NAQ Farcissus

I realised yesterday that the main reason most FAQs are deathly dull is because people simply don’t ask the right questions. The shits. So it occurred to me that a bunch of Never Asked Questions might be a little more interesting, if incredibly sad. So, here we go.



I’d like to buy you a gift, please, if I may. What would you like?

Eh? Why on earth would you want to do that?

Because I think you’re wicked. Why haven’t you got a Wishlist?

Because the idea that a virtual stranger would buy me a gift is madness.

But it happens. People do lots of things for people they’ve never met. I think you underestimate the kindness of strangers. Why don’t you get yourself a Wishlist?

OK then. Consider it done.

Cool. Good luck with that. Now, how would you like to write a weekly column about whatever the hell you like for some national newspaper or glossy magazine?

Yes, please. That would be splendid. Thanks.

No problem. How much would you like to be paid?

Oh, I don’t know. How does £300 sound?

Hmm. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a little more than that?

Well, OK, yes. I just didn’t want to sound greedy.

Paff. Greedy schmeedy. Would you accept a thousand pounds a week?

Oh, go on then. Cheers.

Good Lord, look who it is! It’s Audrey Tautou! She wants to ask you a question too. Would you mind if Audrey Tautou sat in your lap and asked you a few questions?

Crikey. No, not at all.

'Allo, Stan. I’m the very lovely Audrey Tautou, French film starlet and all-round sex profiterole. 'Ow are you?

I’m fine, Audrey, thanks for asking. You look lovely by the way. Even better in real life if I may say so. Not at all anorexic and not even a tiny bit like Michael Jackson after he was burned.



Thanks! You look pretty sexy yourself. I really fancy ugly men. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind coming round to my villa in the Seychelles tonight and showing me a good time?

Erm… I’m actually a little busy tonight but… OK, what the hell. You’re on!

Oh, you make me so 'appy! I thought we could fly there in my private jet which in reality is actually more like a time machine. We’ll be there in literally no time at all. Actually, I know this is a bit forward, but are you free right now?

Um… yeah, OK. For you, Audrey, anything.

Right then, wrap your meaty arms around my slender frame. Ready?

D’accord!

Ooh, that was fun. Time travel always makes me feel - ‘ow you say? – up for it. So – do you like my villa in the Seychelles overlooking the Indian Ocean and miles of private beach?

I do, Audrey. I love it.

Formidable! Now, would you like some champagne?

Ooh, yes please.

Would you prefer to lap it from the small of my back or 'ave it transferred from my own delicious little mouth into yours?

Erm….

Or maybe both?

Yes! Let’s do both!

OK, but would you like to slowly undress me first?

Oh, alright then.

Oh, Stan. May I kiss you?

You may, Audrey Tautou. You may.

May I kiss you slowly at first, tentatively, my lips as light upon your face as my breath, until we’re both burning up with exquisite anticipation? Then, when you’re really aching for me, may I gradually introduce my tongue, teasing you, sucking on your swollen lips and groaning as I taste the sweet nectar of your 'ighly erotic man-spittle? Then, when I’m ready to give myself to you fully, may I go wild on your mouth and face and kiss you with all of the savage intensity and barbaric abandon of a woman who 'as been denied any physical affection for 12,000 years?

Audrey. You may.

Ooh-la-la! You are such a generous lover. And may I say that I ’ave never been kissed so perfectly, so passionately before?

Oh, Audrey. Don’t be silly.

But Stanley, it’s true! You are a very sensual man. Gentle yet assertive. Almost feminine in your emotional sincerity, yet at the same time ruggedly masculine. I wonder, would you like to do me in the bum?

Audrey! I’m shocked. And also a little embarrassed. I’ve never done that before.

Then would you do me the honour of allowing me to be your first?

OK, Audrey. OK. I’ll do you in the bum.

Mon dieu! Je t’aime, Stan Cattermole! Je t’aime! Do you love me too, Stan? Do you? Do you love me?

I do, Audrey Tautou, I do!

....

Oh, I seem to have got a little carried away there. I’ve gone all moist.

Je suis désolé.

Au revoir.

FAQ Narcissus

If I had fifty thousand pounds for every time someone has asked me, Where the hell are your Frequently Asked Questions?, I’d still be in the poor house frankly, because no one has ever asked me that. And why would they? Frequently Asked Questions are ghastly. They may make a little sense on sites which provide services, particularly techy services where things are apt to go wrong, but on personal blogs they’re really horribly self-important.

As if keeping a blog wasn’t self-important enough, to then go and claim that there are yet more details about you that people are simply aching to know is tantamount to galloping narcissism.

So here goes.

(Actually, the real reason I’m doing this is because someone asked me to put a photo of myself online. And that was the second time I’d been asked that. Does two times count as frequently? Of course it does.)

Why do you write about your life on the internet, you big freak?

Principally, in order that I may have one. This blog came out of a need to start living properly. It allowed me to make promises to myself in public. This brought with it a sense of responsibility, which in turn proved a huge incentive. So essentially, it’s a way of taking responsibility for my life.

Still seems a bit iffy to me. All those personal details. Have you no shame?

God, yes. I have bags of shame. Mostly however, I’m ashamed that I was living such a hideously half-baked life for so long. Thankfully that’s changed. And that’s mostly down to this blog.

So what did you do before you started blogging?

I sat around watching films and eating peanut butter sandwiches. And I enjoyed it too. But there comes a time in a man’s life when that man has to take some stock of himself, and say to himself, ‘So - what am I?’ And if the answer comes back, ‘I am what I am, and what I am is a Man’, maybe accompanied by a little chest-beating and muttering something about Sparta, then that man should probably be tied to a rock and tranquilised. Equally however, if the answer is ‘I’m nothing but a big old blob, and I’m sitting here wasting my whole fucking life’, then again, it’s probably time for drastic action of one form or another.

So are you really as ugly as you say you are?

Well, no one’s ever actually vomited on me yet. I am however, differently-featured enough for people to stop in the street, raise their eyebrows and blow out their cheeks. Once someone spat at me and once someone punched me in the face for no reason, although that may have been wholly random and not connected to my appearance at all.

Also, my whole life I’ve been told that I’m ugly. That’s how ugly I am.

As a result of writing about my life however, I’m definitely getting less and less hung up about the whole ugly thing. And this pleases me greatly.

Incidentally, I am not – in my opinion – as ugly as Pete Burns. But it's all subjective. I can see how some people might find him quite striking. Weirdoes.

Why don’t you publish a photo of yourself and have done with it?

Have done with what, for heaven’s sake? I don’t publish a photo because this blog is not about what I look like. Rather, it’s about what I do. Or at least what I say I do.

Like I’ve said before, I don’t want to be a freak show. I don’t want people commenting on how I look. I don’t want to hear, ‘Oh, you’re not that bad’. And I especially don’t want to hear, ‘Yeah, actually, I see what you mean’. I don’t want any of that. I’ve had people making comments about how I look my whole life. This blog is the one place where that won’t happen.

Who was the last person you’ve been told you look like?

The last person was just the other day actually, and it was Tracey Emin. Unfortunately this isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds. I do look a little like Tracey Emin. Like Tracey Emin crossed with a bag of elbows.

And Hellboy. I get that quite a bit too. Oh, my aching sides.

Oh, your aching face, more like.

Shut up.

Touché. So on the one hand you say it’s not about looks, yet on the other hand you quite clearly use your appearance to bring in readers.

No, I don’t. If I posted photographs of myself, you could say I used my appearance to bring in readers. On the contrary, I use my words to bring in readers. And nothing more.

Did you really do that thing with the kitten? And that thing about being filmed having sex… is that true?

Is the Pope a Nazi? Do Catholics glow in the dark? Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes. If I’ve written about it, then it’s true.

More or less.

Cor. I like the way you write. Will you go to bed with me?

Hold on a sec. Is that really a frequently asked question?

Never you mind. I’m the one asking the frequently asked questions round here.

No, sorry. Surely I can’t possibly follow up a question about telling the truth by pretending that I’m frequently asked if I will go to bed with my readers.

Why not?

I just can’t. It's not ethical. Anyhow, I’ve had enough. This fake conversation is over.

Hey, would you like a six-figure advance for the story of your life?

Oh, shush.

OK, OK. Finally, are you Irvine Welsh?

No, ahm noat. Cunt.