Stephen………….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Stephen he was.

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

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

He also became part of my home.

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

And then yesterday, something happened.

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

He wasn’t good.

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

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

Stephen was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's All This Ear Then?………..

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

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

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

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

Being deaf sucks.

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

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

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

“WHAT?”

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

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHAT DO I THINK? WHAT DO I THINK ABOUT WHAT?”

“No, drink!”

“YES PLEASE, I’D LOVE ONE!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, even heavily sedated, always a playa.

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

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

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

And I might get stark bullock naked again.

There’s always that.

Alright?……….

Hi. How are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was in!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feels its what they would have wanted.

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

I like chicken by the way.

Just saying.

Back To The Future…………………..

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

These are my future pointers:

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

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

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

Not good.

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

Its not easy looking this good. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other than that, ideal role, dontcha thunk?

So what would I advise my younger self to do?

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

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

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

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

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

Or prison.

Either way, could be fun?

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

Precocious, know it all little fucker.

Abscess All Areas……

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

Mmmmmmmn, abscess. 

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

Genius, no?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” I asked him.

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

“Surgeon?”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock……………

I’m bloody annoyed at the moment.

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

Why am I annoyed, you’re not asking?

Well, I’m off work today.

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

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

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

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

Now this could mean either one of three things.

1) I have pulled something and its really swollen.

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

3) I’m starting to grow a tail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m Your Whore……….

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

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

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

So something's not quite right here.

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

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

Wasn’t it?

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

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

Lets break it down, just for old times sake.

1) People Person.

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

2) Sentimental.

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

3) Whore.

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

4) Over Analytical.

This blog post is a prime example.

5) Self Indulgent.

See above.

6) Odd.

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

 

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

There will still be poo jokes though.

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

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

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

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

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

Wearing gloves, obviously.

Germs.

Germs everywhere.

So, That Was Christmas Then?…………….

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 “Its Christmas!” 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.

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.

Here is my list:

A range of Dermalogica products (which also includes hand cream)

A funky new scarf

A funky new man bag

Pants

The Thick of It book

Inception Blu Ray

Expensive hot chocolate and a mug

Scented candles for my flat (this list is not showing me in the best of lights)

Aftershave- Hugo Boss Energise

Chocolates

Shower gel

Socks (Partially eaten)

£20 HMV voucher

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.

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 divine! They are all going to love me when I return and start letting them use it occasionally. I will finally be one of them. 

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.

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 was dressed in a Santa outfit and did look pretty stupid. She also looked a little shifty as well and I soon found out why.

“There's been a bit of an accident with your stocking,” Kates mum told me as I took my coat off.

“Accident?” I replied.

“Yeah, Peggy had been down it and eaten all your chocolates and some of your socks.”

I looked down at Peggy who was by my feet, tail wagging and a lopsided grin plastered all over her face.

“You’ve eaten my Christmas socks?”

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.

“Its only one pair,” Kates mum said after seeing the crestfallen expression on my face.

“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.

When everyone was out of earshot, I leant down to Peggy and whispered in her ear, “You look absolutely ridiculous 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.

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.

“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?”

I could only smile weakly and make a buh 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?”

Still ate it though. I’m hardcore me.

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 Jingle Bells 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 AND 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.

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.

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. I will tame you bitch 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 Jenga 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.

“Is everything going okay?” Kates asked me as she popped her head into my kitchen.

“YES! EVERYTHING IS FINE! GO HAVE FUN IN THE LIVING ROOM! FUN! GO NOW!”

“Whoa, okay kitchen Nazi,” she said, backing out slowly with her hands raised.

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.

“This is delicious.” Kates.

“This turkey is really good.” Kates dad.

“Pass the cranberry sauce.” Kates brother.

And I looked round in amazement. It was a Christmas dinner. A proper Christmas dinner that I had prepared and that everyone was enjoying.

I felt like a God.

And on the 12th day Dan said, “Let there be food!” And the food was good.

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.

“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.

Oh, someone's dead,” Kates dad said.

“That's you Gary,” I replied.

“Oh.”

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.

“I don’t like this game,“ she cried.

“You just can’t handle my mad skills,” I said.

“I can’t handle you being a massive geek who knows how to play these games, loser.”

To be fair, she was right.

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 Avatar for everyone to watch and we slowly slipped into that post dinner semi slumber.

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?

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.

Plus I didn’t kill anyone, which is always a massive bonus.

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.

I know whose the winner in that scenario.

Happy New Year to you all!

Merry Christmas To You All………

I know. I know.

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 dirty. Naughty you!

I did try 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 The Banana Splits going round on a continuous loop. That wouldn’t make a good blog post, that would be ridiculous. 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.

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).

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.

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.

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).

And to round this short post off, this is my new favourite rendition of my most loved Christmas song. I hope you enjoy it.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Things 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.

1) Karaoke God.

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.

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.

Women turn to their boyfriends in the knowledge that these aren’t really men they are with, the bloke up on stage, he 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.

Now the choice of song for the will be essential. Patrick Cassidy’s Vide Cor Meum would be perfect. Sir Mix-A-Lot’s Baby Got Back, not so.

Either way, not gonna happen. I have a singing voice that resembles two sperm whales mating (Snigger. Sperm)

2) Monkey Hugger.

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.

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 really was out of the two of us.

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.

But yeah, I would like to hug a monkey.

3) Stand Up To A Bully.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As we step outside, she asks me, “How comes I have never noticed you before?”

I smile back at her and say, “Because you never looked hard enough.”

And then we walk off arm in arm into the sunny afternoon as the credits roll.

Pretty good, huh?

Now this is what really will happen.

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.

I hate high school comedies.

4) The Returning Hero.

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”

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.

I don’t like that.

5) Stand Up Comic.

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.

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.

My stand up comedy would probably consist of me standing up on stage going, “Cor, cats eh? What are they all about?” and then just stand there sweating while everyone starts getting uncomfortable.

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.

6) Action Hero.

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.

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).

“No,” the man says, turning round and taking off his shirt to reveal a pristine white vest underneath. “We never give up. We fight.”

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 hero.

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).

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.

7) Dancing King.

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.

But there are two dancing scenarios I would love to happen to me at one point in my life.

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.

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.

I really want to take dancing lesson.

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.

But in all seriousness, aren’t we all just living our own little movies?

How To Survive A Zombie Apocalypse…..

I am a 32 year old man.

And because of my gender and age range, I have amassed much knowledge over the 32 years that I have lived so far.

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.

It’s all to do with the plan, you see.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We first started speaking about this many years ago when we first got together. We were watching the remake of Dawn of the Dead, when at the end she asked me the magical question that every male wants to hear.

“So what would you do in a zombie outbreak?”

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.

So what would I do?

Well, the first thing I would do, depending on location, would be to try and make my way to wherever Kates is.

This is for two reasons.

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.

2) I can’t drive and she can.

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.

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.

This man will be me.

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 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.

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.

Sorry ladies of London. You’re on your own.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

I’m always thinking, me.

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.”

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.
If any of you are reading this and you haven’t got your own survival plan, please feel free to steal mine.

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.

And I haven’t got a plan for that.

Here Comes The Fear Part 735

In 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.

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.

1) Scorpions
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.

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.

And then they focused on the scorpion.

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.

This didn’t look good.

And then the lady, who was lying on her bed, then decided to put her slipper on.

You saw her wince in pain, pull her foot out, and then collapse on her bed convulsing.

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.

My tiny little mind was now warped beyond repair.

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.

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.

2) Nightmares
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 of a David Lynch film.

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.

And yet if told back in the warm light of day, they don’t sound that scary.

Take this one.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“I’m just off to bed now. There’s a chance I might wake up screaming at four in the morning. Night!”

This is probably the reason why I was probably never allowed sleepovers when I was a kid.

3) Nutter (A cat)
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.

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 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.

“OW! What the hell!” I cried, batting the cat away.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Form a queue ladies. Form a queue.

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.

4) Superman 3

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.

You have to admit, for a kid’s film, it is pretty fucked up.

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.
 
Happy Halloween my chumlets!
 

Routine Life………..

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.

Here is my list of crazy.

The “Shower Hand” Crazy

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.

So the test?

Hand gets wet= I’m going to have a bad day.

Hand doesn’t get wet= My day is going to rock.

Yeah, I’m weird.

The “Toilet Roll Is Comforting” Crazy

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.

Basically Armageddon could occur, but as long as I have something to wipe my arse with then I can face anything.

The “Pepsi Max” Crazy

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.

Pepsi Max- Don’t do it kids.

The “Shopping Nazi” Crazy

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.

Kill the laughter. Stop the joy. There will be none of that shit on my watch.

The “I Have All Day To Do Stuff, But Then Decide To Do It All Just Before Bed” Crazy

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.

The “I can’t Handle Mess” Crazy

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, “Daaaaaan, we are just stacked here, all dirty like. Look at us Dan, we’re disgusting. Clean us,” 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.”

The “I Have To Pet Every Dog I See” Crazy

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.

“Oh look, he’s so cute.”

Chomp

“Oh look, he’s bitten my limbs off and is drinking my blood. How adorable!”

Chomp

“Can somebody please get my leg off him?”

The “I’m Not Expecting You So I’m Not Answering The Door” Crazy

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 definitely ain’t getting in bud.

The “I Get Tourettes And Swear At You If You Get In My Way” Crazy

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.

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.”

For this I am sorry (I’m not. I hate you)

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.

I’m now off to polish something.

The Romford Redemption………

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.

I am of course talking about the return of the TV show, The X Factor.

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.

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.

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.

Sadly Kates wasn’t having any of it.

“I’m so excited the X Factor starts tonight,” she told me when she came round yesterday. “Do you mind if we watch it?”

Of course, me naturally being the kind and sacrificing kind of boyfriend that I am, I immediately relented.

“Of course we can my darling; you know I would do anything for you. More canopies?”

“You know I don’t like Wotsits. A whole two and a half hours of The X Factor, how exciting!”

Hang on........

“Two and a half fucking hours? Are you kidding me?? That’s almost as long as Titanic but without the funny bits with the people falling off and hitting the propellers at the end.”

She gave me a look that made me knew I wasn’t going to win.

“Brilliant,” I replied, putting on a fake smile. “I honestly, literally, can’t wait. This is going to be so good. I’m excited to be a part of it.”

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.

Aural Armageddon.

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: give us all your money, 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.

Girl group.

“Slags”

Skinny hip hop girl.

“Chav”

Perma tanned duo.

“Gay”

Androgynous weird bloke.

“Cunt”

Scary hairy bloke with chains and porno tash.

“Top lad”

This year they the show was going for the subtle, less is more approach. So with “O Fortuna” 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.

Less is more, remember?

And then the entertainment started.

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.

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.

But getting back to the bongos.

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.

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.

“Same time next week?” I asked meekly.

“I need an aspirin,” she replied, holding her forehead. “Or vodka. Do you have any vodka?”

I keep thinking to how long it is until Christmas and my sentence will be up.

Man’s got a choice.

Either get busy living, or get busy dying.