg out if my flat is a mess. I could be sitting comfortably on my sofa, watching something on the TV, and from the kitchen I will hear my dishes speaking, “<i>Daaaaaan, we are just stacked here, all dirty like. Look at us Dan, we’re disgusting. Clean us,</i>” and will have to get up and load the dishwasher. I will then notice that the floor needs a hoover. And the skirting boards are looking a bit dusty as well, now you mention it. Actually, so does the TV. And before you know it, it is midnight and I’m standing there, all dirty and dusty but with an incredibly clean flat. And then I realise that I am dirty as well, so I need to have a shower. Then I see that have just made the bathroom unclean, so I have to clean that as well. Then I have a nervous breakdown and get collected by the social services, and when they come to take me away, I am trying to wash their dirty faces with a sponge, muttering to myself, “Filthy creatures.” <p><b>The “I Have To Pet Every Dog I See” Crazy</b> <p>It’s been established that I like animals, especially dogs. So every time that I see one, I have to make friends with it, no matter what the breed, size, or temperament of the animal. So you will see me going up to Dobermans and Rottweiler’s with my arms wide open and a big dopey grin plastered on my stupid face, just wanting to be best buddies with the growling monster in front of me. <p>“Oh look, he’s so cute.” <p>Chomp <p>“Oh look, he’s bitten my limbs off and is drinking my blood. How adorable!” <p>Chomp <p>“Can somebody please get my leg off him?” <p><b>The “I’m Not Expecting You So I’m Not Answering The Door” Crazy</b> <p>I know what I’m doing every minute of every day. I plan things to the letter. So if I hear my intercom buzz to say that there is someone at my door and I’m not expecting you, well, that door is not going to be opened. Don’t surprise visit me, you ain’t getting in without a prior arrangement. And if I’m not expecting you, chances are it won’t be anything good anyway and I probably owe you money, so you <i>definitely</i> ain’t getting in bud. <p><b>The “I Get Tourettes And Swear At You If You Get In My Way” Crazy</b> <p>People annoy me on a level that is sometimes quite dangerous. And one of the ways in which they annoy me is those folk who walk around this earth with seemingly no idea of where they are going. Those brain dead zombies that just stumble around with blank expressions on their faces like they have never been outside before and just dawdle along, gazing with dumb wonderment at all the pretty lights and fast moving cars. <p>I always know where I am going. That’s because I am an anal OCD mentalist and have everything planned (see above). I never just walk along and “see what happens,” so those idiots that do and get in my way, well, be prepared to be sworn at under my breath. But the problem is that I am a bit deaf and have no idea of the volume of my voice, so that muttered insult actually might as well have been me coming up to you, grabbing you by the shoulders and saying directly into your startled face “Move out of my way, numbnuts before I chuck you under this ice cream van.” <p>For this I am sorry (I’m not. I hate you) <p>This is only a small collection of my oddness; I could give you much more. But to be honest, reading all of this back, it seems to me that maybe everyone else is fine and it is me that is slowly losing my grip on reality. But that’s fine, I can handle it. <p>I’m now off to polish something.</p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-25804894965287142902010-10-10T15:50:00.004+01:002010-10-10T16:13:05.955+01:00The Romford Redemption………<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TLHSmvncQHI/AAAAAAAAAY4/0Fu3PrxlH0Q/s1600-h/x-factor%5B3%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="x-factor" border="0" height="167" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TLHSnfXyP_I/AAAAAAAAAY8/M9q1mc8RtPs/x-factor_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="x-factor" width="244" /></a> <br />
Every year I get sucked into a netherworld, a vacuous void where all life is distilled into various levels of human liquid shit, each one more noxious and vile than the other. This normally happens around the June/July mark and finishes just before Christmas. <br />
<br />
I am of course talking about the return of the TV show, <i>The X Factor</i>. <br />
<br />
It’s like some form of unholy prison sentence that I have to serve at the end of each year. In retrospect, I would actually probably prefer to do physical time, being vigorously bummed up the arse by a tattooed skinhead (as long as he held me afterwards) than sit through this festering pile of bat droppings that sums up everything that is wrong about human civilisation in these worrying times. <br />
<br />
As I have many non Uk readers, I will sum up what the show is about, so we are all up to speed. Simon Cowell picks 16 mentally unstable people with delusions of fame, gets them to perform in front of a baying crowd like those performing bears in Russia, and then periodicity dispatches them one by one whilst rubbing great fistfuls of cash all over his leathery genitals. <br />
<br />
This year I have avoided all the build up, the selection process, and most importantly, the horrendous faux tear inducing back stories that make me want to flay off my own face so I can actually feel something that resembles a form of human emotion, all in the aim of hoping to avoid all aspects of this blight on the form of human culture. <br />
<br />
Sadly Kates wasn’t having any of it. <br />
<br />
“I’m so excited the X Factor starts tonight,” she told me when she came round yesterday. “Do you mind if we watch it?” <br />
<br />
Of course, me naturally being the kind and sacrificing kind of boyfriend that I am, I immediately relented. <br />
<br />
“Of course we can my darling; you know I would do anything for you. More canopies?” <br />
<br />
“You know I don’t like Wotsits. A whole two and a half hours of The X Factor, how exciting!” <br />
<br />
Hang on........ <br />
<br />
“<i>Two and a half fucking hours</i>? Are you kidding me?? That’s almost as long as <i>Titanic</i> but without the funny bits with the people falling off and hitting the propellers at the end.” <br />
<br />
She gave me a look that made me knew I wasn’t going to win. <br />
<br />
“Brilliant,” I replied, putting on a fake smile. “I honestly, literally, can’t wait. This is going to be so <i>good</i>. I’m excited to be a part of it.” <br />
<br />
The minutes to when it started counted down like the timer on a nuclear device, and in many ways, the complete and utter oblivion that a 16 megaton nuclear blast would have provided was in some ways more preferable to the hell that was coming. <br />
<br />
Aural Armageddon. <br />
<br />
I didn’t even know the line-up of the constants this year, but as the show started in a blaze of pyrotechnics and flashing lights that subliminally spelt out:<i> give us all your money</i>, they flashed across my screen in a parade of head turns and hair spray. And like Pavlov’s Dogs, I was conditioned to bark out every time one appeared. <br />
<br />
Girl group. <br />
<br />
“Slags” <br />
<br />
Skinny hip hop girl. <br />
<br />
“Chav” <br />
<br />
Perma tanned duo. <br />
<br />
“Gay” <br />
<br />
Androgynous weird bloke. <br />
<br />
“Cunt” <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TLHX8nCz4WI/AAAAAAAAAZA/GTQQWLxrcmE/s1600/arrrrgh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TLHX8nCz4WI/AAAAAAAAAZA/GTQQWLxrcmE/s1600/arrrrgh.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a></div>Scary hairy bloke with chains and porno tash. <br />
<br />
“Top lad” <br />
<br />
This year they the show was going for the subtle, less is more approach. So with “<i>O Fortuna</i>” screaming out with almost ear splitting volume, and the stage suddenly exploding like the birth of a new solar system through 4 bazillion lights, all over the nation, hundreds of kids suddenly pitched to the floor in epileptic shock, legs twitching and faces dribbling like they had just stared into the face of God. <br />
<br />
Less is more, remember? <br />
<br />
And then the entertainment started. <br />
<br />
To be honest, I think I blacked out after the 25 minute mark. If I try and think back to last night, it just remains a swirl of colours, screeching and bongos. Yes, bongos. That does stick in my head for some reason. <br />
<br />
I know there was a boy band that looked terminally ill. I know there was a skinny hip hop girl who apparently has a habit of making her own rap sections in the middle of songs (I also know I released a stream of expletives at this point that flew across the room and hit my TV like warm dog shit). I know that the aforementioned camp duo was racing around inside my TV in a blur of day-glo colours that actually seared my retinas. I know there was an awful girl dressed up like a space whore whilst wearing 12 multicoloured sun visors on her head. <br />
<br />
But getting back to the bongos. <br />
<br />
The one overriding image that I still can’t shake is of the hairy bloke with the prono tash standing on a podium, banging away on a set of bongos screaming “SHE BANGS! SHE BANGS!” while explosions roared beside him and half naked dancers groped and rubbed their breasts. I think if you were going to run a holiday advert for one of Dante’s seventh levels of hell, then this is surely the image that you want running on a continuous loop. I was expecting a pair of horns to burst out of hairy porno tash guys head, and for him to lean back and cackle manically whilst stamping cloven hoofs. <br />
<br />
Eventually the two and a half hours was over and I emerged from it shaking and teary eyed. Even Kates looked a bit stunned, like she had just witnessed a bad traffic accident. We both looked like we had just come back from a tour of ‘Nam. <br />
<br />
“Same time next week?” I asked meekly. <br />
<br />
“I need an aspirin,” she replied, holding her forehead. “Or vodka. Do you have any vodka?” <br />
<br />
I keep thinking to how long it is until Christmas and my sentence will be up. <br />
<br />
Man’s got a choice. <br />
<br />
Either get busy living, or get busy dying.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-57334572966091020792010-10-01T15:10:00.001+01:002010-10-01T15:10:55.074+01:00Get Down With The Sickness……………<p>I’m not very well at the moment (sad face). <p>It’s common knowledge that men, on a whole, don’t handle illness very well. It’s some kind of genetic makeup that we have which prevents us from just sucking it up and carrying on with our day like you ladies do. Instead we men flop around like fish that have just been yanked out of a lake, loudly proclaiming to anyone in earshot about how shit we feel and how this is no normal illness, but a <i>serious</i> one. <p>Big girlie men. <p>Of which I now find myself joining the club. <p>I started feeling rough at work on Thursday. <p>“I think I’m coming down with something,” I told my friend Elise, who I share my desk pod with. <p>“Oh, that’s not good,” she replied absentmindedly from the mound of paperwork that always seems to surround her like an administration Himalayas. <p>“Do you have any vitamins or aspirin?” <p>“No, sorry,” she replied as my weak, pathetic ill voice distracted her once more from her work. <p>“That’s ok, “I told her, vowing to just suffer in silence. But of course, it didn’t last. <p>“I don’t feel very well,” I would continuously tell anyone who wandered past my desk. <p>The lack of sympathy I got was heart warming. <p>When I got home, I was soaking wet from the rain, shivering, and starting to get a sore throat. This didn’t bode well at all. <p>I gave myself an early night in the hope that when I woke up, I would feel a whole lot better. But when my alarm went off in the morning, I awoke to find my throat on fire, my lungs clogged with nasty shit, and my body alternating between hot and cold. <p>I could see me not making it in today. <p>So I now had to do the thing that I hate most in the world, phoning in sick. I always get incredibly paranoid about doing this because I always imagine the manager at the end of the phone just shaking their heads and not believing the fact that I wasn’t very well, when in truth, there was a strong possibility that I was going to die. That’s right, die. Because this naturally wasn’t just any kind of illness I was feeling, but a life threatening serious one. <p>I always try and prepare myself when I have to phone in sick. No matter how shit I feel, I don’t want to sound too ill, because then I always worry that it sounds too false, like the fake ill voice that you used to put on to get out of school. But if you go too far the other way, you might not sound ill enough, and just sound like you couldn’t be arsed to go in to work. So with this dilemma weighing heavily on you, it causes your flu ravaged body to start feeling even more shit, until that worrying thought that you actually might die suddenly starts looking like it might be a grim reality and you have nobody to moan to about it. <p>When I rang my manager yesterday though, I got her voicemail. I didn’t know if this was a good or bad thing. I left my message saying that I wouldn’t be in, hopefully sounding as genuinely ill as I felt, and resisting the urge to ask her pass on my goodbyes to my work colleagues as it didn’t look like I was going to make it through this one and could she share out my stationary with them all. <p>With work informed, I now lay in my bed, making sight moaning noises and proclaiming to the empty flat, “Urrrrgh, I feel ill.” Somehow this felt as if I was justifying everything to myself. <p>I now had to tell Kates, so I sent her a text. <p>ME: Feel rough. Not gone in today. <p>KATES: Go out, stock up on soup, medicine, and sausage rolls. <p>I have no idea why she wanted me to stock up on sausage rolls. Perhaps it was an age old tradition of her family? As soon as someone gets ill, you crack out the flu capsules and pastry covered sausage meat. <p>Kates has been with me long enough to know that when I get ill, the best thing to do is leave me alone. When we first got together, if I ever got sick, her first natural reaction was to look after me, mainly because she loves me and because I also live on my own as well. She now knows that if I get sick to just to let me get on with it. This is for two reasons. The first is because I loath to take help from anyone, even my girlfriend. If it sounds ridiculous, well, that’s probably because it is. It’s not even stupid male pride; I just never accept help from anyone unless it’s a dire emergency. I don’t know why I’m like it; I just can’t bring myself to do it. I think maybe it’s an offshoot of having to fend for myself from such a young age. I did all that by myself and now I will never take help from no one. It drives her batshit and I totally understand why. Maybe I will change, or maybe I will always be this annoying? <p>The second reason is a little bit more understandable, I turn into a grumpy sod when ill. Now normally I am not the sunniest of individuals, but man, when I’m ill, I hate<i> everything</i>. So it’s probably a good thing that I’m probably left alone, otherwise I could end up getting a force fed an overdose of lemsip. <p>I dozed off in my bed for a bit before being rudely awoken by the sudden sneezing fit that overtook me. I don’t know if any of you have sneezed in your sleep, but it’s disgusting, it goes <i>everywhere. </i>My bed sheets, clothes, and one rather startled cat, were covered in it. I had turned into a 360 degree mucus machine. <p>“Oh, God, “I moaned, strings of it covering me so I resembled something from the set of <i>Alien</i>. “What’s <i>happening</i> to me?” <p>After removing myself from my cocoon, I gathered up my bed stuff and stuck it in the washing machine. My cat was winding her way round my legs, the fur on the top of her head stuck up in a crazy Mohican style from the huge wad of mucus I had fired at her. <p>“Sorry Dotty,” I told her, wiping it off with a wet tissue. She just glared back at me. <p>So I now had the whole day ahead of me, but to be honest, all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball somewhere and make an occasional “Meh” noise. <p>So I did. <p>And that’s what I’ve been doing since. I still feel like shit. This could possibly be my last blog post, because I’m pretty sure that what I am suffering from is actually fatal, not just your everyday common cold, but a life sucking vital bitch that no man will ever escape from. <p>Overdramatic? Maybe. But if you’re a man, well, you guys know where I’m coming from, right? <p>Sniffle. </p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-19911435959156809972010-09-26T17:56:00.005+01:002010-09-26T18:24:28.496+01:00Home……….<i>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.</i> <br />
<br />
<i>There, now don’t you look spiffy? Now, are you ready? Let’s go........</i> <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
But anyway, I digress. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97MTCU5NI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/_oUVwZLfMU8/s1600-h/chavs%202%5B5%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="chavs 2" border="0" height="184" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97Mn4SIOI/AAAAAAAAAYU/do_iAEiMFIg/chavs%202_thumb%5B3%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="chavs 2" width="244" /></a> <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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 <br />
<br />
*<i>Spreads arms, Christ like</i>* <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ98bpJZxaI/AAAAAAAAAY0/MtRmONShTXA/s1600/urrrrgh%21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ98bpJZxaI/AAAAAAAAAY0/MtRmONShTXA/s1600/urrrrgh%21.jpg" /></a></div>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. <br />
<br />
Yeah, that’s a bit grim. <br />
<br />
Anyway, my man cave is based here, a nice little block of flats.<br />
<br />
<img alt="omega court" border="0" height="132" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97M_cpLQI/AAAAAAAAAYY/Ga1Gs2IpDxU/omega%20court%5B4%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="omega court" width="176" /> <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Wanna have a look inside? <br />
<br />
Course you do, nosey. <br />
<br />
This is my living room<br />
<br />
<img alt="004" border="0" height="184" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97NA0-EMI/AAAAAAAAAYc/enpMypkykj8/004%5B4%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="004" width="244" /> <br />
<img alt="003" border="0" height="184" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97Np2tbHI/AAAAAAAAAYg/LwxWn_7i61g/003%5B4%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="003" width="244" /> <br />
<br />
This room is good for many things. Watching films. Chilling. Monging.Notice the film geek posters? Yeah, I rock.<br />
<br />
Here is the kitchen. <br />
<img alt="002" border="0" height="184" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97Nyg-MCI/AAAAAAAAAYk/CuJTTn5wJPs/002%5B8%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="002" width="244" /> <br />
<img alt="001" border="0" height="184" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97OEtiarI/AAAAAAAAAYs/ioQCH3YAOr8/001%5B4%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="001" width="244" /> <br />
<br />
Now most days you will either find me trying to do one of two things in here. <br />
1) Cooking a fancy meal from one of my many cook books <br />
2) Making beans on toast <br />
<br />
Now ladies, please try to contain yourselves. This......is where the magic happens.<br />
<br />
<img alt="002" border="0" height="184" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TJ97Os7WDoI/AAAAAAAAAYw/FQwNpGv_g7o/002%5B9%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="002" width="244" /><br />
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. <br />
<br />
It’s the only way I can feel. <br />
<br />
I was going to stick up my study (ohhhhh, get me!) and bathroom, but then thought, do you <i>really </i>want to see that?So I didn't. Its a bathroom. Use your imagination.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And if I’m entirely honest with you. <br />
<br />
I really miss having a home.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-3123748833909907492010-09-14T20:34:00.002+01:002010-09-18T16:07:50.549+01:00Babe Of The Day…..<i>There are many reasons why I have a great girlfriend. This is just one of them.</i> <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
After uttering some inane question that was playing on my mind at the time, probably something along the lines of:<i> When spiders die, can they come back as ghosts</i>, she realised that I wasn’t going to allow her to drift off to sleep and begrudgingly joined in with my chattering. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
The topic being what type of woman I go for? <br />
<br />
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: <i>Careful son, one false step and this could blow up in your face,</i> <i>sending your ass to Kansas. </i> <br />
<br />
“I bet I know your ideal type of woman,“ she told me. <br />
<br />
“Oh, is that the time? It’s late, we really should be getting some sleep,” I replied, rolling over and snoring loudly. <br />
<br />
“I bet I do,” she carried on, shaking me roughly by the shoulder. “I bet I can picture your exact perfect woman.” <br />
<br />
I wasn’t going to win this one. <br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
“You’re such a twat,” she replied, swatting my hand away like an annoying fly. <br />
<br />
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.” <br />
<br />
“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.” <br />
<br />
“OK. Now can we just snuggle?” <br />
<br />
We snuggled. <br />
<br />
Just as I felt her drifting off to sleep, I whispered in her ear, “Can you make sure she has really big boobies?” <br />
<br />
Kate has very sharp elbows. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“Shit,” I mumbled into my hand. “This could be bad.” <br />
<br />
Later on that night I got my phone call from her. The one I was expecting. <br />
<br />
“So was I right? Brunette? Leggy? Dark skin? Totally not like me at all?” <br />
<br />
“I....er..I....<i>I love you? </i>Is that the right answer? That’s normally the right answer, right? I love you?” <br />
<br />
“Bye!” she replied, and the receiver went clunk as she hung up. <br />
<br />
And she was basically right. My “<i>type</i>”, if you want to give it a label, is nothing like what she looks like. <br />
<br />
Now let me get one thing straight, my girlfriend is gorgeous. Not in a kind of “<i>well, she’s my</i> <i>girlfriend so I have to say it</i>” kinda way, but actually gorgeous. Whenever anyone sees me with her, or sees a photo, I normally get the same reactions. <br />
<br />
<i>Wow, how did you get her?</i> <br />
<i>What’s she doing with you?</i> <br />
<i>Where do you get your rohypnol from?</i> <br />
<br />
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 <i>Mad Men. </i>Without sounding like a sexist pig, what man wouldn’t like that, regardless of whatever constraints you place upon yourself on what “<i>type</i>” of person you allegedly find attractive? <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Plus with really big boobies. <br />
<br />
It’s a challenge convincing my other half that she is the one for me. <br />
<br />
I like challenges. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
I’m hoping I will get a surprise and it will be one of Kates.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-54665946791538094322010-09-05T18:39:00.005+01:002010-09-06T21:39:31.010+01:00A Genius Plan…….(<i>Megan Fox Soapy Tit Wank</i>) 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.<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVqBGvw1I/AAAAAAAAAXo/Q9GRkw4Ql10/s1600-h/Milakunis-q-q-q_957_thumb_180x246%5B4%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="Milakunis-q-q-q_957_thumb_180x246" border="0" height="240" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVqqa9lbI/AAAAAAAAAXs/Quu59HT6rOs/Milakunis-q-q-q_957_thumb_180x246_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="Milakunis-q-q-q_957_thumb_180x246" width="176" /></a> <br />
<br />
I know it has been a feature for awhile, but I have only just had (<i>Anne Hathaway looking all sexy like</i>) 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 (<i>Jessica Biel in a leather catsuit</i>) 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. <br />
<br />
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 (<i>BOOBIES!)</i> raising 392 views last week. And it was this one <a href="http://brody-ninjafunk.blogspot.com/2010/05/feels-like-heaven.html">here</a> <br />
<br />
Now naturally the egotistic side of me automatically thought (<i>Scarlet Johansson is a dirty bitch!)</i> that this was due to the powerful, and quite frankly, life changing brilliance of the words that I wrote on that very page. <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVrEhOwiI/AAAAAAAAAXw/OFDC8L2-a4o/s1600-h/gemma_arterton_6%5B4%5D.jpg"><img align="left" alt="st trinians 6 121007" border="0" height="240" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVrc_xFoI/AAAAAAAAAX0/LNeAWV5ap4U/gemma_arterton_6_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; cursor: move; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="st trinians 6 121007" width="166" /></a> 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). <br />
Hmmmmmmn. <br />
<br />
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: <i>Gemma Arterton</i>, <i>Gemma Arterton’s cleavage</i>, and <i>Gemma Artertons Big Tits</i>. <br />
<br />
So the popularity of this blog post was nothing to do with the writing, but more to do with ( <i>Mila Kunis and her filthy sex tape!</i>) the photo displayed on it, and people clicking on the link to get their perv on. <br />
<br />
Now this could mean either two things. <br />
<br />
1) There were an awful lot of teenage boys who really, <i>really</i> liked Gemma Arterton. <br />
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. <i>392 times!</i> <br />
<br />
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 (<i>dirty bitches play</i> <i>fighting for you!)</i> 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. <br />
<br />
But after my initial disgust had faded, I came up with a rather spiffing idea (<i>why not watch Kate Beckinsale and Salma Hayek wrestle!</i>). Why not use the power of the internet perverts to gain some more readers? <br />
<br />
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 <i>groove</i>. All of a sudden his eyes twitch from the photo displayed on the screen to <a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVr8exSQI/AAAAAAAAAX4/cchpClHn0kc/s1600-h/Scarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919.jpgScarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919_thumb_2200x0%5B4%5D.jpg"><img align="right" alt="Scarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919.jpgScarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919_thumb_2200x0" border="0" height="153" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVsUu3plI/AAAAAAAAAX8/7xaMhhyrhjQ/Scarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919.jpgScarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919_thumb_2200x0_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="Scarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919.jpgScarlettjohansson-ataphotoshoot-seductive-greydress_919_thumb_2200x0" width="240" /></a> the words surrounding them. His is distracted from <i>(Elisha Cuthbert playing</i> <i>volleyball</i>) the beautiful, porcelain features of Gemma Arterton by the amazing sentences that I have created. <br />
<br />
<i>I’m torn,</i> thinks Little Johnny. <i>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.</i> <br />
<br />
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 <i>has</i> to read more. So he does. Before you know it, he has joined up, thrown aside his favourite past time of (<i>Ashley Dupre-Spandex-Need I Say More?)</i> 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?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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: <i>Dan, you were a hero and an inspiration to me</i>. <i>I would never have done it without you. You are more God than man. </i> <br />
<br />
Something simple like that.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVs8pv8FI/AAAAAAAAAYA/TCSGs_Sj6IQ/s1600-h/17905_Jessica_Biel_GQ_Magazine-5_122_402lo_492_thumb_180x246%5B8%5D.jpg"><img align="left" alt="17905_Jessica_Biel_GQ_Magazine-5_122_402lo_492_thumb_180x246" border="0" height="237" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVtLZ_IyI/AAAAAAAAAYE/4tJxrvrIQOQ/17905_Jessica_Biel_GQ_Magazine-5_122_402lo_492_thumb_180x246_thumb%5B6%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="17905_Jessica_Biel_GQ_Magazine-5_122_402lo_492_thumb_180x246" width="180" /></a> 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 (<i>Alison Stokke</i> <i>and her lovely watermelons!)</i> 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. <br />
<br />
Genius, no? <br />
<br />
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 <i>years</i> ago, believe me. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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 “<i>We know what you do</i>” <br />
<br />
But hey, no one said that you don’t have to make some sacrifices in life, right? <br />
<br />
<i>(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?)</i> <br />
<i></i> <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVtlOxcJI/AAAAAAAAAYI/SwFCxWgxHv8/s1600-h/Salmahayek-bouncing-busty-plungingneckline_442%5B4%5D.jpg"><img alt="Salmahayek-bouncing-busty-plungingneckline_442" border="0" height="240" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TIPVuLDlTqI/AAAAAAAAAYM/mOMnYU6rXfQ/Salmahayek-bouncing-busty-plungingneckline_442_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Salmahayek-bouncing-busty-plungingneckline_442" width="181" /></a>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-78318343198450708072010-08-31T16:28:00.000+01:002010-08-31T16:28:41.392+01:00This Is Me.......Something amazing will happen tomorrow. Something so profound and earth shattering that it could actually tip the axis of the Earth by 10%, so we all fall screaming off the world and into the cold, empty blackness of space, never to be heard from again. And when mystical and benign archaeological aliens visit our silent and lonely planet hundreds of years later, all that they will find to document our entire existence will be a Miley Cyrus CD playing on continuous loop as someone didn’t get a chance to turn it off before they fell off the world. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? And then the aliens will then nuke the planet from orbit, as it’s the only way to be sure. <br />
<br />
Er, where was I? <br />
<br />
Oh yeah, this amazing thing. <br />
<br />
My blog turns one year old tomorrow. <br />
<br />
A magnificent achievement, do you not think? <br />
<br />
Well I do. <br />
<br />
Now some of you will have been with me from the start as I took my first few faltering steps into the world of blogging, very much like a new born lamb learning to take its first few steps, not having a clue what it was doing and quite possibly defecating on itself every 20 minutes. Some of you stayed, many of you buggered off when you realised that it actually doesn’t get any better than this, but I know who the hardcore faithful are, and as always, I am blessed by you all. <br />
<br />
But I have also picked up many new readers as well, and for many of you, all you know of me is from whatever blog entry you started from, so you may have missed anything relating to my background and who I am. <br />
<br />
So, to get all you lovely new people up to speed, I thought I would write up a personal CV for you all, just so you get an idea of the man behind the words (for those of you who can’t be arsed to read all the way through this, I can give you the abridged version. Dan=TWAT) <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Dan </div><div style="text-align: center;">Some shithole called Romford </div><div style="text-align: center;">Tel: 017- Yeah, right!</div><div style="text-align: center;">Email: IknowthatifIgiveyouthislotsofladieswillstartstalkingme@gmail.com</div><a href="mailto:IknowthatifIgiveyouthislotsofladieswillstartstalkingme@gmail.com"></a> <br />
<br />
Personal Profile <br />
I am a narcissistic cynical bastard who literally hates around about 99.9% of the human race. Chances are that if you are standing there talking to me, my face will probably look like it’s interested in what you are saying. I will be making all the right notions, nodding, smiling, making the “Hmmmmmn, good point” noise when its needed, all that kind of jazz, but in reality, in the centre of my mind, I am probably thinking of the best way to kill you. That is not a joke, I am fantasying about murdering you. But please, tell me how your day was.<br />
<br />
I don’t know why most people annoy me. It could be the fact that I am getting older, or it could be the fact that most of the world is populated by idiots whose sole purpose it seems it to get in my face, make a really high pitched annoying sound, and then astound me with their own stupidity. It has resulted in a form of Tourettes where I have no qualms about swearing at complete strangers when they do this, and will more than likely get me beaten up very severely one day by a big man with a tattoo which reads: <i>Mother</i>. In many respects, I will probably deserve it when it happens. <br />
<br />
But I can be quite nice as well. I have a slight sentimental streak that can sometimes be evident in my writing, so in between the bitterness and bile, these small nuggets of sweetness make me feel like less of a grumpy dickhead. <br />
<br />
As you may have gathered from my last blog entry, I am a bit directionless and don’t really know what I am doing with my life, but to be honest, that is probably the same as you right now who is reading these words with your own very two eyeballs. So we are the same, you and I. You poor, poor bastard. <br />
<br />
Key Skills and Achievements <br />
· I am an amazing writer who can create sentences so brilliant that they could probably make you black out from their power. <br />
· I am an expert liar. <br />
· I once ate a whole packet of milk chocolate digestive biscuits on my own and felt strangely proud afterwards. <br />
· I have a sense of humour that is often called “Dry” and can normally result in people never knowing if I am being serious or not. I like this. <br />
· I can geek out quite often. I am comfortable with this. <br />
· I can decide within 30 seconds of meeting you if I am going to like you or not. <br />
<br />
Life and Employment History <br />
<br />
Boyfriend to Kates, All over the place 2004- Present Day <br />
· Kates is an OCD mentalist who has no control over her emotions and can explode with the ferocity of a volcano in a bad mood. I am a repressed, emotionless male who can only express himself through anger and quiet rage and finds it almost impossible to connect with most people. In many ways we are the ideal couple. We balance out each other’s crazy until we actually resemble “normal” people. I am lucky to have her. I can’t quite say that I could reverse that statement. <br />
· My duties include offering sage and excellent advice that will always be ignored, providing genuine and heartfelt comments to combat insecurities that will also be ignored, arranging curries to be brought to wherever we are, being an emotional support, making Kates laugh after a shit day (either with or without clothes on, normally laughter increases without clothing), hugs, perplexing her with my many flaws and strange behaviours, owning a beard because Kates told me she likes it, being a mystery to her even after six years of being together, trying to be a better man. <br />
· This is a full time position, it can be very hard work, but the rewards are limitless. <br />
<br />
Cat owner to Dotty, Romford 2006- Present Day <br />
· Dotty is my cat who I live with (man that makes me sound gay) and who is probably about as hard work as my girlfriend, if not more. <br />
· My duties include feeding, cleaning out the litter tray, feeding, being a Dan shaped cushion for her to lie on at night, feeding, object of fun, feeding, thing to stare at, normally at around four in the morning, which will then result in feeding. <br />
· It is very hard having two demanding women in your life. <br />
<br />
Employment Advisor, London 2010- Present Day <br />
· My current job and the only thing that I have done work wise that I actually enjoy and think I am any good at. That’s all I have to say on the matter. <br />
<br />
Bank Bloke, London 2006- 2009 <br />
· My worst ever job, working for one of the UK’s largest banks. No word of a lie, this job very nearly resulted in my losing my mind and health. It’s very hard to get fired up about something you have zero interest in. I quit one day, just took off my tie and walked out with Simple Mind’s <i>Don’t you forget about me </i>playing in my head. It was the coolest thing I had ever done. I was then out of work for seven months, which resulted in it being the stupidest thing I have ever done. <br />
· My duties included staring at clients as they babbled compete bullshit to me over the reason why they were overdrawn, and then wondering how many years I would get inside if I just leant over and smashed them over the head with my PC monitor, feigning fake enthusiasm when the newest interest rates were released and how I was going to apply them to whatever product I was selling, thinking of ways in which I could end my own life. <br />
· I didn’t like that job very much <br />
<br />
Hobbies and interests <br />
<br />
I love to write. It is the only thing I feel that I’m any good at. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m not brilliant, but I know out of all the things I can do, writing is what I am best at (to be honest though, seeing as how some of the others things I can do consists of reciting all the lyrics to <i>Rupert and the frog chorus</i>, insulting people, and telling you who directed what film and the year it was released, the writing thing probably isn’t the boldest claim in the world). <br />
<br />
I love football and support West Ham, the team the fits my psychological profile perfectly, and I actually met Kates through them, so that’s even more a reason to like them. <br />
<br />
So that was a brief little potted history of me. Please feel free to ask any questions that you want and I will try and answer them. <br />
<br />
And on a final note, after one year of doing this, I would like to say a massive thank you to anyone who has signed up (and even left), given advice, left nice comments (of which I am shit at replying to lately, please don’t think they are being ignored), and just generally made this whole experience the fun that it has been. It would be very lonely and pointless writing a blog if there weren’t people like you out there reading. So thank you.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-30735206878443001052010-08-20T20:49:00.007+01:002010-08-22T15:03:09.758+01:00Existential Crisis In Romford......Alright? Been awhile, hasn’t it? <br />
<br />
During my brief hiatus from blogging, quite recently I have had a nagging thought buzzing around in my head like a pissed up bluebottle. <br />
<br />
This nagging thought has been flaring up in my mindscape during really odd moments. It’s happened when I’ve been lying in bed at night, trying to sleep, when I’m walking home after a long day at work, and when I've been staring, brain-dead with drool hanging from my bottom lip, at the rows of food in Tesco’s trying to fire up my tired mind into deciding what to buy for dinner that night. <br />
<br />
Do you want to know what that thought is? <br />
<br />
Actually, probably not. But it wouldn’t be much of a blog post if I didn’t tell you, so here goes. <br />
<br />
<i>I have absolutely no idea who I am.</i> <br />
<br />
Now this rather profound, and dare I say it, little bit pretentious thought could be the result of two things. <br />
<br />
1) It could be due to the fact that it’s my birthday in a few weeks time; so it is purely the natural response to being another year older and still being in exactly the same position in life as to where I was when I was 21. <br />
<br />
2) Or it could be the early onset of Alzheimer’s <br />
<br />
And seeing as at this precise moment in time I still have most of my marbles rattling around freely in my head (though I did find myself standing in my living room last Wednesday, stark bullock naked bar one black sock, and not having any clue what I was doing or why I had entered the room), my guess for the cause of this thought is purely on number 1. <br />
<br />
You can kind of get a good angle on where you a positioned in life from the greeting that is printed on the front of your birthday card. So at the moment my position in life is boyfriend. Something that I am not displeased with, mind you. <br />
<br />
I’m not a husband, a son, an uncle, a father, nor a brother. So is that really enough for me? Is that where I should be at the age of 32? Shouldn’t I be more by now than just “Boyfriend”? <br />
<br />
Though saying that, if Hallmark suddenly started making a card with a pure white front and the single word TWAT<b> </b>printed dead centre, then I would definitely be getting that mailed through my letterbox. I wouldn’t be able to leave the house due to the huge pile that would arrive every morning and not just be confined to birthdays and special occasions. <br />
<br />
I could live with that. <br />
<br />
I remember when I was at my primary school and it was in my last week of being there before I left to join secondary school. I was sitting on some steps with my best friend Stephen O’Brian, and a strange, almost melancholy feeling was coming over the pair of us. I know, mental, isn’t it? Two ten year old boys feeling melancholy. The only thing I should have been melancholy about was why I never got picked for kiss chase. But melancholy we were. <br />
<br />
“I can’t believe we are leaving in a week,” Stephen said to me. <br />
<br />
“I know. I can’t believe I’m 11 in a few months,” I replied. And we both shook our heads at how life can pass you by so quickly. <br />
<br />
We were ten! <br />
<br />
And yet at all the landmark ages in life, this feeling of everything slipping by too quickly has always plagued me. <br />
<br />
When I turned 18, I was sat in the pub with my friends, celebrating my ascent into manhood, and it scared me. Things were slowly revving up and adulthood was just on the horizon. Looking back now that I am in my 30’s, it amazes me that I couldn’t just enjoy just being really, and I mean,<i> really </i>young, rather than worry about what was coming up. But I have always had this fear that I wouldn’t amount to much and just screw everything up, because that’s just simply what I do. I know that I will probably look back to my 30’s when I’m an ancient and decrepit 40 year old husk of a man and think they were the best years of my life. <br />
<br />
My mind is wrong, I know. <br />
<br />
Admittedly the only thing I can remember about the next landmark age reached, the grand old age of 21, was having a four hour conversation with a lampshade. How and why I was having a four hour conversation with a lampshade is probably not something I should go into now. But I did. And it was weird. <br />
<br />
But when I turned 21, there was one set of digits to me that signified getting older, and that figure was the age of 25. I don’t know why, but to me that was <i>old. </i> <br />
<br />
25 wasn’t just being a young person anymore. 25 was crossing the threshold into something else. It was that slipping and sliding sensation of being at the top of something huge, and then hurtling all the way down with no way of stopping yourself. <br />
<br />
And do you know what, I was only bloody right. <br />
<br />
25, 26, 27, 28, 29. All of them past me by in a blur, each year getting shorter and shorter, until one day, when I woke up and found out that I was 30, it was then that I realised that I <i>really</i> hate being right all the time. My alarm went off that day and I just stared at it and mouthed the word: <i>bollocks.</i> <br />
<br />
Now I know everyone hates the thought of getting older, but I’ve always assumed that for most people, the passage of time always comes along with progression as well. You change as a person and your lifestyle changes with it. You get married, you have children, you start up your own families, and then set out on the same adventure that your parents did when they were your age. <br />
<br />
I haven’t done any of that. <br />
<br />
I’m still the same as I was when I was 21 (minus the inclination that having a deep and meaningful with a lampshade was a rather brilliant idea). I’ve never married. I’m childless. I have no family of my own to speak of. And I also have no urge for any of them right now either. <br />
<br />
Is that right? <br />
<br />
Now I’m not saying I never want them, but at this present moment in time, I have no desire for them either. And yet I feel this tremendous pressure that I should at least be considering them. I’m getting older, that’s a given fact (plus I have been pissing and moaning about for the last 20 minutes, if you haven’t noticed?). Next year I will be at exactly the same age as my dad when he had me. By then he was married to my mum, had a mortgage, and wasn’t some stupid twat with a beard like me. <br />
<br />
He was an adult. <br />
<br />
And a much better one that I will ever be. <br />
<br />
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to be lying on my deathbed when I’m old and wrinkly and have any major regrets about wasted opportunities. <br />
<br />
What I would like to be doing, when lying all wrinkly and old on my deathbed, is to be wearing a skin-tight white sparkly catsuit that is slashed to the navel revealing wiry man hair, coupled with huge 15 inch platform shoes, simply because I think that would be a rather cool and befitting way to remember me by.<br />
<br />
But I digress. <br />
<br />
I know you have to take things at your own time, but surely I’m not alone in feeling this pressure to be moulding myself into something that I’m clearly not quite ready for just yet? <br />
<br />
Well, I’m throwing it over to you dear reader. What’s your experience of this? And am I alone in what I’m feeling? <br />
<br />
And who else thinks the catsuit thing <i>rocks</i>? <br />
<br />
Oh, it’s good to see you again by the way. I’ve missed you.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-17435796306054984182010-07-22T21:09:00.005+01:002010-07-24T17:13:05.890+01:00Private Dancer.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TEij2F-PiQI/AAAAAAAAAXc/oVSm6d2E5-M/s1600/Private+Dancer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TEij2F-PiQI/AAAAAAAAAXc/oVSm6d2E5-M/s320/Private+Dancer.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>As I have mentioned on this blog at least, <i>ohhhh, I dunno, </i>about a hundred times already, I am not a manly man. I cry at films, I coo over kittens, and every third month I lactate. But there is one thing that I have done in my life that does give me a few man points. <br />
<br />
I’ve been to a strip club. <br />
<br />
Not once. But <i>twice</i>. <br />
<br />
<i>Yeah, check out this playa.</i> <br />
<br />
Now let me make this clear from the off. I’m not a pervy, lecherous bloke who leers at women whilst making inappropriate comments. So the whole notion of joining the sweaty ranks of men in ill fitting suits who stare lustfully at half naked girls was a bit of an alien one to me. But yes, I have frequented a strip club. Was it enjoyable? Not really. Interesting? Yes, a little. <br />
<br />
The first time I ever visited one was about ten years ago. I had planned a night out in London with a very close friend of mine one Saturday night. We had a few venues we wanted to visit and a loose plan for the evening, but to be honest, the idea was to just see where the night took us. <br />
<br />
So after hitting a few bars and clubs, it was getting close to chucking out time. Fuelled by a mixture of cheap amphetamines and vodka, we stood outside a club in the West End and tried to decide where to go next.<br />
<br />
Almost by osmosis we both agreed at the same time. <br />
<br />
<i>Strip club.</i> <br />
<br />
It just seemed like the most logical choice. We were young. We were smartly dressed. We had never been to one. The night was about to get <i>massive</i>. <br />
<br />
If you want any kind of pervy thrill in London, then Soho is the place to go. So we did. And ended up at a place called The Windmill. <br />
<br />
Now please bear in mind, my only experience of strip clubs are in 80’s police buddy movies where the two mismatched cops finally bond over tacky 80’s music and women with really big hair. So to suddenly find myself standing nervously outside one of them with my friend was a very weird feeling. <br />
<br />
<i>I’m James Bond. I’m James Bond. I’m James Bond. </i>I kept repeating in my head as the bouncers let us pass and we walked into the dark interior of the club. <br />
<br />
<i>Well this is new.</i> <br />
<br />
That evening we were the only two white customers in there. Two very young, scared looking, white customers. All the other patrons were either Chinese or Arab looking, and they all had about three or four half naked girls round them. <br />
<br />
“Go grab that table over there,” I told my friend. “I’ll get us some drinks.” <br />
<br />
As my friend went off to the table, I walked up to the bar and ordered two beers. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned round to find a rather nice lady standing there in her underwear. <br />
<br />
“Hello.” She said. <br />
<br />
“Hello.” I squeaked back. <br />
<br />
“Would you like some company tonight?” <br />
<br />
“Yes please.” I replied. <br />
<br />
I am, and always ever will be, this smooth. <br />
<br />
She beckoned one of her friends over and dragged me back to my table where my friend was. <br />
<br />
“If you want to sit here you have to buy a bottle of champagne.” She told me, sitting down next to me while her friend started chatting to mine. <br />
<br />
“Oh, right.” <br />
<br />
She called one of the waiters over who brought a tray with the bottle and glasses on. As he began pouring, he said “That will be £70.” <br />
<br />
<i>Shit.</i> <br />
<br />
“That’s okay, you can pay when you leave.” My new companion told me. <br />
<br />
“Wonderful.” I sighed. <br />
<br />
So we sat and made idle chit chat. Where have you been tonight? Do you like my bra? That kind of stuff. <br />
<br />
“Would you like me to dance for you?” she suddenly asked me, sipping on her drink. <br />
<br />
“Er, yeah. Why not?” I replied, my smoothness increasing with every breath that I took. <br />
<br />
“It costs £20 per dance. You can pay everything when you leave.” <br />
<br />
“Will you be dancing here?” I asked, looking at the tiny area around our table. <br />
<br />
“No silly. Come with me.” <br />
<br />
She took my hand and dragged me to one of the private booths that lined the sides of the club and almost threw me on the little sofa there. And then she took of her underwear and began to dance in front of me to the music. <br />
<br />
Now this dance was costing me £20, but I ended up, out of some misguided form of respect, looking everywhere but the areas I was meant to be looking at. Mainly her. <br />
<br />
I don’t know why I suddenly came over all chivalrous. It was two in the morning in a Soho strip club and I had just paid for someone to take their clothes off in front of me. But I just couldn’t do it. She was putting her heart into it, bless her, but I just didn’t find it a turn on. I ended up gazing around the little booth I was in, thinking: <i>Ohhh, those crushed velvet curtains would really go well in my living room. </i> <br />
<br />
I could see by the look on her face that I may have hurt her feelings by my lack of interest. I looked to my left and saw a rather swarthy looking business man having a dance next to me. He looked like a pig in a tie. <br />
<br />
<i>Did I look like that?</i> <br />
<br />
I decided that for all the effort she was putting in to her dance, I had better put in a bit of a performance myself. So I tried to arrange my face into an expression that signified pure animal lust, but then swiftly tried to change it, as she suddenly stopped dancing and looked at me terrified as if I was suddenly going to rip my shirt off, shouting “WE DO FUCK NOW, YA?” <br />
<br />
When my dance was finally finished, she asked me “You like?” <br />
<br />
“Yes, lovely thanks.” I replied, resisting the urge to pat her on the shoulder. I mean, what the fuck do you say to someone who has basically been gyrating her bits in your face for about 10 minutes? <br />
<br />
We spent the rest of the night just chatting away at the table. She asked me if I wanted another dance, but I politely declined. I was pretty drunk and the amphetamines were wearing off and all I wanted to do was go home. <br />
<br />
When the club was finally closing, and it was time for us to leave, I was escorted by the girl to a cash machine. <br />
<br />
“That will be £500.” <br />
<br />
<i>What the fuck!!!!</i> <br />
<br />
I mentally tried to add up the drinks, and then my brain decided that it wasn’t having any of it and just basically shut down for the night. Everything was dark and fuzzy and I started to feel a bit ill. <br />
<br />
“£500, No problem, “I said, putting my card in the machine and entering my pin number. <br />
<br />
PIN NUMBER DECLINED. <br />
<br />
I entered it again. <br />
<br />
PIN NUMBER DECLINED. <br />
<br />
<i>Bollocks. </i>I entered it again. <br />
<br />
The words<i>: YOU’RE ENTERING THE WRONG PIN NUMBER, NUMBNUTS </i>blinked back at me in green letters from the ATM machine. <br />
<br />
I couldn’t remember my PIN number. <br />
<br />
Suddenly a rather large bouncer came over. <br />
<br />
“Is there a problem here?” he asked the girl. <br />
<br />
“He won’t pay me.” She replied. <br />
<br />
“No wait, “I said in a panic as he loomed over me. “I want to pay, I really do. It’s not working!” This was followed up by frantic jabbing of the buttons of the ATM machine. “Look!” <br />
<br />
“You’ve got five minutes to pay the girl or me and you are going to have an issue.” <br />
<br />
<i>He’s going to rape me! He’s going to kill me, then rape me!!</i> <br />
<br />
Suddenly four magical numbers exploded in my head like bursting fireworks. My brain, sensing imminent danger, had suddenly come back to life. <br />
<br />
“I remember!” I cried, blinking tears away from my eyes. “<i>I remember the numbers</i>!” <br />
<br />
I jabbed them in and the blessed, life saving money came out. <br />
<br />
“Here! Here is your money!” I said, waving the notes in the bouncers face triumphantly. <br />
<br />
The bouncer grabbed them in a hand the size of a shovel. <br />
<br />
“Get out.” <br />
<br />
We got out. <br />
<br />
So I must say that it was to my surprise, about six months later, that I found myself in Spearmint Rhino strip club with Vanessa shaking her bits at me. <br />
<br />
I didn’t want to be there. I had gone out for the evening for one of my friend’s birthdays and somehow got roped in with three others to visit the club. <br />
<br />
“I have no money.” I moaned as we queued up. <br />
<br />
“Don’t worry mate, I’ve got tonight covered.” my friend replied, waving his credit card in my face. <br />
<br />
When we walked in, I immediately sat down at one of the tables and tried to give the impression that I didn’t want to be there. <br />
<br />
Didn’t work. <br />
<br />
Suddenly someone jumped on me and sat on my lap. It was Vanessa. Sadly, as she sat down, I also had my phone in my pocket, which her arse then proceeded to mash into my testicles. <br />
<br />
“Oh my god, my dahlink.” She said in a heavy Eastern European accent “Did I just sit on your peppers?” <br />
<br />
I didn’t know what was worse, the fact that I had now turned white and was flopping around in my chair like a half dead fish, or she had just called my testicles “peppers” <br />
<br />
“No,” I whispered hoarsely “Your fine.” <br />
<br />
As the girls could see we were young and had cash on the hip, we were a fair draw. Suddenly all of us had girls on our laps. <br />
<br />
“Do all you boys want a dance?” One of them asked us. <br />
<br />
“Yeah!” <br />
<br />
“Most definitely.” <br />
<br />
“Ah, go on then.” <br />
<br />
“No.” <br />
<br />
Everyone looked at me. <br />
<br />
“Yes?” I replied meekly with a shrug. <br />
<br />
Vanessa took my hand and led me to one of the private booths. I was getting to be quite the veteran of this now. She removed he clothes and pushed me back on to the sofa I was sitting on. <br />
<br />
“You’re going to enjoy this dahlink.” She said seductively. <br />
<br />
<i>I’m bloody not </i>I thought. <br />
<br />
So I sat there and watched while she danced for me. <br />
<br />
She was good, Vanessa. She danced and moved in time to the music much better than my first experience did. <br />
<br />
“Do you like my tits?” she said, thrusting them in my face. <br />
<br />
“They’re very nice.” I replied to her nipples. <br />
<br />
She then straddled me and covered my head with her long frizzy brown hair. I have no idea why she did this. I ended up looking like this man.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TEijjfUW43I/AAAAAAAAAXY/sg-16KjP8xI/s1600/brian_may_23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TEijjfUW43I/AAAAAAAAAXY/sg-16KjP8xI/s320/brian_may_23.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And then she started doing something very odd. She began blowing in my ear. <br />
<br />
Now as I am deaf, my ears are very sensitive to me. So I certainly bloody didn’t like this at all. Every time she did this, I flinched away. <br />
<br />
Finally my dance was over. <br />
<br />
“Thank you,” I said. “That man over there will pay you.” This was followed with a point to my friend with the credit card, who was sitting back with a dumbstruck expression while a lady with breasts the size of my head<br />
waved them in his face. <br />
<br />
I sat down at our table on my own, my friends still away having their dances. About five minutes later, a blonde dancer sat down next to me. <br />
<br />
“Listen, “I said. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m absolutely potless right now and I just want to sit here and have a drink.” <br />
<br />
“That’s alright,” she replied. “I’m bloody knackard anyway.” <br />
<br />
The next 20 minutes were my best experience ever in a strip club. We spent the whole time talking about our favourite books. <br />
<br />
“Can I ask you something?” I said. <br />
<br />
“Go on.” <br />
<br />
“Why do you do this?” <br />
<br />
“Why shouldn’t I? The moneys great, I have some good friends here. 50% of the blokes here can be alright, the other 50% get chucked out when they turn twatish. I’m proud of my body. I like the job. So why not?” <br />
<br />
“I guess. What’s the question you get asked most by the blokes here then?” <br />
<br />
“<i>Why do you do it</i>?” she replied with a smile. “Have a nice night.” <br />
<br />
And she left. <br />
<br />
So how can I best sum up the whole experience? I guess some people like it; they wouldn’t be so popular otherwise. Not really for me to be honest. <br />
<br />
And <i>what </i>was with that thing with the ears??Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-80460077570330697802010-07-03T17:48:00.009+01:002010-07-05T19:23:39.120+01:00New Chums…….<i>I have rewritten and reread this post many times and I still can’t stop it from sounding a bit gay. But you know what; I’m actually okay with that. In fact, I’m going to test the gayness of this post by adding pink points to the gayest parts (represented by this symbol <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pqX0Kv2I/AAAAAAAAAV4/Osmev7KDR0c/s1600-h/gay%5B2%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pqwyzqxI/AAAAAAAAAV8/9qy1PU3IXQc/gay_thumb.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> ) followed up by a rating on my gayometer.</i> <br />
<br />
As I have been working in my current job now for around six months, our little team has grown by many numbers and has now added a pair of men to the equation, which has helped me out no end. <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9prB4XeEI/AAAAAAAAAWA/K2BX4LJL3Pk/s1600-h/gay%5B5%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9prjVGHAI/AAAAAAAAAWE/INnddWiVCoQ/gay_thumb%5B1%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9psLZZsaI/AAAAAAAAAWI/AXTDJaQeNEs/s1600-h/gay%5B8%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9psbAGeOI/AAAAAAAAAWM/waDQ1JmVj7E/gay_thumb%5B2%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <br />
<br />
Now please don’t get me wrong, I have loved working with the group of lovely ladies on my team so far, but being the only bloke on our programme has, at some points, left me feeling very isolated. So it was a great relief that I immediately bonded with our new additions and can, I hope, count them as friends. <a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9ps1OZosI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/XXArQBhFZzQ/s1600-h/gay%5B11%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9ptG-J_hI/AAAAAAAAAWU/BmxYxxdJGcg/gay_thumb%5B3%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <br />
<br />
Nearly everyone I am friends with in my life has always said that they hated me when they first met me. Apparently it’s because I am as about as approachable as a burning fireworks factory that is surrounded by landmines, velociraptors, and fundamental Christians. Which is, of course, not very approachable at all. But I totally get where they are coming from. <br />
<br />
But once people actually get to know me, they find out that I am actually a lovely person and immediately take me to the bosom of their hearts where I will remain for the rest of their lives. Always there. Lurking. Watching. Waiting. <br />
<br />
In many ways, becoming friends with me is very much like taking a trip to Ikea. At first you really don’t want to be there, but after having a good look around, you find there is a lot of interesting things going on in all the nooks and crannies and realise that this is the best place you’ve ever been too. But then as you leave the store, filled with the joy that this new found discovery has brought you, this feeling will then fade in time to be replaced with bitterness and despair until you are left alone, crying silent angry tears into the instructions of a shattered Rutundra coffee table and wondering where it all went wrong? <br />
<br />
Actually that is a really shit metaphor. I have absolutely no idea why I just included that. I am nothing like Ikea. <br />
<br />
When you were younger, making friends was a simple as going up to someone on the school playground, kicking them in the ankles and pulling a mong face at them and then asking “Do you want to go look at some worms?” <br />
<br />
Unfortunately you can’t use this approach as an adult (though it would make meeting women much more interesting), so making friends is a lot more difficult when you're older. It always helps if you have something in common, which is most definitely what I did have with the new addition to our team (a really funny bloke with the dryest sense of humour going), that thing in common being playing childish practical jokes on one of the long suffering girls who we work with (who, I hasten to add, has taken it all in very good spirit and has only threatened to mutilate our genitals only once). <br />
<br />
So far we have managed to pretend have an argument, stuck hundreds of small furry toy creatures all over her desk when she wasn’t in, and most impressively, prised off the keys on her PC keyboard and rearranged them, so when she came in the next day she thought she had turned dyslexic overnight. All incredibly childish and immature, but that is most definitely the level I operate best at. And it was a great way to become good friends with the new guy, which I hope I have done. <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9ptTXABDI/AAAAAAAAAWY/oBIzcmeMBcg/s1600-h/gay%5B14%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pt37SoRI/AAAAAAAAAWc/hQLu2gi_P8Y/gay_thumb%5B4%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <br />
<br />
*<i>Note- When I am actually doing these practical jokes, in the thick of it so to speak, you will normally find me giggling away to myself like a schoolgirl. When the recipient of the joke finds out, and the cries of “Who the bloody hell has done this?” rings round the office, you will then find me at the back of the rapidly forming crowd with my arms crossed, shaking my head in disgust at how some people can be so childish. Now you may call this the coward’s way out, I just call it cunning</i>.* <br />
<br />
My other new BFF is a guy who works in our sister office in Stratford. He actually reminds me of a younger, cooler Woody Allan, which is in no way a bad thing. For some reason we clicked straight away and I am comfortable enough in actually counting him as a good friend already. Although everyone else that we work with has now started to rip the piss out of us by saying we have a bromance going on, so we have had to stop things like holding hands on the office and calling each other “Babe”. <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pukhBV_I/AAAAAAAAAWg/uTp6WAQ4pT8/s1600-h/gay%5B17%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pvfgdf1I/AAAAAAAAAWk/Sazn1Pbr3uM/gay_thumb%5B5%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pwI1owXI/AAAAAAAAAWo/rhEGT3E44Ao/s1600-h/gay%5B20%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pwcUjqFI/AAAAAAAAAWs/rpxQzAmhlTA/gay_thumb%5B6%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pwxLOkII/AAAAAAAAAWw/7DUXd5t2GKE/s1600-h/gay%5B23%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pxGlmzbI/AAAAAAAAAW0/AsdWIkFsu40/gay_thumb%5B7%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <br />
<br />
They just be playa hating. <br />
<br />
The good thing is that we have a very similar sense of humour, which basically means we just laugh at each other’s jokes while no one else does. No one. At all. <br />
<br />
We have all been out for teams drinks and so forth, which is really good, but now just me and him are arranging to just go out for a drink after work on a “Man date.” <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pxnFoH6I/AAAAAAAAAW4/H68Wewya8dA/s1600-h/gay%5B26%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9px-L_vrI/AAAAAAAAAW8/EIT2UuqBx4w/gay_thumb%5B8%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> <br />
<br />
Now the legendary “Man dates” have to follow a set pattern. To prove that two blokes going for a drink alone are in no way gay for each other, there are only three topics of conversation that are allowed. <br />
<br />
1) Football. <br />
2) Boobs. <br />
3) Personal insults. <br />
<br />
So a simple line of a conversation would be: <i>Went West Ham last night, saw a bird with really big boobs......You massive twat.</i> <br />
<br />
So just keep rearranging those sentences anyway you want, and keep repeating them until drunkenness kicks in, and by then you are allowed to go a bit gay anyway because you normally end up slurring: <i>You know what mate? (hic) I bloody loves you.</i> <br />
<br />
What you most definitely don’t want to do return to your table with both hands pressed to your cheeks just after putting a song on the jukebox and then proclaiming loudly “<i>Oh my God! This song is sooooo about me!” </i>and then spend the next three minutes miming the lyrics to ABBA’s <i>Dancing Queen </i>as it plays out around the pub. <br />
<br />
Believe me; I’m not making that mistake again. <br />
<br />
I once went on a man date with a bloke from a football forum I go on. We arranged to meet up for a drink before the game, and, as I had never met this bloke before, I was actually pretty nervous. I kept on having random thoughts running through my head. <i>Will we run out of things to talk about? What if he thinks I’m a dick? Will he think my hair looks pretty?</i> <br />
<br />
Lucky for me, we actually got on alright and just spent the afternoon playing pool. But the whole notion of making new friends is still a personal minefield that can sometimes blow up in your face spectacularly. <br />
<br />
But that is, I guess, what friends are for? <br />
<br />
<b>GAYOMETER RESULTS</b> <br />
<b></b> <br />
<b>9X <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pyOcapGI/AAAAAAAAAXA/APd2Banke3E/s1600-h/gay%5B29%5D.gif"><img alt="gay" height="16" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pymC6PjI/AAAAAAAAAXE/JPooyVycHMk/gay_thumb%5B9%5D.gif?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="gay" width="35" /></a> = <a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9py5Q1erI/AAAAAAAAAXI/yEjJGygtro0/s1600-h/GAY%202%5B2%5D.jpg"><img alt="GAY 2" border="0" height="105" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TC9pzCWSV5I/AAAAAAAAAXM/10krNYlo0WU/GAY%202_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border: 0px none; display: inline;" title="GAY 2" width="105" /></a></b>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-87847968293362126602010-06-26T15:34:00.004+01:002010-06-30T21:55:27.831+01:00Here Comes The Sun……..I, by rights, am not really a bright and cheery soul. In fact, if you wanted to be pedantic about it, I am in fact a pathologically cynical anti-social bastard who views the world through a permanent sneer and would quite happily baseball bat every idiot I meet round the head until their legs start twitching. I am also quite cuddly though, so I’m not all that bad. <br />
<br />
So because of my natural disposition, I normally hate this time of year. <br />
<br />
Summer. <br />
<br />
Urrrrgh! <br />
<br />
Now don’t get me wrong, when I go on holiday I am like a sun god. I bask in the rays like a sunbathing turtle, trying desperately to turn brown because chicks dig brown dudes. And I am, of course, naturally all about the chicks, man. <br />
<br />
But summer in the UK is a horrible, horrible thing. It truly is. <br />
<br />
We just don’t know how to deal with it. <br />
<br />
Us Brits are a pasty bunch on a whole. For most of the year, the only exposure we get to any harsh light is when we stand stupidly in front of our open refrigerators trying desperately to decide what to have for dinner, bathed in the heavenly glow from the light at the back of the fridge that is just hidden behind the cheese and that suspicious looking yoghurt that has been in there for what seems like forever and has now become a sentient life form. That’s sunbathing to us. <br />
<br />
As most of the time the UK is plunged into almost perpetual gloom, the moment the sun decides to peek its bastard glowy yellow face from behind a cloud, we all go metal. <i>Literally</i> mental. <br />
<br />
Clothing is shed faster than you can say “<i>Oh my God, put them away!” </i>as any form of social constraint is thrown out of the window. Fat men seem to be in the understanding that it is perfectly alright to waddle around in the tightest shorts imaginable and nothing else. So on any street, you are suddenly confronted with the sight of a huge red wobbly torso looming towards you with pendulous breasts like shopping bags filled with sausage meat swaying hypnotically in every opposite direction. Women seem to view themselves in an almost alternative reality and wear clothing that is ten times too small for them on bodies that really shouldn’t be wearing clothes that are ten times too small for them, so they end up looking like swelled up books that have been left out in the rain. <br />
<br />
I’m not a prude. I like looking at half naked folk (the Judge at Snaresbrook court said I was particularly good at it), I just wish there could be some kind of social reality filter where you could tell people:<i> This is what you look like, now wear clothing that is appropriate. </i>By all means wear clothing that shows a bit of skin, flash the flesh, and so forth, just please don’t wear stuff that makes me want to blind myself with two Cornetto cones when you shuffle past so I don’t have to look at you again. <br />
<br />
And one other thing, don’t wear fucking Flip-flops. <br />
<br />
Feet are evil. Two slabs of calloused, dry skinned meat. And most women (and far too many men) seem to want to get these out for the public. Feet should be encased in concrete, never to be seen from the moment you are born. But not in the summer. No. It’s a flip-flop party in summer. <br />
<br />
Two things wrong with this. <br />
1) The noise. <i>Swish. Flap. Swish. Flap.</i> <br />
2) No one wants to view your big wedge of cheesy foot heel flaking bits of dead skin everywhere. <br />
<br />
So don’t do it, please. <br />
<br />
The moment the papers start reporting: PHEW! WOT A SCORCHER! All over the UK people start running outside, smearing themselves with chip fat and screaming “Burn me!” It’s amazing that with all that sunlight hitting pale, pasty flesh, there isn’t some kind of massive solar flare reaction that incinerates the surface of the world until everything is burnt to a crisp. <br />
<br />
But after three days of extreme sunbathing, the Uk’s populations starts to change. Supermarkets are filled with shell shocked red people with skin that looks as if it has been sandblasted, all of them looking for the aftersun lotion to put on their boiling flesh. <br />
<br />
That bronzed brown god/goddess look you were going for, well, the maroon based skin with peeling bits isn’t really a good compromise, is it? <br />
<br />
If you stop and wait outside any suburban street, just under an open bedroom window (which once again, the Judge said I had an almost unnatural talent for) all you will hear being cried out is “Don’t touch me Jason, <i>I’m on fire</i>!” <br />
<br />
How is this fun? <br />
<br />
Another way in which the UK is crap at summer is with the heat. <br />
<br />
I hate the heat. <br />
<br />
Every time I have been abroad, every single country handles their heat perfectly with air conditioning, fans, open areas, all just plain simple common sense really. <br />
<br />
Not here. <br />
<br />
Our heat is different to other countries heat as it has nowhere to go. So it just clings to you like a wet shower curtain. And we’re just not prepared for it. It’s like we forget what normally happens during summer, and the moment the mercury starts rising, we just look around with a dumb expression on our faceholes. “<i>What do you mean it gets hot</i>?” <br />
<br />
Nights are spent lying awake in a puddle of your own sweat, while a pathetic floor fan blows air on you with all the power of a flatulent hamster. Offices are filled with workers that have been fused to their computers as the management once again forgot to get the air con fixed. But that’s not the worst thing, not by any shot. <br />
<br />
This is. <br />
<br />
Public. Fucking. Transport. <br />
<br />
Tell me this, how hard is it to get some form of air conditioning on a train? Well, very bloody hard apparently. <br />
<br />
As I only deal in cold hard facts, here’s one for you. <br />
<br />
It is a legal requirement that if you are transporting livestock, the temperature in the mode of transport MUST not exceed 85 degrees. Last summer, the temperature recorded on the central line was 96 degrees. <br />
<br />
Countries gone to the dogs, blah, blah, etc, etc. <br />
<br />
I used to regularly travel on the central line but gladly stopped when I moved home. I took the delight of a journey on it the other day. The tube was packed, and I mean, <i>packed</i>. The sweat was literally dripping from the ceiling. I was wearing a pair of cotton trousers that shrunk in the heat to cotton hotpants. I thought at one point we had taken a detour from Bank to Liverpool Street via the seventh level of Hell. I half expected that the very Devil himself was driving the train in a London Underground uniform. When we finally reached our destination, and the doors opened, none of us could move as we had all melted on the floor into fleshy pizza shapes topped off by two madly staring eyeballs, and all of us wondering if this would affect our travelcards as none of us looked anything like what we did in our photos anymore. <br />
<br />
So you can basically stick your summer right up your poop chute. <br />
<br />
Give me dark days, snow, biting cold, and many, many layers of clothing. <br />
<br />
<i>Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. </i>Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-14390328751428312172010-06-09T17:08:00.001+01:002010-06-09T17:08:28.802+01:00Megaton Poo Explosion………<p>I awoke this morning at around 4am to a horrendous rumbling noise that resembled a freight train hurtling through my bedroom. It was only after a rubbed the sleep from my mind that I realised that the rumbling noise was actually coming from my nether regions. <p>Being the medical genius that I am, I immediately knew that something was wrong. <p>I shot from my bed and ran to the toilet just in time before my rear end exploded in what can only be described as “Hells gruel.” <p>My Irritable Bowel Syndrome was back and it was in a foul mood (it had gone past irritable and moved into incandescent rage). <p>I have suffered with IBS since I was about 18. I fecking hate it, I really do. It’s not an illness, it’s not a virus, it’s just an evil thing that won’t leave me alone. <p>For those who are lucky enough to not suffer from this let me try and describe the sheer agony that it can bring. Many people believe that it is just having a dicky tummy, it’s not. Imagine someone grabbing your lower bowel with both hands and slowly twisting it. Couple this with bouts of constipation, or sudden explosive mega poo bombs, and you have got yourself a regular toilet based party going on. <p>Certain foods can trigger an attack (pizza kills me), but the main source of kick starting a session of me sweating and rolling around in agony is stress. <p>As I am male, and also British, I don’t emote. I have emotions, but they are carefully locked away, buried deep within my subconscious to be unearthed many years later by my therapist, or to take shape in the form of a big pissy ulcer, gurgling away in the centre of my stomach like an evil baby. So on the outside I am a picture of calmness, while inside, all my rage, fear, frustration, and general negative emotions sit astride my digestive system, banging away like the cast members of <i>Stomp.</i> <p>So, this morning. I ran to the loo in about 2 seconds, and sat on it with a relieved sigh. I then began what I call my “Irritable Bowel Dance” which basically consists of me wriggling like an eel on the toilet, banging both feet on the floor, and using language last seen in <i>The Exorcist.</i> <p>Liquid hot magma was expelled from my body, causing the lower half of my body to feel as if I had flames shooting out of it. I felt like a firework. So naturally my cat felt this would be an ideal time to wander in and see what all the commotion was about. I don’t know if any of you have tried to pass rocket fuel through your anus whilst being observed by a cat. It’s very disconcerting. <p>“<i>Get out!</i>” I hissed at her, resisting the urge to follow that up with “<i>Run!”</i> <p>She naturally took no notice and decided that this would be an opportune time to clean her genitals. It was nice to see that my searing pain was causing her some concern. She ran out after I threw toilet roll at her head. <p>I have taken the day off work today. The combination of no sleep and having an arse that resembled the Japanese flag meant that I couldn’t face sitting in pain at my office chair. So I have just been lying round with a hot water bottle clamped to my lower belly like a menstruating teenager. <p>My Irritable Bowel Syndrome has caused me one of my most shameful episodes in my entire life. I debated if I should include it in this blog, but then thought that I am never going to meet any of you, and if you judge me from the one thing I am going to tell you about, well, that means you are <i>all</i> bad people. All of you. <p>Oh God, here goes. <p><i>I once shit myself in a Subway. </i> <p>There, I said it. I can admit it. <p>I. Once shit myself. In a Subway. <p>It’s not as bad as masturbating in a charity shop (what a weekend that was!), but it comes pretty darn close. <p>Everything was fine. I had no indication of the nightmare that was to come. My IBS was sleeping like a well fed dog. I was standing at one of the side tables with Kates, eating my sub, when all of a sudden I turned white. <p>“Something terrible has happened.” I whispered to her, my sub half raised to my mouth. <p>“Have they put mayo on your food again?” she asked me. <p>“No, this is much worse than that.” I hissed back. <p>“What’s wrong?” <p>“We have to leave <i>right now</i>.” I said, walking towards the exit. <p>“But what about your food? And why are you walking funny?” <p>We stood outside on the cold London street. <p>“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Kates asked me. <p>“I’ve pooed myself.” <p>“WHAT?” <p>“I’ve pooed myself.” <p>“What do you mean you’ve pooed yourself?” <p>For a moment I was a little confused. <p>“I don’t know how to make it any clearer than I have. I’ve.....pooed myself.” <p>“Oh, what are we going to do?” <p>And there was the rub. I was stuck in London, miles from home, with no money to buy any replacement clothes, and my trousers had just exploded. <p>This was my walking nightmare. <p>Kates suddenly realised that Selfridges was just around the corner (regular readers will know that this was the very posh department store that I temped in over Christmas) and suggested I could try and sort myself out in their toilets. <p>So began the slowest and most uncomfortable walk of my life. I don’t know if any of you have tried walking anywhere after you have just soiled yourselves? I seriously wouldn’t recommend it. <p>Finally I arrived at the store and hurried my way in to the public toilet. It was a vast cavernous hall that was thankfully empty. I nipped in to one of the stalls and surveyed the damage. If my reaction was anything to go by, I am so going to be rubbish at changing nappies. I poked my head out of the stall and looked around. Still empty. I dumped my underpants in the trash can used for paper towels (and may I apologise to the man who had to empty it) and tried to clean my trouser in the sink. My thinking was that I was pretty far away from the door, so I would hear it if anyone came in and I could pop them back on so no one had to see my testicles. <p>Did I mention that I’m deaf? <p>I know the chances of you reading this are slim to anorexic, but I would also like to apologise to the gentleman who came in with his young son to find me hopping around on one leg trying to hastily put my trousers back on with my “bits” resembling excited puppies that were happy to see me. <p>No one needs to see that. <p>No one. <p>The train journey home was “interesting.” <p>There is something incredibly liberating about standing on a packed train in rush hour wearing trousers filled with your own effluence. Social niceties generally go out of the window. In the end I just didn’t care anymore. All I wanted was a shower, clean clothes, and my bed. <p>It takes me an hour to get home. <p>A whole fucking hour. <p>So there you go. There’s nothing more you need to know about me. That’s my most embarrassing moment, laid out for you all to read and take on board. <p>Judge away. I don’t mind. I shit myself once. Who hasn’t? <p>No, <i>seriously</i>, who hasn’t? <p>Right? <p><i>Right???</i> <p>I hate my life.</p> Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830672497516279734.post-16940567614454894352010-05-31T17:06:00.002+01:002010-05-31T17:08:26.752+01:00Feels Like Heaven.......<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TAPd7nIbUjI/AAAAAAAAAVo/mS5ODVRpml0/s1600/heaven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TAPd7nIbUjI/AAAAAAAAAVo/mS5ODVRpml0/s320/heaven.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Many thanks to the lovely Cat for giving me the idea of my next post as I was struggling a little bit. But it totally makes natural sense to write about Heaven soon after a post about death. <br />
<br />
So here it is. <br />
<br />
I am not a religious person by any stretch (cue mass gasps of surprise and the sound of millions of people hitting the floor in what can only be describe as catatonic shock). So the very notion of a heaven and a hell is an amusing one to me. <br />
<br />
We silly little human beings are obsessed by ourselves, we really are. Our entire lives revolve around our own being as we feel we are the centre of each of our own universes and nothing in the world will ever change that. So the very idea that when we, the lords of all creation, die, well, that's it folks, shows over chums, turn off the lights, feed the cat for me when I’m gone, etc, etc. Well it totally freaks our minds out because it kinda confirms that we aren’t <i>really </i>that significant and the world will in fact keep on turning after we pop our clogs. <br />
<br />
<i>You mean to say that</i> <i>when I die in 60 odd years, that's it? That's not fair! I’m too important!!!! Surely there must be a way round this?</i> <br />
<br />
And there is my scared and worried little friend. There is a way in which we can prolong your magnificence and make you feel as if there is an actual point to the massive accident that was all of your atoms colliding and forming the slightly odd looking humanoid with the vacant look plastered all over its stupid face. We will invent religion, and in turn, heaven and hell, and make you believe that your wondrous existence will carry on for the rest of all eternity if it means that we can control you all by brainwashing you into believing in this new thing called “religion.” <br />
<br />
<i>Sounds interesting, I’m listening. What do I have to do?</i> <br />
<br />
It’s simple my friendly, all you have to do is follow this list of rules, easy things like don’t make sexy eyes at your neighbours wife, even if she is a hottie, don’t steal…..er….cows and stuff, don’t suddenly find another God, even if he is offering a free X-Box if you join up, don’t kill anyone, no matter how annoying they are, and there is some other stuff that I will throw in later, but you get the general picture, right? Do all this and we will make it worth your time, you will get in to-q<i>uickly Barry, crank up the celestial angels CD-</i>heaven. Fail to do this and you will end up in-<i>Barry, the Mariah Carey CD!-</i>hell. And you don’t want that to happen. <br />
<br />
<i>And if I do all this I go to Heaven? What will happen after I die then? Do I become a star in the sky or something? Is that heaven?</i> <br />
<br />
<i>What?</i> No. That would be ridiculous. No you will go upstairs into a magical land of unicorns and free ice cream. <br />
<br />
<i>Really?</i> <br />
<br />
Possibly, I’m kinda making this up as I go along. There are a few things that need ironing out but it’s gonna be <i>really </i>good. Seriously, well worth the hundreds of years of slaughter and general heartache that is going to come once your tiny little pea brains fully grasp what crap we are spoon feeding you. <br />
<br />
<i>Unicorns? I’m in! What's a unicorn?</i> <br />
<br />
It’s a mythical made up being very much like our new God-SNIP! (Better stop there before I get some fundamental Christians hunting me down via my IP address). <br />
<br />
So, that's my view on religion and heaven. I thought I would water it down a little. Wouldn’t want to be controversial or anything. <br />
<br />
But a part of me does like this idea in a really perverse way though. It’s a bit like an exasperated mother dangling the promise of sweeties to her screaming child as it screams its head off in the local supermarket. <i>Please be good and you will get this yummy treat. </i>I mean, who wouldn't want to live a better life if it meant our shining stars could burn that little bit brighter for that little bit longer. Shame that we have to be tricked in to doing it, it’s not like any of us might actually want to live a good life off our own backs, is it? <br />
<br />
The whole idea of the clouds and the harp playing and the general <i>smugness </i>of heaven does kind of depress me a little. The traditional notion of the celestial plane being like an Ikea catalogue, with everyone sitting around in white rooms just laughing their tits off at all the heathens in hell below, just sounds like a dinner party that I really would want to try and avoid. <br />
<br />
Here my alternatives: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TAPeDpOkTlI/AAAAAAAAAVs/VVsl-GYUAxs/s1600/gemma_arterton_6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AVFS_sK7-nk/TAPeDpOkTlI/AAAAAAAAAVs/VVsl-GYUAxs/s320/gemma_arterton_6.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><b>The “Gemma Arterton” Heaven.</b> <br />
Quite simple this. When I die, every single cloud up in heaven will have Gemma Arterton sitting on it, each one representing the things that I would like to do. <br />
(On one cloud) <br />
Gemma: <i>Hi Dan, I can’t decide what underwear to put on today, can you help?</i> <br />
Me: <i>I can spare a few moments. </i> <br />
(On another cloud) <br />
Gemma: <i>Hi Dan, would you like to play some Call Of Duty?</i> <br />
Me: <i>Do I! </i> <br />
(On another) <br />
Gemma- <i>Hi Dan, would you like to watch me and all the other Gemma’s have a pillow fight?</i> <br />
Me: <i>Yes, yes I would actually.</i> <br />
PRAISE BE TO JESUS! <br />
<br />
<b>The “Do What You Want Heaven”</b> <br />
Human existence is one of guilt. Every single day we are told not to do this, not to do that, don't eat this, don't drink that, and don’t smoke this, basically because everything that is pleasurable in this world is in fact bad for you. So wouldn’t it be nice if heaven took away all of these boundaries and you could just live the way you wanted too? As long as you weren’t hurting anyone else what is the problem in shooting up heroin whilst face first in a six foot pizza while a midget shoves vibrating dildos up your bumhole? (This is, of course, just an example, not my own personal heaven. Ahem). <br />
<br />
<b>The “Be Surrounded By Everyone You Love” Heaven</b> <br />
This would actually be mine. <br />
<br />
And what about hell? <br />
<br />
<b>The “Relive Every Single Fucking Mistake You Have Ever Made Until You Are Trapped Within Your Own Personal Hell” Hell</b> <br />
Every single fuck up, embarrassing faux pas and humiliating thing you have done in your life, played out over and over again for the rest of eternity in front of a laughing and pointing crowd until the only option is to flay your own face off so no one will recognise you and your shame, but this being hell, it always grows back the very next day. Try that one on for size, huh? <br />
<br />
<b>The “When You Die You Come Back As Me” Hell.</b> <br />
Terrifying, isn’t it? It’s enough to make anyone want to live a pure and simple life. WELL I’M STILL STUCK IN ME!!!!!! <br />
<br />
<b>The “Hell On Earth” Hell</b> <br />
There is a popular theory that none of us actually exist at all and that we are in fact just a conscious stream of thought made up by some cosmic being, and in fact we could all be actively living out some alternative version of hell right here in this very little world. It kind of makes sense considering everything that goes on outside of our windows every day. I have often thought, when confronted by the brain dead mouth breathers that often stand before me with barely enough brain power to motor their own life support systems (i.e. breathing), that I must have done something incredibly evil in a past lifetime to warrant being surrounded by the folk that I am lucky enough to call “my fellow humans.” It’s obvious to me now, people aren’t really people, they are in fact demons in human form, I am in hell, and this is my eternal torment. <br />
<br />
Let us pray.Danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15940396005677889905noreply@blogger.com7