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?
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Sunday, 7 November 2010
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.
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.
Monday, 25 October 2010
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!
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!
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