Fresh Start #173 :: Overmatter

bulk :: 13st 9
exercise :: none
cigarettes :: lots
steps taken to stop :: I'm going to see the NHS people next Friday. They have patches and all kinds of wisdom, and they're cheaper than a hypnotist.
alcohol :: most days
steps taken to cut down :: bought some weed and now can't be bothered to go to the shops for more booze
fresh starts :: 1
marks out of ten for week :: 7.3

I had a good day yesterday. It involved work, and old friends, and tears, and drugs, and a giant silver locust named Gerard.

OK, OK. I’m joking about the tears. Big boys don’t cry.

First picture.



This... is my drug dealer’s toilet.

I hope I’m not overstepping the mark publishing a photo of a man’s toilet whilst simultaneously identifying him as a felon. I suppose if there were any sleuths out there amongst you - and I know there are - you might blow the photo up Blade Runner-style, and pick out a possum hair on the toilet seat, which might lead you, via a little unpleasantness with an East End marsupial importer, to Ineloquent Quinn's high rise block in Fithering, just behind the Bluntsteps tube station. If you do figure it out, don’t call the rozzers. Be a good egg and call those wretched supercilious old haddocks who clean up for people on telly. Get them round.



First things first though. I worked in the morning. I went out to Kensington to see a Chinaman about data analysis. Then I met an old friend for a pub lunch of delicious sausages and mashed stuff which I can still taste. Then I had time before another appointment with another old friend, so instead of slogging home and back into town, I walked around London with a little fold-out map to keep me on my toes, listening to Adam and Joe podcasts in my headphones and laughing quite openly in public places. I think people like to see a stranger laughing to himself in a public place. I know I do. Cheers me right up. So I did big Brian Blessed belly laughs and winked at anyone who looked alarmed.



Not really. I just giggled quietly into my chin.

The second old friend I met was Morag. I hadn’t seen her since shortly after we split up. We had a couple of wines and caught up. It was good. Kind of sad too but it was great to see her.

Morag has this little tease she likes to inflict upon me from time to time. She pretends that she thinks that some time in the future, I’m going to find God or become gay. Or both. Run off with a wayward Christian chap and set up home in the Cotswalds. I’d have my writing. He’d have his potter’s wheel. Every night by candlelight we’d re-enact the sexy scene from Ghost to the soundtrack of some freaky Gregorian chant-drum and bass mash-up. She didn’t actually go into such detail but I know what she was thinking.



Hilariously enough, after I said goodbye to Morag, I walked to Fithering, where, being over an hour early for my next appointment, I took refuge in a public house and was immediately befriended by a couple of gay men.

It happened because I was unpleasantly and unfairly overlooked after waiting for forty years at an almost empty bar, and I got a bit visibly uppity about it, as is my hateful wont. It was rather infantile really, my little tantrum. It was all failed clarity and hufty exasperation. In my defence, however, I was a bit emotional. If you want to know the truth, I’d had a bit of a weep whilst en route to Fithering. In the street as I walked. Like a big girl’s blouse.



NO! Not like a big girl’s blouse at all, but like the thinking woman’s man that I am, soft like a bruised egg but delightfully receptive to the cringe and swell of my emotions. Or else in bondage to it. One of the two. Either option dwarfs a mere blouse* though, I’m convinced of that. So by the time I got to the pub, I was sensitive. And I was tense. And that’s what this guy said. He said, ‘Are you a bit tense there? You are, aren’t you?’ I admitted I was, very tense. He said, ‘I can tell. I’m very spiritual.’ I explained that I’d just seen my ex-girlfriend for the first time in six months or so, so I was a feeling a bit, you know…

I’m sure Morag won’t mind me telling you this. No, I really am. Almost totally sure. It’s mostly about me anyway.

I’d had a couple of things that had been simmering away in my head for the past six months or so, like tiny phantom tumours. Basically, because of a couple of things that had been said in the embers end of our relationship, I’d got it into my head that what we had meant very little to Morag. And that it was only me who actually gave a damn. But Morag easily convinced me that that was not the case. And immediately I felt better. And lighter.



Morag is happy. She’s with someone else and she’s clearly really happy with him. She didn’t even have to say as much. It was clear. And I was happy for her. Very happy. What I wasn’t so happy about, however, was my own life. Which is why, walking down the Gallstone Road to Fithering, I began to feel overwhelmingly sad. I had God Only Knows on repeat on my iPod and I was weeping.

Then I stopped weeping, and went to the pub, where one of the gay men shook my hand and said, ‘Did you say "ex-boyfriend"?’ I said no. Then he asked me if it'd been good seeing my ex and if I'd left her feeling positive. I said yes on both counts. I told him I’d entered into it, hoping to hear exactly what I'd heard and that I was very happy for her and happier in general for having seen her. That was all good. It was the malaise of my own life that was making me tense. He continued down the positive thinking line for a while and then I thanked him for his kindness and for his spirituality and I went outside to smoke cigarettes and listen to pop songs and wait for my drug dealer to get home. He arrived about 9pm.



I told Quinn that I’d been to see my ex-girlfriend, because it was on my mind and I wanted to talk about it, but he glossed over it and continued talking about the women that come to his flat. He speaks very quickly. The word ‘yanahmin’ peppers his prose like a powerful tick, like mouse droppings under the clapped out toaster of his brain. His stories are all either about women who won’t sleep with him or women who, as soon as he sleeps with them, want to move in with him. He’s all crappy gossip and crass stereotyping. He's all joyless, demeaning, meaningless chatter. I wanted to tell him I’d been crying and feeling sorry for myself, but that I was happy because I felt I’d reached an important turning point in my life. But he was describing some woman’s arse to me in the most painfully impoetic detail, and I could tell he wasn’t interested. And when I did manage to get a word in, on any subject, he didn’t really listen, and he was off again, riding his own melt. I wanted to tell him that I felt as if something had been weighing me down and it had been removed, and that I felt a little reborn. But he was too busy describing some woman’s cleavage.



So I left.

Then, on the bus on the way home I decided that I’m going to become a pop star. No time like the present.

It’s a fresh start. A superfresh start.

So that’s what I’m doing this weekend. Working on my first album and drifting into the increasingly nebulous world of physical abuse and spiritual awakening we call rock and roll.

What about you? Anything nice?



* A silky garment worn by a flamboyant meerkat.

Tempted By the Breville

This is the email I fear:

Dear Stan

I first came across your blog when I saw a link to your bingo post, which I loved. What I particularly enjoyed was how you didn’t so much cock a snook at the ignominious stench that is online marketing as ram an indignant thumb into its odious plastic anus, even though you could have used the money. I remember saying to a friend at the time, ‘This chap Stan Cattermole is an inspiration to us all. One thing’s for sure, you’ll never see him selling out his principles for a fistful of shekels or a bag of pelf scratchings.’ Then, a mere matter of weeks later, it happens. You sold your soul. And for what? For a fucking toastie machine. Well, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’ve let everyone down and frankly, I hope you choke to death on one of your toasties.

Goodbye.

No one wants to receive an email like that, so as I stand on the threshold of venality, I steel myself and I wonder, do I dare? Do I dare hawk a peach? Or indeed, anything at all which I have not created myself.

In the couple of weeks since all the fun of the bingo post, I’ve had a couple of other people approach me with offers of blog promotional activity. Whether they came on the back of the bingo post or not, I cannot say. However, as I tend to with all such offers, I replied asking for more details.

One lady, who seems quite nice and is therefore almost certainly in entirely the wrong line of work, so I won’t name her, offered me $60 dollars if I would include a link to one of her clients in an old post. Specifically, she wanted me to add a link to my old Everybody’s Free (To Wear A Paper Bag) post. More specifically, she wanted me to change this:

Wear good clothes. The expression ‘You can’t polish a turd’ is a vicious, pernicious lie. You most certainly can polish a turd. Indeed, it is your duty as a human turd to polish yourself daily, and a fine wardrobe is some of the best turd-polish money can buy.

…to this:

Wear good clothes – the wholesale clothing you own only looks good on the deliciously faux models on the site….

…with the words ‘wholesale clothing’ linked to some online clothes shop. The link would have to stay there for a year.

I didn’t fancy this. Mostly I didn’t fancy it because I’m quite proud of the Paper Bag post and the thought of butchering it for money seemed like the kind of thing that only a real soulless shitbag might do. Particularly for such a paltry sum.

The other one was more interesting. Basically I was offered the opportunity to receive a free gift from an online store and write an honest review of it. Now, although I disdain the kind of duplicitous garbage that bingo-boy was suggesting, I happen to love free gifts. Also, the opportunity to write an ‘honest review’ was appealing. If I didn’t like the product, I could say so, and with as much vitriol as I pleased. Also, the guy who approached me had actually seen my blog and could even string a half- decent sentence together himself. So I checked out the store.

I was allowed to choose something to the value of $70-80. Naturally, most of the stuff I really wanted cost considerably more – for example, there was a leather office chair which cost around $3,000. I really wanted that.

There was also a rug.

My room at the moment is spacious and fine. The only thing that displeases me about it – apart from the smell of stale tobacco smoke – is the carpet, which is cheap and bobbly and timeworn. So when I saw that I could pick up a delightful brightly coloured nine foot by five foot rug within the given price range, my heart soared. I wrote back to Jamie at the promotions company and said I’d love the rug. I told him it would really tie the room together. Which was true. Unfortunately Jamie had made a mistake and wasn’t able to ship my rug from the States to Englandshire. Instead he asked me to choose something from a few UK sites, which weren’t as good. Eventually, however, I found a toastie maker and I thought what the hell.

So here we are.

However, I still have my doubts. Part of me always agreed with Bill Hicks that anyone who advertises anything is bereft of all integrity, just another whore at the capitalist gang bang. But then there’s Stephen Fry – possibly the most universally respected celebrity in the history of celebrity – who apparently makes over a hundred grand a year doing ads and seemingly has no qualms whatsoever about adding his voice to even the most ghastly product. (I'm sure he gives it all to charity. He must. Mustn't he?)

Either way, it’s a weird thing. It’s a dilemma.

I, of course, am no one. I’m just a struggling blogger trying to keep my Johnson hard in a cruel and harsh world, and I happened to have been offered a toasted sandwich maker. All I have to do is link to the cookware site in question in this post and then post an honest review when my bribe gift arrives.

So I’m doing it. And as long as I don’t have to betray myself by being anything less than honest, I think I’ll manage to sleep at night. In fact, if anyone else wants to give me stuff for free and all they want me to do is link and opine, then I’ll do that too. If anyone wants to offer me a rug, for example. Or a $3,000 chair. Or anything really. I love freebies. Is that so wrong?

And remember, I’m not saying you should go and buy anything from anything from the cookware store in question. I really couldn’t give a monkey's. I'd be surprised if you did in fact, because it is frighteningly expensive. But the fact is, I love a nice toastie.



Anyway, that’s it. I know some of you will think nothing of it, but I’m sure some of you will shake your heads and think less of me. I guess the reason I’ve made such a meal of this post is that I kind of agree with both schools of thought. I'm between a rock and a hard place. Between the Breville and the deep blue sea.

So what do you reckon? Unscrupulous opportunistic cynical whore? Or thoroughly decent chap with a pile of debt and a yen for hot cheese and curried beans?

Please be nice.

Feedback Friday :: Nothing To See Here

Right then. Here we are.

This will be sloppy. Not half-hearted, but probably at most third-brained. I’ve been working. Two full days immersed in a world of SMEs and CEOs, audits, buy-outs and chubby men smiling money smiles in shiny ties and proper trousers. It’s really quite tiring. All I want to do is go and watch the telly.

I shall resist, however.

So, news. Time over event multiplied by inherent appeal. I have none. Indeed, apart from work, which saps the soul but enriches the other bits that quite like getting out of the house once in a while and earning a few bob, I am a hollow bone. It’s all rather unenlightening really. I don’t even want to talk about it.

I think the worst thing about work is the time it takes. It’s like – if you take it seriously – it takes up most of your life! There’s almost no time at all to do anything else. This week, for example, I was going to write a scintillating, coruscating piece about that bad egg, Barbara Ellen, escaping under the radar of Jan Moir’s odium and managing to get away not only with writing wholly misjudged tosh about internet paedophiles being lazy, but also this: ‘People should not feel obliged to switch off their mobile phones in theatres.' What a silly fucker. I was also going to get over the feelings of futility that have sprung up about something I was trying to write, pick up where I left off and bring it to swift, satisfactory and profitable conclusion. I was going to get hold of a rug that would really tie the room together. I was going to track down Danny Wallace and persuade him to let me write his column in Shortlist. Because it’s crap. And then I was going to brush his hair flat for him and insist that he stop raising his right eyebrow like a particularly charmless nonce. I was going to learn to play the piano. I was going to write a song about a paedophile called Never Too Old For A Cuddle. I was going to be something. I was going to be a contender. Instead of a blithering toad, which is what I am.

What about that Nick Griffin, eh? They should get him on Have I Got News For You and crucify him.

Balls, I’ve got to go to sleep. Got to be up early. ‘Work while you have the light,’ said the philosopher. ‘You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you.’

Meh.

Have a nice weekend now. I will be drinking heavily and fixing my bike. And you? What will you be doing? Anything ring-looseningly cool?

Feedback Friday :: Up

bulk :: 13st 5
cigarettes :: meh, a few, but none on Sunday
booze :: lots; some every day
exercise :: nil
interviews :: 2
jobs :: 3

I’ve been very busy this week, fending off economic meltdown. I’m writing this from the boardroom of a giant Japanese financial institution in the heart of the belly of the groin of the beast. I’ve just finished having an initial meeting with a charming little Japanese fella who wants me to help him write reports and summaries and emails about base metal trading. I know, I know. Be still my panel-beating heart. When the meeting was over I asked him if I could hang around for half an hour and use the wifi. He said I could. So here I am.

I had something similar yesterday too. Different set-up, same nonsense.

Suddenly my life has changed, in oh so many ways. I’m not altogether sure I like it, but I’m not altogether sure I don’t. I think I might be a little ambivalent about it.

Speaking of ambivalence, yesterday I found myself wandering around the financial district and I felt myself simultaneously repulsed and elated. I made some notes as I thought I could write a heroic and visceral blog post about it. But I left them at home. All I remember now is two drunks fighting over a pink blanket, then fifteen minutes later four policemen, two of them donning purple rubber gloves and searching the drunks for knives and drugs, the blanket now nowhere in sight; I remember talking to an Evening Standard distributor who said that the new free status of the Standard had ruined him – they used to get 12p per copy, now they get 2p. He said he could have survived if they’d given 5p on the copy, but now he’d have to find different work. That was sad. And it made me glad that I was lucky enough not to have to hand out shoddy journalism to scowling suits; I remember being freshly amazed by the potpourri of London’s architecture and the thrill of sauntering through it all with time to spare and music in my ears. I love the way you can dip off one street dripping with gold, bronze and marble onto another street, seconds away, stinking of cabbages and dildos. I love that.

Actually, on reflection, I’ve decided I’m glad to be getting out of the house a little more.

Gosh. I’ve just eaten two plates of biscuits.

Oh, and another thing. I’ve got a date tonight. Wish me luck.

And have a smashing weekend yourself. What you up to? Anything overwhelmingly scintillating?

Maybe There Actually IS Such A Thing As Bad Publicity After All

This is most probably the last mention I will make of these bingo-touting swine, as Thomas Brown of Topspot Promotions is apparently not talking to me anymore. I sent this last email first thing on Monday morning...

Dear Mr Brown

I must say, I am very disappointed not to have received a reply to my last email. A less trusting soul might come to the conclusion that you’re welshing on our deal! I, however, am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. You’re probably just busy doing your important work.

The reason I’m writing again is actually not to remonstrate with you (fear not!) but rather to share with you some very good news. Despite the reservations your client had about my promotional piece, I published it on my blog anyway and I’m very happy to say it was featured in a terrifically popular weekly newsletter of interesting things on the internet. As a result of this, over TEN THOUSAND people have seen the piece over the last three days. That’s over TEN THOUSAND people who are now aware of 888Ladies online bingo!

Result!

So, under the circumstances, I was wondering if you might like to offer me substantially more than our previously agreed $80. I have a friend who works in online marketing – and I use the word ‘friend’ loosely, if not entirely incorrectly – and he says you should probably give me at least a couple of bags of sand for that kind of exposure. I am willing to negotiate, however. The fact is, my rent is due in just a few days, so I’d be prepared to settle for £500 (about $800) if you can make the payment before the 17th.

What do you say? Are you going to do the honourable thing?

If I haven’t heard from you by Wednesday, I shall most probably write to you again.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Cheers!


Stan

...and nothing. It was fun while it lasted, but now it appears to be over. Unless you can think of any more ways to antagonise Mr Brown, I think we're done.

Now, what about that Barbara Ellen, eh? What a nincompoop.

Selling Out? One Can But Dream.

Something very special happened today. If you’ll allow me, I'd like to tell you about it.

Over the weekend, mostly because of the B3ta link, lots of people came here to read the bingo post. A few of them left comments, and one or two people threatened to pay me the $80 themselves – this being the sum of money Thomas Brown dangled in front of me like a bad carrot made of shame and dead hair and old ladies’ fillings – but then they didn’t. Naturally.

Then this afternoon, I received the following comment from a man called Rishil:

‘Where is your donate button? I want to put money in there for this awesomeness of a post.’

So, just on the off-chance that this man was serious (although I didn’t really think for a moment that he was – he had just used the word 'awesomeness' after all), I found myself 'a donate button' and I put it online. It’s off to the right near the top of the page. It looks like this…




(It only looks like that though. That isn’t it. That’s merely a photograph of it. So if you want to give me some money and you were clicking on that, you are a jackass and I’m not even sure I want your money. Oh, alright then, go on. I’ll take it. Now go and click on the proper button. It looks like this…)




Etc.

So, then, within twenty minutes of the button being up, I received an email entitled ‘Notification of donation received’. Rishil – a complete stranger who happened to enjoy something I’d written – had begifted me with £500.

Whoa.

Can you believe that?

You can? Well then, you’re just a tiny bit credulous. £500 for one measly blogpost? That would be insane. No. He did give me a tenner though. And when you haven’t got a pot to piss in, a tenner for a blog post is like a kiss on the winky from Scarlett Johansson.

I am inordinately pleased.

Imagine though, if every single one of you donated just £5 – or even a paltry £1.... No, fuck it – as long as we're making shit up, let’s stick to a £10 minimum. Imagine that. I’m imagining it now. If you all donated £10, I could phone up the Japanese banker and English accountants I’ve just accepted work from and tell them to go hang.

‘Balls to you!’ I would say. ‘My public have spoken. They want me to stay home and berate marketeers, detail my calamitous sexploits and fantasise about my magnificent winky disappearing, one dainty finger at a time, into the sweet and sultry, slightly sticky maw of Scarlett Johansson.’

No?

Oh, alright then. I know I’ve a long, long, long, long way to go before I can even see the dizzy heights of the phenomenal Dooce, but it’s a step in the right direction. A baby step, I know, but a step nonetheless. And ironically, I know I have Thomas Brown of Tosspot Promotions to thank.

So, Thomas Brown - thank you. Oh, and by the way, you owe me $80.




Now I'm off to the pub to spend that tenner.

Score!

Feedback Friday :: Wet

No time for a proper feedback post this week due to proper job search and angry neighbour downstairs covered in my flatmate’s dirty bathwater and – if Ben is as grubby as I – piss. What a day. I say, what a day.

It has ended on a good note though, as something I’ve written has finally got into the B3ta newsletter. I’ve been trying to get in B3ta for years, sending my own stuff in – sometimes as me, sometimes as some wanking sockpuppet or other – but with no luck. So I’m pleased. I think I’ll celebrate by getting really drunk and making inappropriate advances to the plumber when he (or she) gets here. Alright, alright, he.

Now my internet is about to go off for the weekend – hopefully for the last time – should have my own sorted out on Monday.

In the meantime, have a splendid weekend and if you’re new here, you might want to consider a) sleeping with me b) buying my book or c) a delightfully seedy combination of the two. Oh, and leave a comment! If you want.

Anyway, what are you up to this weekend? Anything seriously fucking brilliant?

Bingo! :: One Little Duck, Round Two

Just received a response from Mr Brown regarding my promotion of his clients, the 666Ladies Bingo Bastards Emporium. Here it is:

Hello Stan,

I showed this post to my clients but unfortunately they feel it is too edgy and they don’t want it to appear on the site. I hope you can understand. I’m sorry for the time you spent and hope we’ll be able to do business in the future.

Best regards,

Thomas Brown
Senior Advertising Consultant
Topspot Promotions

'Too edgy.' I like that. I might use it as a testimonial. 'Bête de Jour :: too edgy.' However, I do feel kind of bad. Mr Brown actually seems like a decent sort after all. Still, having said that, a deal is a deal and I can't stand welshers. So I replied with this:

Hi Thomas

I'm sorry to hear that, I really am. However, having toiled quite considerably on the article, I feel it is only fair that I receive financial recompense to the value of $80, as previously agreed.

How do you usually prefer to make payment? I can send you details of my Paypal or my bank account. Which would you prefer?

Looking forward to hearing from you.


Stan

So. Now we wait. I hope this doesn't end up in court, but if I don't get my $80, I swear, I'll take them for every penny they've got.

Bingo? Let's Play!

So, a few days ago I was contacted by one Thomas Brown asking me if I’d be interested in placing a little text ad on my blog in exchange for wonga. Brown works for Topspot Promotions, which essentially, is a kind of perversely legitimate virus which spreads virtual cancer throughout the internet. However, as I’m on the verge of declaring myself bankrupt, I thought I might as well take my principles and general anti-capitalist, anti-marketing standpoint and shove them up my adolescent broke ass. So I wrote to Thomas, asking him what he had in mind. ‘Let's talk numbers,’ I said. ‘How much can you give me up front?’ Thomas replied, saying, ‘We are willing to pay you a one-time fee of $80 for writing a regular post (in the spirit of the rest of your blog’s posts) which will include a paragraph that will describe my client’s website and its services.’ Now, in this day and age, what with the pound lying in the gutter with its entrails hanging out and me in a really quite terrifying amount of debt, I thought, well, $80 is not to be sneezed at, especially if I could write the promotional post in the spirit of the rest of my blog. Thomas had obviously seen my blog and realised that my tone was a good fit with his client’s product. So I asked for more details. Thomas wrote back, explaining that his client was an online bingo company called 888ladies.com. Hmmm, I thought. Sounds right up my alley. Thomas continued…

‘The post of course should be about online bingo and should include, as mentioned, information about my client’s website an services. You can write the post as you want as long as it will be positive. I don’t want to limit you but of course that the longer the post will be it will be better. Once the post will be ready you can send it to me and I’ll show you where I want to place the links (from which words). I look forward to hearing your thoughts.’

So, even though I had a million other things to do – get a job, write a bestseller, get Paul McKenna to hypnotise me to stop smoking, get my ears syringed, get my piles waxed, honestly, the list really is endless – I decided to spend some time on my positive promotional bingo post. It took me bloody ages too, but I think in the end I got the tone right. This is what I sent...

Hi Thomas I have decided to take you up on your generous offer and so include below my first post for your perusal. I hope it’s not too irreverent… … Bingo! If you’re anything like me, you’ll be wondering what went wrong with your life. Here you are, rapidly approaching middle-age and what have you got to show for it? Stretchmarks, fat ears, unwaxed piles and a wasted life spent predominantly alone wanking into an old sock and wondering why no-one’s buying your really quite remarkable book. But fear not, for help is at hand in the form of a really quite excellent online bingo site called 888ladies.com. Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Hello. What’s all this? Has Stan lost his blinking benkers? What’s all this about online bingo? Everyone knows it’s a mug’s game – essentially Stupid Tax for people who find lottery tickets just a little bit too challenging. Surely Stan – good old sensible cynical savvy old Stan – isn’t seriously suggesting I go to this swindler’s website and get shafted by the dregs of humanity?’ Well, hold on a minute – let’s not go jumping to conclusions. Let’s give these people a fair crack of the whip. Just because they prey on feeble-minded imbeciles, lonely retards and desperate addicts doesn’t mean they’re bad people. 

For the rest of this article, Stan recommends you go here and purchase a copy of The Little Book of Shame. Not only does it contain the article you're currently reading, it also contains around 50 others, and all for the incredible price of whatever price it happens to be at the moment. You lucky thing you.  

Feedback Friday :: Foibles

bulk :: 13st 10 (eek!)
exercise :: very, very little
sexual congress :: nada
onanism :: fair bit
writing :: lots
cartography :: zilch
floccinaucinihilipilification :: some, but probably mostly useless
optimism (moneywise) :: moderate
optimism (fleshwise) :: moderate
marks out of ten for week :: 7

Right, I’ve got very little time before my internet is switched off for the weekend, and actually very little to say. What the hell is all this one post a week malarkey all about anyway? Well, it’s because I’m trying to write something. A book. Takes bloody ages.

So what can I tell you? Well, Ben and I got substantially lubricated on Wednesday night. Not in a sexual way, you understand. Not with love-lube and man-sweat and dirty great gobs of gay spit. No. But with red wine. Not red wine rubbed into our chest hair and thighs, then licked off of our taut nipples and springy, carrot sticks, you understand. No. Just in our mouths. And swallowed. Like two perfectly non-sexual, house-sharing, red wine-drinking men.

Then we had sex.

No, just kidding.

Ben told me some amusing things about himself though, which I shall share with you in the name of light-hearted betrayal. They go like this:

1) When he was fifteen, he was caught by a friend’s mum in the act of kissing a mannequin. (His friend’s father meanwhile, may or may not have been one of the architects of the modern landmine. Life, eh?)

2) Whenever Ben is in a pub or restaurant eating or drinking with other people, he has this neurotic inability to put anything in his mouth at the same time as anyone else. So, if he notices, for example, that I pick up my glass of red wine at exactly the same time as him, he will hold his for a moment without drinking. Once he’s seen that I have drunk from my glass, he will be able to follow suit, but not until. I asked him, ‘What happens if we drink at the same time?’ He just shook his head gravely and said, ‘It’s not good.’ Bloody weirdo.

3) Furthermore, he is unable to urinate onto another man’s urine. So if, for example, I refuse to flush the chain because it seems unnecessary after an alcohol-weakened half-piss and because I want to save the planet, Ben will always flush before passing his own pee-pee.

These things strike me as very odd. Except for perhaps the mannequin-kissing. I would certainly have done that if there’d been a mannequin knocking about in my youth. Instead I had to practise on the cat.

Do you have any super-strange completely irrational habits which you'd like to share with me? Aw, go on, I promise I won't tell anyone.

Right. I'd best get on.

Oh, and if you've never read James Joyce's saucy letters to his saucy brownarsed fuckbird Nora Barnacle, then you really ought. They're funny.

Have a super weekend.