Wednesday, 25 November 2009

A Rose Is A Rose Is A Rodney

I wonder, how much of your identity is tied up in your name? What do you think? I would say, in my case at least, none. This is partly because I’ve never felt close to my real name and indeed I’ve taken steps throughout my life to distance myself from it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently, however, and I think I might be growing into it, or about to grow into it. In fact, 2010 will be the year I grow into my name. Fingers crossed.

I was thinking the other day about a little boy called Rory. Rory is a mate’s kid, and he has a fine name, I’m sure you’ll agree. But what if Rory turns out to have a speech impediment? What if he has to introduce himself for the whole of his life as Wowy? That would be awful. Potentially a genuine tragedy which could only be exacerbated if he plumped for a career at Defra and had to spend his working life talking about environmental and rural affairs.

I mentioned this to Ben. Ben said this is exactly why people should be allowed to choose their own names. I asked him what name he would have chosen for himself if he’d been allowed to do so as a child. He said, 'Princess Leia.' I find it increasingly difficult to believe that he was ever married.

He asked me what name I would have chosen. ‘Fonzie,’ I replied. Thinking about it more seriously, however, and for reasons into which I am unable to go, I would have chosen the name Danny.

I’d still quite like to be a Danny. I wonder though, would my life have been any different if I’d been a Danny?

Maybe this is one of the reasons people have children, so they can give them the names they wish they’d had themselves. But maybe not. I’d like to think that babies’ faces suggest names, like cats. Parents must think, ‘Oh, she looks just like an Emily’ or ‘He has the nose of a Cyril’. But then people make mistakes. What about you? Did your parents make a mistake? Did they name you correctly - or are you a big Jesse trapped in a Jake? Hmm?

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Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Feedback Wednesday :: A Curse On My Unblasted Dams

bulk :: 13st 11
alcohol intake :: average
tobacco :: ah, well, yes, therein lies a tale
exercise :: none
sex :: none
violence :: none
drama :: lots

Things are extremely odd at the moment. This is why I’m posting pointless little nothings about Fonzie and violent dreams, the kind of things about which my dear old friends send me snippy hurtful emails late at night. Oh, Thom. How could you?

Frustratingly, this is also one of those periods about which I cannot speak, for fear of upsetting some of the people involved. This is vastly annoying for me because I’m a gusher by nature and my dams are fit to burst. My damns too.

Ah well.

Here are some things I can talk about:

…I’ve met a few people lately, new people, interesting people. One of these is a chap I met through the blog who has an opportunity to write something for a telly programme and wondered if I’d like to try and help. I did try and help but I wasn’t very good. Or at least I certainly wasn’t anywhere near as good as I wanted to be. But we scrambled something together and he sent it off. So I have my fingers crossed, but my hopes unraised.

…I also met another person through other work, a very interesting fellow who, compared at least to most people who are on the whole fairly anodyne, is clearly quite mad. Morag told me when I saw her recently, that I am quite ‘full on’. I know she didn’t mean it as a compliment exactly so much as a statement of fact. However, I took it as a compliment. So, this other fellow is quite full on too. And I mean that as a compliment also. Thankfully, and unusually, if not outright eccentrically, he doesn’t really ‘do’ the internet, so I might tell you more about him when I have a moment. Incidentally, it was with this scamp that I smoked some tobacco the other day. He had some excellent green stuff, you see, to accompany the tobacco, and I simply had to smoke it with him. And I don’t regret it. It really was good.

…Selling out is proving more difficult than I hoped it might. I got a call from the people who are supposed to be sending me my toastie machine this morning and there is a problem. The manufacturer has run out and doesn’t know when they’ll have any more. At the moment, they’re looking at 6-8 weeks. Wastrels. Meanwhile, someone else has sent me a book they want me to review, a book about sex. It’s pretty fucking grotty if you want to know the truth, and there’s no money in it so it’s not exactly selling out, but I’m going to continue with it because I can’t wait to finish the book and tear it a new anus, which is actually, as you shall see, a highly pertinent metaphor. Ouch.

…Yesterday I didn’t have enough money in my bank account to pay the rent. This is bad. I am owed money, and when it comes I’ll be OK again for a while, but it’s a bit embarrassing. At my age. Oh, God... don’t get me started. But do feel free to help out if you're loaded and stupidly generous.

...I think it was five weeks ago I tried to inflate the tyres of my bike. It didn't go well. My bike is still in pieces. I am useless. I need to be punished. Or just pull my fucking finger out. Or both!

…I’ve got a date tonight. I know, I know. But if it doesn’t work out, believe me, that’s it. I’m done with dating and saving up to go to Prague.

Thank you for listening. I leave you with this, taken by a friend in Spitalfields the other day.

No offence.

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Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Morning Terrors

I’ve just woken up from some of the ugliest dreams I think I’ve ever had. I was married, and evidently rich. I know I was rich because when my wife took off in the middle of the night to make skanky, horrible, bukkake-esque love with numerous menfolk, she took my convertible Mercedes with her. I know of her betrayal because she told me. She told me because I confronted her, and she told me in that horrible, vindictive, ‘I want to make you suffer’ way that people sometimes adopt when they’re brimming over with hatred.

Then there was the violence, courtesy of someone I used to know at school. At school he had mental issues – I think he was schizophrenic; in his teens he became possessed by the devil and heard messages from the government in children’s TV. In my dream he approached me and was about to beat me up. He was very powerful and there was nothing I could do. To my right, there were eight or so people seated in a large four-wheel drive vehicle. As my tormentor approached me, slowly, I looked to the people in the SUV and begged for their help. I could see by the expressions on their faces that they knew it was wrong to just sit there and watch, but that’s what they did. One of them was my tormentor’s father. I don’t know who the others were. They watched as my tormentor began to beat me viciously and relentlessly. I saw his fists hurtling toward me, and felt their impact. It went on for ages. Then I woke up.

Unfortunately, I know exactly what it means.

Have a nice day!


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Monday, 16 November 2009

I Have Forgiven Fonzie

Today has been very strange. For a while there, it looked like it was going to go be a really good day, but then it turned into a pear.

However, right at the last minute, a moment of slightly inebriated eBay weakness came good and I found that I was suddenly the proud owner of this...

The Fonz was something of a hero of mine when I was a little boy. I wanted to be him. But then he betrayed me horribly. I would like to tell you about this betrayal but I cannot. Not now. But hopefully soon.

In the meantime though - simply because there's no point holding a grudge forever - I think I have forgiven the Fonz.

Aww. It feels good. Welcome back, Fonzie.


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Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Night Terrors

Having cut out the wonder-weed along with the demon weed, I find that I am dreaming rather vividly at the moment. Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. Well, desired me. But it was a friend of mine, so it was a bit odd. She came into my room and lay on top of me, on top of my duvet too, so that I couldn’t move. Then she kissed my face repeatedly and told me she’d had an erotic dream about me. I told her she’d better go because I was becoming aroused.

Then I dreamt that Tony Soprano was whipping me with a chain. I tried to crawl away but I realised that this might anger him further, so I crawled back into whipping range, and he continued to whip me, mercilessly.

Then I dreamt about kittens. Lots of dreams about kittens. One in particular about two kittens, one of which was grouchy and unplayful, the other of which was your classic frolicking kitten. I chastised the grouchy one, grabbing it roughly and shouting at it. ‘Why can’t you be like the other kitten?’ I yelled in its miserable face.

Then a fox hissed at me and another cat coolly caught a pigeon, wrapping its jaws quite savagely around its neck. The pigeon did not resist. It barely moved, just accepted its pain, blinking calmly.

What can it all mean?

In a couple of weeks, I’m going to get hold of an anti-smoking pill that apparently has vivid dreaming as a side-effect. I can’t wait. The scarier, the better.

Now I must attempt to write something amusing. In the last month, three new writing opportunities have arisen through this blog, a couple of them very interesting, one not so much. The one I’m about to embark on now is potentially extremely interesting. No money at the moment, but you never know where these things might lead. You know? You never know.

Pleasant Tuesday to you. Blessings be upon you.

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Monday, 9 November 2009

The Opposite of Journalism

I went out crusting today so chanced upon the Metro and read this faecal guff. It's the penultimate sentence that really tweaked my spleen.

And don't tell me that he's just saying what other people have said, because that's not good enough. It'd be like saying that other people have pointed out that badgers are allergic to marzipan, without questioning it, or that Canada is the capital of Vombekistan, without questioning it, or that Thora Hird is the opposite of Boutros Boutros-Cackamuffin, without questioning it.

Lose lose lose lose lose, motherfucker.

Ooh, I could colonise a cheesecake.

Do excuse me. I've given up smoking. Coming up to the end of my third day. I've just been drinking in company too, which was the real test. And a friend is on his way over with sausages and cabbage now, so obviously there will be more wine, therefore more temptation.

Years ago I met an Australian who, when I mentioned that I was having difficulty giving up smoking, said: 'Just stop putting the things in your mouth.' He said it with a really oily smugness too, which made me absolutely livid. His name was Jojo. And that was his real name. The jerk.

Anyway, this post has no theme. I just want Tom Phillips to apologise and never write another word and I want Jojo to get hooked on the horse. AND I WANT A FUCKING CIGARETTE!

Aaah, I feel better having vented.

I thank you.

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Friday, 6 November 2009

Emperor Ming and the Mystical Muff Hunt

So, Publisher Lady reckons that as a title, Bête de Jour might not be the best option going into paperback. As far as I can tell, she is of the opinion that the book-buying British public might not recognise the allusion. Or indeed the language. I know, I know, how dare she? How dare she imply that the same people who lap up Dan Brown and Katie Price and Jeffrey Archer and Martine McCutcheon in their hundreds of millions might be a bit thick? If it weren’t for the fact that I absolutely agree with her, I would be furious.

So she asked me to come up with a different title. Essentially something more commercial. And in this I wholeheartedly support her. l want some money. And I want an iPhone. And some new boots.

So I came up with a few alternatives, none of which really bit my balls off.

Therefore, I thought I’d ask you, my unremittingly wonderful and imaginative readers. They say everyone has a book in them. Unfortunately, Katie Price has repeatedly shown this to be nonsense. However, I’m pretty sure everyone has at least a title in them. Maybe a subtitle too.

So if you fancy having a crack, please leave your ideas in the comments. Remember: nothing too clever, nothing pretentious or foreign, preferably something slightly titillating, but obviously pertaining to the thrust of the content of the book, i.e. a beastly bloke trying to track down true love. Or whatever.

As well as having the life-long pleasure of having your very own title on the cover of the best-selling book of 2010, you will also receive a signed copy of the soon-to-be-eminently-collectible hardback, and Publisher Lady might throw in something from Harper Collin if I threaten to publicly shame her if she doesn’t.

So there you go.

I’m hoping that with your help, one day I can reach these kind of dizzy heights:

Now. Have an excellent weekend. I’m stopping smoking tomorrow. I met a wonderful woman today who works for the NHS. She was really lovely. I kind of loved her a bit. She prescribed some patches and pills. I start tomorrow. Which is to say, I stop tomorrow. And which, by extension, means that tonight I drink binge and smoke like a pregnant teen. What are you up to? Anything as nice as that?

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