Feedback Friday :: Ichbaaaaaa

bulk :: 15st 9
gym visits :: 3

I am too fat to blog.

Sorry.

Also, I’m working too hard. For the government. I’m a government man.

Also, I’m trying to sort out things for the move well in advance and yet still I’m being provoked to impotent fury by the criminals that are Virgin Media. I’m not going to take this lying down, you fuckers.

Also, I am mourning the loss of my coat, which I left in a taxi on Wednesday night. £200, gone in the winking of an eye. Of course I’ve reported the coat as lost and they said they’re looking into it, but really, what are the chances? Bah. Serves me right for trying to impress Morag by splurging on a taxi.

Also, I’m going to Brighton for a few days and I need to prepare myself.

Also, my stomach is still hurting and I have a pain in my left testicle.

Also, everything is just too weird at the moment. Honestly. Life is too weird.

So tell me, what are you up to this weekend? I like it when you tell me. It makes me feel somehow connected to the rest of the world. Also, it’s like a snapshot of the whole cockeyed carnival that is life. I like it.

I’m going to Brighton and I’m going to meet some of Morag’s friends.

That'll be fun.

Or hideous.

I'm nervous.

Bah.

What about you? Anything nice?

Noise

This morning I was awoken at 5.40 by the bloke upstairs, whom I do not know more than to nod at in passing. He was playing music. I suppose I should be grateful that it was classical music and not Slipknot or Slayer, and indeed I am. But not much. I think it was Bach, but I’m not sure. Lots of organs. Very brooding. And very, very loud.

I got out of bed, quite calmly, and I located the corner of the room where I keep all of the long things: the poster tubes, the discarded barbell, the golf flag (don’t ask). And I located the metre-long iron pole. I don’t know where this came from, and I don’t know why I refuse to throw it away every time I move – or at least I didn’t know until about half an hour ago, when I realised that I’d been keeping it for this occasion. Carefully I lifted the flat end of the iron pole up to the ceiling, then firmly I gave four stout raps. Something gave. Then I remembered that this flat has polystyrene tiles on the ceiling. White flammable powder fell onto my face. The music however, was swiftly turned down. Then up again. Not to the same volume – nowhere near in fact, but still loud enough to irritate me.

I got back into bed. I couldn’t sleep. Jesus. Who the hell listens to organ music in the middle of the night? I got out of bed, pulled on a tee-shirt, left my bedroom and opened the front door. I put the latch on, left the flat and climbed the fire escape stairs. I knocked on my neighbour’s front door. Nothing. I knocked again. Still nothing. I came back downstairs.

I had not been locked out. Thank you, Jesus.

Five minutes later I got back out of bed and came to the other room. I’ve got work to do. The government job I mentioned before starts today. So I made an early start. At my desk my 6.

I hate noisy neighbours. They’re so difficult to cope with. From the stomping and the door-slamming to the shouting and the music late at night. And not knowing what to do is the worst of it. Shall I bang on the ceiling or is that what yahoos do? Shall I go up and knock or will I be stabbed? Shall I just put up with it? Am I being unreasonable? Shall I poison them?

I was born to live in a detached house, surrounded by fir trees and quietly weeping willows.

Thank God I’m moving out.

So tell me, what’s your worst experience with a noisy neighbour?

Feedback Friday :: Balance

bulk :: ?
glad factor :: 8
sad factor :: 2

I confess, I’ve fallen off the health wagon ever so slightly. But that’s OK, you know? It’s allowed. And I’m tackling it. I’ve wiped the crumbs from a thousand chocolate Hob Nobs off of my tee shirt and trousers, my face, my laptop, the walls, the ceiling – I’m like Cookie Monster when I get going, Cookie Monster fending off two Tasmanian Devils. And I’m putting on my smelly old trainers as we speak.

This is the first time in a year I’ve refused to get on the scales. Actually, that’s not true. I did get on the scales, but I didn’t activate the digital readout first, so all I got was the backwards ‘E’. For Doofus. Then, rather than doing it right, I got off and walked away. Walked? Who am I kidding. I ran away. The thing is, I know I’ve put on a bit of weight over the last week. When you weigh yourself a lot, you can feel it, you can sense it as you settle on the scales, you can speak your own weight, to the pound, before the machine tells you. And although all I got was a backwards ‘E’, I knew I’d put on quite a few pounds over the last two weeks.

Actually, I knew even before I set foot on the scales. I knew because I’ve been eating like a scabby horse that’s just escaped from between two mattresses, and I haven’t been to the gym for a week. I’ve been eating out at restaurants a fair bit too, even on my own. I really like eating out on my own. It feels like a really special thing to do. A glorious treat. It feels like a celebration. And I am celebrating at the moment. It’s important to celebrate. Good times don’t come along often enough to let them pass unmarked. So I’ve been squirreling myself away in restaurants and cafés, just me, a book and a three course meal. Maybe a bottle of wine if I really want to celebrate. And a jar of pickled eggs. No, sorry, I’m being silly now. But you know what? That’s OK too. It’s OK to be silly. It may even be important to be silly. In fact, I’m convinced it is. But it’s also important to be serious. Balance. That’s what it’s all about. But also extremes. And at the moment, I feel good. Extremely good. I feel full of magic beans. I feel defiant. Stalker, stalk this.

Some people think that eating out alone is a bit sad. Like going to the cinema alone (which I also enjoy). I don’t feel that way. I think it’s the opposite of sad. I think it’s one of the most joyful, life-affirming, exultant things a human being can do. But then, on the whole, I rather enjoy spending time on my own. I’m a people person for sure, but I’m also a bit of a loner. I’d like to say I’m actually quite a private person, but I think a blog is probably not the best place to say that. But with my time, and sometimes with my space, I’m discriminative. And I find there are few people who really come close to me when it comes to pleasant and comfortable, if not always scintillating, company. Occasionally scintillating though.

Having said all that, I must now say, that now is the time for the celebration to end and life in earnest to begin again. So I’m off to the gym. And then I’m going to the shop to buy some greens.

Aside :: Every time I go to the gym I think of Douglas Adams.

Other news: I’ve come to an arrangement with Keith’s landlord. I’ve paid the rent and I’m going to get the place professionally cleaned, then I’ll hopefully be able to collect Keith’s deposit. I may even deign to offer a part of that back to Keith. But then again I may not. We’ll see.

Then, on Saturday 13 December, I will move into my new home. What makes this remarkable is that one year ago to the day – by which I mean Saturday 15 December 2007 – was the day I started this blog.

Awwww. I like symmetry a great deal.

And I like the fact that I’ll be spending Christmas in North London.

That’s nice.

Now, gym.

...

So tell me, what do you enjoy doing alone?

And also, what you up to this weekend?

Me? I’m entertaining.



Have fun!

Dear John...

I mentioned a few weeks ago that I’d written to thelondonpaper in the hope of becoming their ‘columnist of the day’. Arrogantly, I must say, I thought inclusion would be a cinch. Turns out not so, for I sent 400 nuggets of absolute solid gold to them, and they didn’t even have the decency to laugh in my face. I mean, I know that – particularly with this feature – thelondonpaper tends to specialise in badly-written, horrifically uninteresting ichbaaaaaa, but I assumed that this was because no one who could actually write well ever sent anything in. Not so turns out. They actually like that shit.

So anyway, the bit I wrote was in response to this guy, who can’t get a woman for the simple reason that he’s got no personality to speak of. However, instead of taking time to work on the whole personality thing, which can be tricky, he stumped up and got himself a whore. The response to John’s column was fairly staggering. It was overwhelmingly positive. Every time I picked up the paper for the rest of that week, readers were either crawling up John’s cockstand to sympathise with his plight, or else moved to exhaustion, weeping at the base of his stem.

Just in case you don’t follow the link - and please, you really shouldn’t – here is perhaps the most ludicrous excerpt:

In today’s world of celebrity, even the plainest of women want a Frank Lampard or a George Clooney. The worst thing is they are prepared to put up with anything to get them and keep them. I’ve lost count of the conversations I’ve heard between women complaining of inconsiderate, rude, thoughtless, cheating and lying boyfriends. I stand there thinking, “I wouldn’t have forgotten your birthday. I wouldn’t have carried on watching Match of the Day when you had something important to say. I wouldn’t have chatted up that girl at the bar.” But it’s all worthless because five minutes later the boyfriend arrives and, after one look, all her anger just melts away because he’s her Frank Lampard.

Ah, John. John. What are you on?

So, I got quite wound up by all this and I wrote a reply. It was rather too offensive I'm afraid. And cruel. So I tore it up and wrote a rather more considered reply, which I hoped that they would consider for publication. (Oh, to be 'columnist of the day' and get a BORE-rating of 100! That would be quite special.) Anyhow, here it is. It’s exactly 400 words too. I was disproportionately proud of that.

Dear John

I understand perfectly why you ended up paying for female company, but I’m writing this to let you know that there is an alternative.

Last year I reached a low point in my life. I had never had a girlfriend. I spent my days curled up in the living room with my cat, curtains closed to keep the day at bay, watching DVDs and eating Sugar Puffs. I hardly ever left the house. My weight was inching up to the 20 stone mark. My flesh was the colour and consistency of cold gruel and I was about to turn 30.

I realised I was in grave danger of becoming one of those tragic souls who have to have the walls of their house removed so that they can be lifted by a crane to the nearest hospital for gastric bypass surgery, so I gave myself one year to lose the equivalent of Kate Moss in weight and – more importantly – to find someone to love.

I knew I couldn’t do this on my own however, so what I did was this: I started a blog. Blogging about my quest to lose weight, turn my life around and find someone to love was the best decision I ever made. It introduced me to hundreds of people I would otherwise never have met, and a couple of them even deigned to go to bed with me. Free of charge. They both went on to break my heart of course, but you can’t have everything. Where would you put it?

As for your comments about personality counting for nothing and women these days lusting after looks and little else, I think you’re generalising wildly. In my experience, women are a lot less superficial than men when it comes to looks. All you have to do is string a sentence together and have a sense of humour and you’d be surprised how many women will overlook the fact that you’ve got a face like a bag of elbows and a belly like a bag of bowling balls.

Seriously. I’m living proof that you can blog your way to happiness. It might not last forever, but... well, it might. Your column last week was hopefully your first step in the right direction. Get yourself online. The blog is mightier than the whore. (Unless of course you’re Belle de Jour.)
Good luck,

Bête de Jour

After a week or two I finally bit the bullet and accepted that I had definitely been rejected by thelondonpaper. Then I decided to end it all. Then I thought, no, fuck it, my time will come, and even if it takes another ten years, when it does come, I’ll be able to say, with my hand on my heart, ‘Well, at least on the way up, I never sucked on Rupert Murdoch’s skinsock. Nope, not even a nibble.’ (Did you see that horrible shagsack trying to nobble Obama? What a frickin’ sleaze.)

Anyway, fuck him and fuck his parochial rag. I’m over it.

Plus, John, you completely put me off the idea of paying for sex at a time when I was seriously considering it. So thanks. I spent the money on a coat.

...

Now, I have a question :: what's your favourite name for a cat, ever?

News Of A Personal Nature :: I Feel Pretty

Oh, so pretty.

I feel pretty.

And witty.

And ‘gay’.

Seriously though.

And furthermore, I pity any girl – or indeed, any boy – who isn’t me today – or indeed, any day. Actually no, not any day. Just today.

Actually, thinking about it, to be fair, ‘pretty’ might be pushing it a little. I've still got a head like sack of aubergines pulled from a burning pork scratchings factory, but I was just checking myself out in the bathroom mirror there, with a bit of product on the old thatch and my £200 coat on. And you know what? I kind of half-fancied myself.

I had candles on and – if I say so myself – I looked like a ne’er-do-well in a noirish thriller. A bit dodgy for sure, but doable nonetheless.

So, yes, you may be wondering what has occurred to make me feel so pretty. So witty. So ‘gay’. You may not. I do not know. I lay claim to the ability to peer within the nether regions of neither your soul, your mind nor your pocket. All I can say is this: you know when someone you know – let’s say a friend – is going out with someone you really don’t think is suitable for them? Often you’re dead against the relationship, but you have to respect your friend’s decisions, or at least pretend to, so you bite your lips and nibble your cheeks and say nothing.

Then your friend splits up with their partner, you get drunk together and it all comes out. Everything you’ve ever thought about that good-for-nothing bag of rats. ‘Thank goodness you’re shot of that piece of human excrement,’ you say. ‘Trust me, worst thing that ever happened to you. You’re so much better off without them. In fact, and I probably shouldn’t say, but you were pretty unbearable yourself, while you were together.’ Then before you know it, they’re back together and frankly, things become a little uncomfortable.

Well, brace yourself, for I have news of a personal nature.

Morag and I are back together!

Yes, and by Christ, it definitely deserves at least one exclamation mark. Maybe more. But let’s not go mental.

This time we are going out with one another. None of that modern nonsense. Fuck buddies! I mean, come on. Who were we trying to fool? What were we thinking? In this day and age. Stuff and nonsense. Fuck buddies be buggered. A man needs a wife! No, I’m just kidding. I mean, maybe it’s true. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Although we have made a commitment to each other. And we’re talking about Christmas. And London. And generally being a couple.

That is all I have to say on the subject and I command you – with all of the stentorian muster of Brian Blessed bellowing through a megaphone into a microphone on the main stage at Glastonbury, with the speakers turned up to 11 – to have nothing but good feelings for me. If you don’t mind.

I know most of you will anyway, but a couple of you said some pretty harsh things about Morag when I was stupidly washing our dirty laundry in public a couple of months ago. Or whenever it was. I know you were just trying to be nice to me, but – nothing. Let’s say no more about it. Seriously.

Except this: I am very happy. And what’s more, for a fairly unambiguously ugly bloke, I feel pretty. Sing it!



Now leave your good wishes in the comments and let’s tuck into a celebratory box of Wispas.

Feedback Friday :: Glad To Be Glad

I don’t know if this is some kind of manic episode – I know I’ve teetered on the meniscus of manic in the past – but I just can’t help feeling incredibly glad at the moment. Change is a remarkable thing. And the future is bright.

With all of this in mind, this week’s feedback comes in the form of 15 Things I Am Glad About. Oh yes, I’m going to have you puking up your pelvis before this passes…

1) I’m glad that my reactions to the challenges of life are much more robust now than they were just a year ago.

2) I’m glad that because of my reactions to the challenges of life, there are finally opportunities on the horizon.

3) I’m glad I’ve got the day off.

4) I’m glad that Keith is doing something noble and selfless and good, whether he sees it that way or not.

5) I’m glad that I have a chance to undo some of the ungood that was done to my family.

6) I’m glad that more people are starting to send me photos of bad English. Very glad indeed. It’s a great feeling. I’m also particularly glad that compared to the poor old bugger to whom this chart belongs, I am in incredibly good health.

7) I’m glad I found out how easy it is to change one's life, whilst also discovering that it’s even easier to change back.

8) I’m glad I have friends.

9) I’m glad that a couple of nights ago I took MDMA and had a big soapy bath in the middle of the night, with apples and candles and good old me-time.

10) I’m glad I’ve found a nice house where I can live and grow. (Green fingers crossed.) I’m so looking forward to growing again.

11) I’m glad that the landlady of the new place said it was OK to have a kitten. Oh, yes, she did! A kitten! Actually, to hell with glad. I’m absolutely ecstatic about that.

12) I’m glad I’ll soon have something else to write about, because frankly, I’m beginning to tire of the sound of my own voice.

13) I’m glad that athlete’s foot is treatable.

14) I’m glad that I’m running out of things to be glad about because, frankly, if it was that easy, it wouldn’t really count for that much.

15) Oh, and finally, I have to say, I’m very glad that I’ll be popping down to Brighton this weekend. Say no more.

So what are you glad about? Come on, it’s a beautiful day. Share your gladness with me at once, you gorgeous thing!

The Platform of Lost Parables

Yesterday was hectic. I was in a horrible hurry, on my way to see a house, stressed and furious, sweating and scowling, traipsing through the city with a terrific cob on, Pollyanna snivelling in my wake, nursing a black eye.

Hush now, child. Be glad it wasn’t both eyes.

I am between destinations, changing lines, cussing and sighing and surly because inconsiderate people are failing to read my mind – not even trying if you ask me – when a serious-looking gentleman in a suit which is both sparse and spruce, moves toward me to speak. He is lost. He is looking for Woolwich.

The train pulling in behind us is – I think – heading in the right direction, but I can’t be absolutely sure. There is no map in sight. ‘I think it’s this one,’ I say, as it pulls in and sicks up another fifty suits, ‘but we should really find a map.’ I gesture for him to follow me and head off on my impromptu quest; he thanks me happily and hops blithely onto the train.

When I notice his mistake, I yell, slightly melodramatically, almost in slow motion, ‘Noooooo-ooooo-oo!’ At which he hops back off the train, neatly, and the doors close behind him. ‘Come with me,’ I say, laughing merrily at his utter bewilderment. He is like a Turkish Mr Bean.

I mouth the words ‘Let’s go’ at him. Then I decide to speak them. This proves much more effective and we head off together. After a little aimless shambling, we find a map, and lo and behold, Woolwich is not even a tube station. I try to explain. ‘You need a train, mate. Upstairs.’ I point.

‘Yes!’ he cries. ‘Train!’ He pulls out a piece of paper with some words scrawled on it, amongst them ‘LONDON BRIDGE’ and ‘TRAIN’. I throw back my haircut and have a good old laugh. And my friend has a good old laugh too. And we’re both of us standing there, in this giant underground cavern, this no-man’s land between trains, having a good old laugh.

‘The train station’s upstairs,’ I tell him. He looks around him, snakes his eyes around the giant steel barn, with its stairs and tunnels, its tubes and funnels – are there funnels? Let’s say there are – and he smiles. He’s probably thinking of the barn he grew up in. Poor little mouse. ‘Where are you from, old pal?’ I say.

‘I am Kazakh man,’ he tells me, but he keeps it meek, not like you might imagine when you read the words ‘I am Kazakh man’. He is just stating a fact, as best he can. No frills, no implication. ‘Kazakhstan,’ he adds, helpfully.

‘Come on then, old sport,’ I chirrup. ‘Let’s get you onto that train.’

‘Thank you,’ says Kazakh Man.

Then we made our way along a relatively deserted platform. I didn’t speak. I wanted to, but it was too much like hard work, frankly. Bonding without language on the underground – and in a non-sexual way – is not as easy as you might think.

As I was thinking about that, a blind or partially-sighted man darted out of a tunnel to my left and came at me with his white cane. I side-stepped him neatly and was carrying on down the platform as if nothing had happened when I realised that he was speaking to me.

‘Is there a member of staff on the platform?’ he wanted to know. He needed some help getting somewhere.

I stopped. I looked. There was no one. But I did see one of those information-cum-emergency push-button intercom contraptions bolted to a wall. I asked him if that would do. He said that it would and asked me to take him to it. All the while Kazakh Man was loitering patiently. I thought for a second of introducing them. But I didn’t do it.

So there I was, plucked from the solipsistic porridge of my unspeakable rage and planted on the platform of lost parables, hand in hand with a man who couldn’t see, and a man who couldn’t speak. On we trudged, stronger for our union.

I started to laugh. Kazakh Man granted me a smile.

I left the Blind Man at the intercom system. I pressed the information button for him. He said it wasn’t an emergency. I wished him luck.

And I dropped off Kazakh Man at the ticket hall in the train station and I wished him luck too.

Then I made my way to the house, and as I made my way, I realised that I was happy. My random encounters had bucked me up no end. Good old London.

I was glad that I’d met Kazakh Man, and I vowed to take with me on my journey through life some of his humility, and some of his simple empathy, which was pure and warm and instinctive and beyond language in a way that this sentence never could be.

And I was glad that I’d met the Blind Man. He wasn’t old by the way, the blind man. He was younger than me. I wondered how long he’d been blind. I wondered if he’d become blind later in life, and if so, if he’d raged against the dying of the light for a period. He must have learned incredible patience.

So I take this too, and I make my way to the viewing with a spring in my heels.

The house, I am overjoyed to say, is awesome. Well, it’s OK. And it’s got a garden. And it felt both cosy and spacious. I liked it immediately.

When I’d done the tour I was informed that there were two more parties coming to view the property in a few hours. The pressure was on.

I took a little walk in the rain, and the dark, and the fairly biting wind, and I had a think. It’s winter. Keith’s off to take care of his dad for a while. I need somewhere to live. It almost feels like a Fresh Start is in the offing.

I caught my bank just before it closed and took out the money to cover the holding deposit. Then I went back to the agent and handed it over. I also signed a bunch of contracts. All that remains now is for my references to check out, one of which - my landlord's reference, I'm writing myself.

I am alone.

I am moving forward.

TV :: Gory Gory Hallelujah

I had a couple of extraordinary viewing experiences over the weekend. I’d like to tell you about them. The first was Dead Set, Charlie Brooker’s Big Brother-zombie mash-up, which I finally managed to devour from start to finish, and absolutely loved. I’ve never been a great fan of zombies, I have to say. The occasional parody can be fun, but for me zombie horror always falls down on the shambling gait of its undead protagonists.

There’s just nothing scary about dead people shuffling over the brow of a hill like a whiff of pensioners in a post office queue. It hardly matters that they have the power to rip off your skullcap and devour your brains. Look at them. They’re shambling. Why, with only the most rudimentary ambling skills, you’d still be able to evade even the nimblest of them. Considering zombiedom is such a terrifying concept, the monsters themselves never really seemed as scary as they ought.

But in Dead Set the zombies don’t shamble; they sprint, and they’re dead fast, and proper hideous.

Keith disagrees with me on this and maintains that the old-style shambling was integral to the power of your traditional zombie in that it inspired creeping dread and a much more profound psychological discomfort. But I say bollocks to that. Give me in-your-face, balls-in-the-fire, sprinting death terror every time. Give me hell hurtling toward you with a jackhammer bite and apocalypse-blue eyes.

Brooker recognises that the rules changed with 28 Days Later, when the infected masses refused to bow down to the tyranny of tradition and got their arses in gear. I like that. I like to see the rules broken. I’d like to see it taken further though. I’d like to see a zombie film where the first word of the film was ‘zombies’, and the dead weren’t stupid but were reasoning and cogent, and in the scenes where they’re tearing their loved ones to pieces, they know exactly what they’re doing, and it’s killing them, and they’re sobbing as they rip the flesh from the bones of friends and relatives, but they just can’t help themselves. It’s a compulsion. An infection. That’s what it is to be a zombie. That’s the film I’d like to see. Although I must admit, it doesn’t sound like much fun. Dead Set on the other hand, was fantastic fun.




The humour was appropriately double-death dark and never really let up. The impotent rage of the zombie in a wheelchair (I know, I know, it’s really serious), baffled by forward propulsion, frustrated by the disabled, non-sprinting corpse it’s been saddled with, will stay with me forever. As will Davina McCall blatting her bolshy body against the same door for three episodes. But best of all was Big Brother producer, Patrick, part rapacious peddler of reality porn, part (one imagines) pitiless word-wizard and helpless misanthrope Brooker himself. Patrick was breathtakingly odious from start to sensationally gory finish and was given all the best lines.

The absolute best thing about Dead Set however – in my very most humble opinion – is the ending.

Spoiler alert.

As the tension mounts and the number of survivors continues to dwindle, the memory of the swimming pool scene clings like the smell of decaying flesh. These zombies have a weakness. Their weakness is water. The fear of an unwarranted happy ending creeps in and threatens everything. Will someone activate the sprinklers in the Big Brother house? Will their be a sudden purgative storm which washes the plague away?

I was certain there would be.

I was wrong.

Everyone dies.

No one is spared.

It’s so refreshing.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a mainstream television drama with the balls big enough not to pander to bland optimism. Dead Set was as unremittingly bleak as any zombie apocalypse ought to be. Totally unsanitised by knee-jerk philanthropy. Utterly, utterly hopeless. I was so pleased.

Then there was the portentous parable aspect. Oh yes there was.

Crap will eat itself.

In the Kingdom of the Bland, Vernon Kaye is King.

My second viewing pleasure was not quite so misanthropic.

I remember seeing Pollyanna at some stage when I was just a willowy wee boy, wrapped up in bed with my portable telly, and I can’t really remember it having that much of an effect on me. Except perhaps for cultivating in me an almighty crush on little Hayley Mills. You know, in The Parent Trap, there are two of her.



Thankfully, that crush has subsided.

When I happened across Pollyanna on Saturday afternoon however, all glum and gloomy and innocently avoiding sport, I remembered enough to stick with it a while. Sunny little Hayley reeled me in with her joyous smile.

There was darkness in my heart however, as I knew roughly what I was in for: saccharine, wholesome garbage, gingham, gospel, vapid all-conquering optimism and weak-chinned acceptance in the name of a loving God and a proud flag. And I was right. But what I hadn’t banked on how much it moved me.

Four times it reduced me to tears in the space of an hour. The last time I was wholly inconsolable.

And what it was was that I totally believed her. Little Hayley. Pollyanna. I believed entirely in her innocence and as such, it completely removed by cynicism. Like I’d had a cynisectomy. I was wholly purged by Pollyanna and I rejoiced in her simple, heartfelt message: not just that we should look on the bright side, but also, that we should look for the good in people.

She’s right.

And of course, her love of life is just as contagious as any cannibalistic, necromantic rage-plague.

Pollyanna brings joy and play and love where once there was merely sadness, and duty, and despair.

Nobody dies.

Everyone is spared.

Lessons are learned.

It’s so refreshing.

These are very strange times.

Mark my words.

Feedback Friday :: Change

It’s been a funny old week. While the rest of the world’s been getting high on hope, I’ve been getting increasingly depressed on trains and tubes, and increasingly sick of spending my days in a small room with a man with a gastric problem. I also found out this week that the government job I was hoping for has been put back again. I should still get it, but not for another week or two.

God, I’m bored.

Also, it looks like Keith is leaving London. I’m not sure he’s making the right decision personally, but of course, it’s his decision to make. Not mine. Now, don’t tell anyone, but he plans on doing a rent-runner at the end of the month. This is because he hasn’t yet paid this month’s rent yet and landlord Dudley – because he’s rich as Croesus and has more properties than I have teeth - hasn’t even noticed. So Keith’s skipping town, leaving behind – as well as one month’s unpaid rent – one broken bed and one horribly, suspiciously stained and torn living room carpet. He’ll lose his deposit of course, but Dudley will still come out on top, so Keith figures it’s fair. I figure he’s probably right. Ish. This means I have until the end of the month – or until Dudley notices that the rent hasn’t been paid – to find somewhere new to live. Or of course I could take over this place, but frankly, this place, and Peckham as a whole, has rather lost its charm.

So. Back to Gumtree I go. Or I suppose I could start doing the rounds of agents. I do so despise them however. I’ve never met an agent who wasn’t either unscrupulous and self-centred to the point of pure evil, or, if not evil, severely mentally retarded. It's not uncommon of course, to meet a rancid melange of the two.

Still, needs must.

So. Keith may well be Burnley-bound as soon as the end of this coming week. So this weekend, we're going to buy some drugs.

In other news, I had this dream that I was sitting around with Stephen Fry and Simon Amstell and we were trying to think up cat-related Beatles song puns. I have no idea why, but it was possibly a new round on Never Mind the Buzzcocks.

‘Let It Beep,’ offered Stephen.

Simon and I looked at one another. Simon was wearing that expression he wears when he’s about to say something terrible and mean, but he didn’t want to say anything terrible and mean to Stephen Fry. Rather, he wanted to have snuggle up with him on a large bed.

‘Cats, Stephen,’ I said. ‘Cats don’t beep.’

‘Oh,’ said Stephen. ‘No, that’s right. Sorry.’

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Try and think of another one.’

‘I’ve Got A Feline,’ said Simon.

‘Moggie Mae,’ I added.

‘Maxwell’s Silver Hamster,’ said Stephen.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Stephen. You're ruining this for the rest of us.’

'Sorry,' said Stephen, ashamed.

‘Please Please Miaow,’ said Simon.

‘I Want To Hold Your Paw,’ I added, pleased with myself.

‘Sergeant Puppy’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,’ said Stephen.

Which was when it occurred to me that Stephen was merely toying with us. Of course he could think of cat puns. He was Stephen Fry. He could think of cat puns until the cow puns came home.

Which was when Simon Amstell turned to me and said, ‘Remind me. Why are you here?’

‘Oh, don’t be mean,’ said Stephen, but he was tittering like he didn’t mean it, like he was enjoying the meanness.

Which was when I noticed that Morag was sitting on Stephen Fry’s lap with her blouse unbuttoned and her bra pulled down to her navel. Stephen Fry seemed to be weighing her breasts in each of his hands. ‘So what’s the point of these exactly?’ he said.

And then, as Morag began to suckle Stephen Fry, I awoke, strangely depressed, and horribly aroused.

I wonder what it can mean.

So, this weekend, as well as attempting to procure some send-off narcotics, I’m going to start packing my life into boxes again.

Oy.

And you? What have you got planned?

Gumtree II :: Anything Goes When Nothing Exists

And then there was this...

Thursday, 16 October 2008 17:05

Hello,
My name is Harry Crown.Just want to drop few lines to let you know i have a one bedroom apartment in Clapham for rent.Rent goes for 700GBP monthly all bills inclusive,deposit 600GBP.
Pls let me know if you interested.
Regards.
Harry Crown

Thursday, 16 October 2008 22:45

Hi Harry

Your apartment sounds perfect, and very reasonably priced. Before we arrange a viewing however, I have a couple of questions.

1. Would you mind if I have a cat?

2. Would you mind if I get up every morning at 5am and wake the neighbours by loudly banging together the thigh bones of the many old ladies and young children I have murdered and eaten in the name of Satan?

Let me know.


Stan

Friday, 17 October 2008 12:20

Hello,
How are you doing today?It was nice reading from you.I do not mind if bring a cat in as i will not be staying in the apartment with you and also to let you know the apartment is alone and so you will not be disturbing anybody with whatever you are doing.
I work as a Contractor,currently supervising the building construction of an hotel in Edinburgh which would be finishing soon before i leave for Italy where i start my new job.
For this reason,i wont be living in the apartment,i only inherited it and haven't lived in it for too long.I wouldn't like to leave it dirty and untidy so i need clean and responsible tenant.
Apartment amenities include. Central Heating,Refrigerator,Ironing Board,Good wireless internet Connection,Washing machine,Dishwasher,Microwave Oven,Television with Built-in DVD Player,Coffee Maker,Double Sofa bed in Sitting Room,Dining Area,Hairdryer just to mention a few.
Unfortunately my phone is bad and wouldn't be able to receive phone calls at the moment,so communication via email would be better at the moment,probably i could give you a call later when i get on a pay phone as am not thinking of buying a new phone here as am leaving in few weeks.
As regards the viewing,i think we could fix a date i come down for the viewing and we reach an agreement.Have been very busy with work lately so its hard for me to spare time,i would like to be more certain about your intentions before booking my plane tickets for this.
I would be staying in Italy for more than 4 years so its up to you to decide how long you want the apartment for.
Please let me know what are the things you have in mind...how many people would be occupying the apartment and for how long you want the contract to last for.
Also let me know when you intend to move in and more other details you feel necessary for me to know.
Whereabouts do you live in currently?
Please find attached pictures of the apartment.
Waiting to read from you.
Harry.T

Election Night :: Help Me Believe

‘…America, the Land of the Free, they said,
And of opportunity, in a just and a truthful way,
But where the president is never black, female or gay,
And until that day, you've got nothing to say
To me, to help me believe.’

- America Is Not The World, Morrissey

So here we are, at long last, just a handful of hours away from the very real possibility of America finally having something to say to Morrissey, to help him believe. That’s a pretty exciting prospect. How much more compelling an argument do you, my American readers, need, in order to cast your vote for Barack Obama?

Just imagine, after all these years, you will finally be offered the ear, and indeed the heart, of one of the greatest misanthropes of our time. Morrissey will listen to what you have to say and then, importantly, crucially, he will begin to believe. Of course, when this happens, presumably, Morrissey will no longer just sit around at home in his hemp tank top, spurning the company of peoplefolk, leafing listlessly through a copy of Lady Windermere's Fan and pushing a cold Linda McCartney sausage around a plate with a pearl-handled fork.

Rather, he will finally see the full potential of humankind. He will understand that human beings are not merely self-serving, terrified egotists and short-sighted egotistical terrorists who will happily trample all over one another in order to satisfy the small-minded desires of themselves and their own clan, but rather they are also - potentially - wonderful, giving, caring, selfless creatures who are prepared to go out of their way to help one another achieve the potential that each of them shares.

He may never write a decent song again, but to heck with it. It’ll be worth it.

And to make this happen, you, my American friend, must cast your vote for Barack Obama. If you haven’t already.

I’m sure you’ve seen this:



Please don’t let it be you.

It’s odd how much I want Barack Obama to win tonight.

Frankly, it scares me.

I was born just two years before Margaret Thatcher came to power. I had to wait till I was 19 before I got a sniff of a left wing government. The first time I voted was to help bring Tony Blair to power. I was so excited. I had never been that excited by politics before. Nor since, sadly. Indeed, my excitement, and the joy I felt when Tony Blair came to power was very short-lived.

It quickly became apparent that New Labour was not really anything to do with old Labour, and nothing at all to do with Socialism, of which I had always been rather fond. It wasn’t long at all before promises were broken, U-turns were made and bullshit and sleaze were just as evident under Labour as they had been for nearly two decades under the Conservatives.

In short, the last 11 years of ‘left wing’ government in this country has left me utterly cynical and disgustingly apathetic. Many, many times since Labour came to power I have told anyone that would listen that I hate politics, and that I despise politicians. And I blame this Labour government’s for that. They destroyed it for me.

But Barack Obama has got me excited again.

Which is why I’m scared. I’m scared that - like everyone else - he is going to allow power to corrupt.

I’m also scared he’s going to get shot before he can even start letting people down.

But what the hell. Life is full of fear, and life is full of disappointments. It’s also full of pleasant surprises, and hey, maybe this will be one of them.

And for that reason, I’m excited again. And I want to believe.

Please help me.

Now I’m going to go and get Keith, who is sitting upstairs being sad, and I’m going to make him come downstairs and watch the election coverage with me. I’ve got in some ironic food. I’ve got McCain Oven Chips, sixteen cans of Budweiser and some Oreos.

Cool.

What can go wrong?