Post Mortem :: It’s What He Would Have Wanted

Now, some might consider this a little distasteful, but frankly speaking, they can go hang.

Tribute to Pablo is artist-in-residence Not Keith’s first paid commission. I commissioned it myself, with pizza. I said, ‘How would you like to paint me a picture of Pablo? In exchange for a large rectangular pizza?’

‘Only on the condition that I can fill it with passion and fury and spite,’ he said. ‘Only on the condition that I can have it scream with the indignity of death and shake a thousand fists in the face of God, crying “Too cruel, this world, too cruel!”’

‘OK,’ I said.

One thing about Pablo, he had a wonderful sense of humour.

Of Cats and Men

What greater gift than the love of a cat?

Charles Dickens said that, and I for one think he was onto something.

Meanwhile, William Blake saw God for the first time in 1762, His big old face pressed against the living room window. And Little Billy Blake, only four years old, screamed. Awwww. Even at that age, an absolute looney. But what a talent. Then, somewhere between eight and ten, William Blake was on Peckham Rye. He gazed upon an ordinary tree and do you know what he saw? He saw angels. Or rather, ‘a tree filled with angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars’.

Looney.

Peckham Rye is just down the road of course. And round here Blake’s vision is rightly revered. Here is an artist’s interpretation on the side of a local house.



Revered.

So, naturally, under the circumstances, on Thursday evening, Keith and I set out to find Blake’s angel tree. Within a matter of minutes, as if by divine providence, we found it. Or at least one very similar. Albeit sans readily visible angels.

Then we came home and, with Pablo still on his blanket on the living room floor, we became intoxicated. We looked up cat quotes online. There are a great many.

Here are a few of my favourites:

‘Dogs are dogs, but cats are people.’ – Iranian proverb

‘Way down deep, we're all motivated by the same urges. Cats have the courage to live by them.’ - Jim Davis

‘The little furry buggers are just deep, deep wells you throw all your emotions into.’ - Bruce Schimmel

‘Poets generally love cats because poets have no delusions about their own superiority.’ - Marion Garretty

I also told a few Pablo stories. Here are a few of my favourites:

There was the time he enraged an elderly neighbour by killing one of her rosette-winning doves. I tried to explain to this furious woman that Pablo would never do such a thing, but when I found him later, there were still giveaway white feathers all over his face. I tried to chastise him for that, but he seemed so proud, and really, it was hilarious.

Then there was the time he brought home a beautiful grey squirrel he’d caught and heartlessly murdered for his own pleasure. I love squirrels and was really quite angry with him. But again, you know, what can you do? He was a killer. He loved to kill. And deep down I couldn’t help admire him for it.

When he was a kitten he grew very attached to a straw shopping bag a friend brought round to the house. So attached did he become that the friend brought the bag back the very next day, empty, as a gift for Pablo. We then developed this game, Pablo and I, wherein Pablo would climb into the bag and I would swing him backwards and forwards, causing him to grizzle with pleasure. That low slightly-spooky cat-growl that he’d do when I gave him cat-nip. The higher I swung him, the more he would grizzle, until eventually I was swinging the bag around the room in full circles. Then when I’d stop he would stagger out of the bag, still deep-purring but unable to walk in a straight line. This hilarious pastime came to an end one day in the back garden when the bottom of the bag came loose. Pablo flew out and away, high into the air in the direction of the house. He landed just above the kitchen window, where he remained, clinging to the brick work like a terrified drunken bat.

Then there was the time he wouldn’t stop shitting everywhere, a couple of months into our relationship, and I picked him up and shouted at him and threw him onto the ground like a bow tie I couldn't fasten, hurting him quite badly in the process. He squeaked in pain and when he righted himself he was limping quite badly. Immediately disgusted by what I’d done I went to comfort him, to apologise, and he hissed at me.

I never forgave myself for that. It made me question everything I thought I knew about myself. It made me wonder who I was and what I capable of. It made me question whether I was fit to have children. It made me go into counselling.

I have still never forgiven myself for that. And I think it’s important that I never do. But Pablo forgave me. And that made me love him more than I think I have ever loved anyone.

‘Let’s buy a house,’ said Keith. ‘Then we can get another cat.’

‘That seems a bit extreme,’ I said. ‘But maybe, yeah.’

Then, when it was properly dark and properly late and only cats and drunks were out roaming the streets, two drunks armed with a dead cat, a garden fork and a spade sashayed suspiciously over to Peckham Rye, heading for Blake’s Tree of Angels.

Now, I haven’t dug a hole since I attempted – as I imagine all children do - to tunnel my way to The Bowels of Hell aged five or ten. Turns out it’s bloody hard work. Despite Keith’s manly arms, it took us over an hour to get the hole deep enough so that we had no fear of it being dug up by dogs. And that was with the bare minimum of cannabonoid breaks.

To begin with, Keith – who sings the outdoors electric, frankly, and makes Ray Mears look like Margot Leadbetter – sliced up and removed a few squares of turf a couple of inches thick and put them to one side. Then, with our grave template in place, he unfurled a large sheet of tarpaulin, or, as I rather wittily insisted on calling it, Tom Paulin, and we got to digging in earnest by the light of the moon, Pablo already stationed above us in the branches of Blake’s Tree, angel feathers stuck to his cheeky chops.

When the hole was good and deep and the Tom Paulin piled high, I took Pablo’s body, blanket and all, gave him one final hug and kiss and placed him deep down inside the soft wet earth. Then I recited my poem:

Pablo, Pablo, burning bright, Bespangling all with purrfect light. Sleeping now where angels played, Your life has left me less afraid. And though your days of play are gone, The love you made lives on and on. Bespangling still my heart with light, Forever Pablo, burning bright.

Believe me, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Then we covered him over with earth and earth and more earth and stamped down hard on top of him, which felt a bit wrong but Keith insisted it was necessary to make him safe, to seal him in there, in the heart of the planet. Then we replaced the grassy bits and stamped them down too. For minutes we stamped and stomped and chanted like weird warriors. 'His name was Pablo Cattermole,' we chanted. 'His name was Pablo Cattermole.' The leftover earth we tossed around and kicked about. Then we went home to sleep.

I checked the grave on Friday afternoon and it was fine. A damn good job in fact. You could barely notice it. I had decided that I didn’t want to mark it because, well because it isn’t necessary – I know where Pablo is; Pablo is in my heart. Also, marked graves are easily damaged. By sick, sick human beings.

Then on Saturday, in another stroke of brain-boggling coincidence, Keith and I met Fred, a 12-week old ginger tom owned by Rex and Rita, two Keith's friends. They live in Hampshire. They had invited Keith along for a barbecue. Keith invited me. I went along and met Fred.

Here, readers, meet Fred, and remember the words of Leonardo da Vinci: ‘The smallest feline is a masterpiece.’



























There were quite a few humans at the gathering too, but I paid them very little heed, spending most of my Saturday with Fred.

Lots of people have suggested to me in the last few days that I should get a new kitten, and it’s easy to see why so many bereaved pet owners do immediately get involved with new animals. In fact, the only reason I’m not going to is because I can’t, because my pseudo-Chinese landlord won’t allow it.

I don’t think the procuring of a new kitten is an attempt to replace that cat so much as finding another avenue for that love that you still have inside you but which suddenly has no place to go. I suppose in that sense it’s a little like relationship rebound. But hopefully not as temporary.

Here’s another quote:

‘Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a worn-out coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another.’ - Irving Townsend

It upsets me that I cannot get a new cat at the moment, without incurring the wrath of the man-ferret Dudley, but so be it. The next house will have space.

And that’s it. I think I’m done for now.

Oh, except to say that at the weekend, Rex and Rita mentioned an article which had appeared in the Guardian a few weeks ago, about the death of a cat called Wilson. I’ve just searched it out and read it. It made me cry.

Rest in peace, Pablo.

Loss

On Thursday night, feeling awfully sorry for myself, I typed the words ‘PABLO – BELOVED BLACK CAT – CASH REWARD OFFERED FOR HIS SAFE RETURN’ into a blank Word document. I added my phone number and a photograph of Pablo. Then I pressed ctrl and P, keyed in 20 copies and pressed ‘print’. As I picked up the first sheet to examine it, my mobile phone began to squeal.

Timing.

It was Ron, next door neighbour in Herne Hill, owner of three discoloured teeth and one fabulously untended garden which was until recently Pablo’s favourite stomping ground and miniature jungle kingdom. I’d already talked to him about Pablo going missing post-move. He had kindly checked his garden and promised to keep his eyes peeled. So when I heard his voice, I was optimistic.

Ron explained that he was with a young man called Tony. Tony had been going door to door in the area asking if anyone owned a black cat. He’d eventually been pointed towards Ron’s building. When Ron said yes, his ex-neighbour was missing a black cat, Tony burst into tears.

‘I’ve got some bad news,’ Ron said. My heart sank and my stomach turned. He passed me over to Tony.

‘He just ran straight out in front of my car,’ Tony explained. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

Tony was a cat person. He felt terrible. I felt bad for him. But I felt sick for Pablo.

I drove back to my old house. I shook Tony’s hand. There was nothing he could do.

‘It’s OK,’ I told him. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘I’ve got four cats,’ he said. ‘I know how it is. I’m so, so sorry.’

Tony showed me to his car. He’d placed Pablo in the boot. His car was a Skoda.

A fucking Skoda.

Pablo deserved better than that.

I was surprised by how light he seemed. At first I thought maybe he was lighter because the life had leaked out of his body; because the weight of his soul had departed. Then I realised he’d probably lost a bit of weight in the few days he was missing, roaming around Herne Hill wondering where his life had gone. A shock ran through me. Pity and anger and shame. I tried not to blame myself. I’m still trying not to blame myself. But I do blame myself. At least partially.

I’d never held a dead body before. I touched my mother’s face before they put her in the ground but I didn’t feel much.

I loved Pablo much more than I loved my mother. Probably because Pablo showed me much more love than my mother ever did. It was easy to love Pablo. It was impossible to love my mother. She made it impossible.

His body was still warm.

It had been a clean hit, thank God. He ran into the front wheel with a thud. None of his insides were outside - I don’t think I would’ve been able to face that – but there was blood on his face, already dried. I couldn’t tell where it had come from exactly. I closed his eyes, the way they do in films, with soldiers.

I wrapped him in his favourite blanket and placed him on the passenger seat of my car.

Stalled at the traffic lights near Dulwich Park, I looked down at the blanket and let out a low groan.

I missed Sally.

....

A couple of weeks ago, Sally and I ended up having quite a heated argument about her taking photos of me. ‘I really thought you’d be into it,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m not,’ I replied. ‘I’m really not.’

‘Well, why not?’ she wanted to know, and it pissed me off that she seemed to feel some sense of entitlement. Like I was some art project she had paid for with her body.

‘Because you make me feel like a freak show,’ I said.

‘But I think you’re beautiful,’ she said. ‘In your own way,’ she added.

I made a face. My face said, ‘Thanks for that. You certainly know how to make a person feel like shit.’ Then my mouth said it.

‘But I mean it!’ she cried.

‘I know you mean it!’ I cried back. ‘That really doesn’t help matters.’

‘But you don’t understand,’ she said, still digging a dirty great hole for our relationship. ‘For me you have a kind of anti-beauty that’s very attractive.’

‘Jesus, Sally. There’s no difference between that and morbid fascination. I am not an art project! I am a human being!’ I smiled but I was pissed off. ‘Seriously. You really do make me feel like a freak show.’

‘Well, you are a bit of a freak show,’ she said. ‘And that’s part of the attraction.’

I didn’t know how to react to this. I felt like Susan Sarandon in Thelma and Louise when she says, ‘Damn, Jimmy. What did you do, take some kinda pill that makes you say all the right stuff?’ Only in reverse. I just shook my head.

After which, things became rather strained between us, and as if by mutual, albeit tacit agreement, we began to see a little less of each other. Then we met up for a late dinner on Wednesday night, then back to mine. Everything seemed great. We laughed a lot and touched a lot and everything seemed easy again.

It’s amazing how quickly you can start feeling really optimistic again, no matter how wrong things might be underneath. If indeed they are wrong underneath. You never really know.

Or do you? Maybe you do. I don't.

At 4am I opened my eyes and Sally was sitting cross-legged, wide awake in the middle of my bed, her body twisted away from me. She had a little white vest on. She looked like a dream. My bedside lamp was on, blinding me. I squinted, shaded my eyes. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked. She turned off the light, lay down and pulled the sheet over her body. She said she was fine. Told me to go back to sleep.

I didn’t believe her. ‘What’s up?’ I said.

‘I had a bad dream,’ she said.

‘Poor baby,’ I said, snuggling up to her and experiencing a wave of tenderness. There’s a song by Counting Crows with the line, ‘And every tine she sneezes, I believe it’s love’. It was that kind of moment. Like she’d sneezed all over me. She turned her body away from mine and I positioned myself behind her. ‘What was it about?’ I asked. And just as I did, something fell from the bed to the floor. I jumped. Sally didn’t move, but her not moving was so precise, so deliberate, that it had more impact than if she’d jumped to her feet. ‘What was that?’ I said. I reached across Sally, turned on the light, angled it away from my face and sat up.

Sally continued not to move. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just my camera.’

I looked at her. She continued to face away from me but I sensed her eyes were open, waiting.

‘Were you taking pictures of me?’ I asked.

She turned to face me, looking furtive, guilty. Or not. I don’t know.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘God, you’re paranoid.’

‘Sally. Why were you sitting up in the middle of the night with your camera and a light shining onto my face?’

‘I told you, I had a bad dream. I couldn’t sleep.’

I shook my head. I did a lot of head-shaking with Sally.

‘What?’ she snapped. ‘I was awake and I was looking through photos on my camera.’ I stared at her. She stared back. ‘You’re being weird,’ she said. My mouth fell open.

‘Me?!’ I was aghast. ‘Let me see the camera then.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘You’ve showed me photos on your camera before. Show me again.’

‘So you don’t trust me?’

‘Sally. You look guilty. You look like you’re lying to me. And you must admit, it looks pretty suspicious.’

‘I’m not lying and I don’t care how it looks.’

‘So show me. What have you got to hide?”

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘I agree entirely,’ I said. ‘This is utterly ridiculous. You’re behaving like a child.’

‘Oh, fuck off.’

And with that, she got out of bed, pulled on her clothes, picked up her camera and left.

To my shame, I did a little pleading. ‘Please don’t go, Sally’ I said, and I sounded pathetic. I followed her downstairs, wanting to stop her, physically. I tugged at her elbow. She reacted like I’d stabbed at her with a cattle prod and glowered at me. I felt guilty.

She said she wasn’t going to stay where she wasn’t trusted. I said I did trust her. Honest.

She left.

When the front door closed, I came back to my bedroom and picked up my watch from the bedside table. It was a quarter to four. How was she going to get home? I got back into bed.

I picked up my phone. I put it down.

Then I picked it up again and started texting.

Then I shook my head, cancelled the message and threw my phone across the room.

I turned off the light.

I thought how she often flicked through the images on her camera and realised that her explanation was entirely plausible. Why the fuck would she want to take photographs of me anyway? She was right. I was entirely paranoid.

I thought about how I’d never met even got the chance to have her mum cure me of my heliophobia.

I thought how her eyes had flashed hatred when I grabbed at her arm, like she expected me to hit her, and she was daring me.

I thought how we didn't really know each other at all. I should never have touched her.

And now she was gone. With or without stolen snapshots. It didn’t matter. I felt stupid, like I’d fucked everything up.

I looked around the room, staring through the darkness.

I missed Pablo.

I placed the palms of my hands over my ears and pushed my fingernails into the scalp at the back of head until it really, really hurt.

Maybe he’d come back tomorrow.

Feedback Friday Tuesday :: Upheaval, Distraction, Renewal of Vows

bulk :: 15st 13 (slowly but surely)
alcohol units imbibed :: 10ish (surprisingly few, considering)
cigarettes smoked :: 0
joints smoked :: a thousand
runs run :: 1
bets won :: 1
promises broken :: 1 (I’m very unhappy about it but I can’t start training for the marathon until a) the weather gets better, and b) my back gets better. I feel like bad about it, but there it is.)

Well, here I am in sunny Peckham where - thanks to Keith’s disturbed, effervescent rage and my own idiotic sense of pride – I have been disconnected from the internet for an entire week. In fact, today is my first day back online, and while it’s obviously a relief, I suddenly feel like I have a terrifying amount of work to do. It’s like I’ve been constipated for months and then all at once – with a slow creak and a hefty crack - I’m flowing like Enya’s Orinoco, close to drowning in my own backed-up effluent.

Ewww.

So, catch-up. On the whole – although not exactly what one might consider a move up in the world - the transition from Herne Hill to Peckham went fairly smoothly, albeit in some of the heaviest downpours this side of Noah’s Ark. I hired a van for the weekend so managed to get it done in four shifts. Or was it fifteen? I can’t remember, but it was all staggered over the bank holiday weekend and included a couple of trips to IKEA to stock up on still more beautifully designed but absolutely one hundred per cent completely unnecessary stuff.

One thing I realised when I was packing up to move was that I already have far too much stuff. I hoard. I can’t throw anything out, but both Keith and Sally did their best to make me feel bad about this, so I ended up acquiescing and chucking lots and lots and lots of stuff away. In the end, this actually felt rather good. It was like a spring clean. A spring clean of the soul. But then I went and spoilt it all by buying lots of rubbish from IKEA. I couldn’t help myself.

The most exhilarating part of the spring clean incidentally, was giving away lots of clothes that don’t really fit me any more. As I dumped them in a supermarket recycling bin, I felt ever so slightly like a snake must feel after shedding its own skin, except of course that when a snake sheds its skin, it grows larger. I felt like a snake in reverse. Like the Incredible Shrinking Man in fact. And not like a snake at all.

So anyway, by Monday evening, it was all done. I closed the front door, opened my extremely cramped bombsite bedroom window for Pablo to slink onto the stairwell and start exploring the back garden, and I slumped down in the living room, like a great big lump of sweaty lard. At which point Keith revealed that he had three surprises for me.

He said, ‘While you’re here, staying in my humble home, we are going to have fun. I’m going to make sure of that’, and then he produced the first surprise, which actually wasn’t so much of a surprise as he’d already warned me it was coming. It was a large bag of grass. I pulled a face. I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t want any more of that. But in truth I did want it. And I was grateful. Sorry, Sally. Sorry, Curly.

The second surprise was a brand new box of Wii, which I have to say, was a wonderful and glorious surprise. I’d only ever played once before and I loved it. I was very excited. In fact, surprises one and two very nearly made up for surprise number three.

‘I’ve killed the internet,’ said Keith.

‘Excuse me?’ I said.

‘It’s gone,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s gone.’

Keith had an account with Virgin Media, but apparently: ‘…they were really, really shit. The TV was always going down and I seemed to be paying loads and loads more than I originally signed up for. Then every time I phoned them up, they annoyed the shit out of me, keeping me on hold for hours, making me pay for calls when it wasn’t my fault, refusing to phone me back and refusing to let me speak to anyone who was in any position of authority or even in the same continent, so in the end I just told them to fuck off.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. Last week sometime. I know that the person I told to fuck off was just some poor call centre bogey and it wasn’t their fault at all so I explained that hopefully this would be one of the calls that they were recording for training purposes and somebody else, somewhere down the line, could take the brunt of my ire.’

‘Did you actually use those words?’ I asked. ‘The brunt of my ire?’

‘I dunno,’ said Keith. ‘Might have. Anyway, I tried to go online a couple of hours ago and it was down. So I think that’s probably it. No more internet.’ He nodded sagely, as if it were a good thing. ‘So,’ he added. ‘Let’s bowl!’

I pointed out that I had very important proofreading work I had to get on with all week, work that would eventually enable me to pay Keith rent money.

Keith pointed out that I didn’t really need the internet for that. Surely all I needed was my laptop and my brain? I scowled.

I then pointed out that I needed to blog urgently, that I hadn’t even managed a Feedback Friday post this week, which was basically the only thing that ensured that I blogged at least once a week.

Keith pointed out that I had become addicted to the internet and that I should make an effort to participate more fully in the real world.

I pointed out that smoking grass and playing video games was not necessarily what a lot of people might consider ‘participating more fully in the real world’.

Keith pointed out that a lot of people needed to get with the programme.

I pointed out that using terms like ‘get with the programme’ was probably going to cause the two of us to fall out.

Keith pointed out that I should probably wake up and smell the coffee.

At which point we fell out.

Then Keith suggested that while we waited for a new ISP, this would be a good opportunity for me to test his theory that I am now officially addicted to the internet. As an added incentive, he then bet me £50 that I couldn’t stay off the internet for an entire week. Rashly, I shook his hand.

This morning there was £50 waiting for me on the kitchen table.

I have to say, it really amuses me that Keith genuinely seems to believe me when I say, ‘Honestly, Keith. Cross my heart and hope to die, ram a chisel in my thigh, I have not been checking emails on my phone.’ Which is not to say that I lied, for I did not. Or did I? No, of course I didn't. Or did I? No, no, no. But if I had of course, he would never know. He can be so childlike sometimes. And he still leaves his oven chips just lying there in the freezer.

Anyhow, I’m going to put my winnings toward buying a Wii Fit just as soon as they become available again. I really want to be told I’m fat by a machine. I’m sure it will inspire me. Like it did this guy. (I’ve just got off the phone to a man in HMV who explained to me that there is ‘a national shortage’ and they have no idea when they’ll be back in stock. And meanwhile the rain continues to fall and us chubbies are just getting fatter and fatter and fatter.)

Anyhow, today we have a new internet service provider and I am prepared to bet Keith £50 that they will be every bit as shit as Virgin were. If not shitter.

In other news, Pablo didn’t come home this morning. And Pablo hates the rain. I can’t help feeling something is horribly wrong. Usually he comes home in the middle of the night, bringing me the intestines of some rodent as a gift. Always he wakes me up some time around dawn seeking food. But not this morning. I am worried. If he’s not back in a couple of hours, I may have to attach signs to local lampposts.

Hmm.

Until tomorrow.

(Honest.)

Feedback Friday :: End Of An Era

bulk :: 16st 1 (pffffffft)
alcohol units imbibed :: 10ish
cigarettes smoked :: 0
joints smoked :: 6
runs run :: 0 (pffffffft)
bookcases emptied and ready to dismantle :: 6
boxes packed :: 15
hells entered :: 1 (Excel Hell)
physical ailments :: 1 (spinal mayhem)
tantrums thrown :: 2 (don’t want to talk about it)
money worries :: lots suddenly
weird girlfriends :: 1
despicable thoughts :: plenty
stress level :: high

So, my landlady, who’s kept herself pretty much to herself for the duration of my stay in her humble home, has now decided to transform herself into a rapacious hard-nosed harridan. She tells me she’s not going to give me my deposit back because Pablo has ‘destroyed’ her flat. She used the word ‘destroyed’ to describe one patch of carpet that’s been a little scratched up and the back of one armchair. And a table. And a cracked kitchen window. Pablo didn’t actually crack the kitchen window but I blamed him for that one anyway. Actually it was kind of his fault. He was in the back garden torturing a half-dead blackbird, so I rapped on the pane to distract him, but I didn’t know my own strength. Bad cat.

I said to her: ‘You’ve got over a grand of my money. You can’t possibly be suggesting that it’s going to cost over a grand to replace a couple of pieces of – let’s face it – fairly crappy furniture, and a roll of cheap, paper-thin carpet.’

She didn’t like that.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I added.

She liked that even less.

‘You’re just greedy.’

She glared at me. And she wouldn’t budge. So I guess there’s nothing I can do.

Cow.

Many years ago I knew someone who moved into a house which the previous tenants – having had some gripe with the estate agents – wrecked by turning on all the taps before they left. That’s a pretty horrible thing to do and I felt ashamed when it not only crossed my mind, but lingered there for a moment and tempted me.

I’m taking the light bulbs though. And the toilet roll.

Meanwhile, Sally wants to create a exhibition of photographs of my face. And I can think of nothing more hideous. And she thinks it would be good for me. And I think that really, she thinks it might be good for her. And she asks me what I’m afraid of. And I tell her I’m afraid of being made into a freak show. And she shakes her head and points her camera at me. ‘No,’ I say. She sulks.

And this afternoon, surrounded by half-packed boxes and more of a mess than I could really handle, I had a bit of a tantrum. I threw lots of things on the floor. Piles of papers. Books. A cup full of pens.

Pablo ran away from me. I shouted after him, blaming him for losing me a thousand pounds.

It was then, as I found myself calling my beloved cat a ‘dirty bastard’ that I stopped, shook my head, and took a long hard look at myself. I wondered if I was having a mini-breakdown. I decided I was just stressed with the idea of moving. And worried about money, and Sally and me, and everything else. I mean, what’s it all about? Stupid life.

Anyway, I picked up all the stuff. I found Pablo and apologised. He gave me a look like he might forgive me if I gave him some catnip. So I gave him some catnip. And I had a joint. And we were both happy.

I’m going to spend the weekend moving my stuff and myself into Keith’s house in Peckham.

It’s the end of an era. And I guess, the beginning of a new one.

Wish me luck.

Confessions of a Kitten Fancier

If I want you to fall in love with me, and I do – no, not you, silly... you - then I feel I should be honest about all of the things I’ve done in my life. I’m not one of those people who believes that a little mystery in a relationship is a good thing and that a couple shouldn’t know everything about each other. I’m the opposite. I feel – in theory and in my extremely limited experience – that there is nothing more erotic than knowing all there is to know about your life-partner, and when we get together I will want to know every gory detail about your past. And don’t even think of asking me to leave the bathroom when you’re in there because I won’t. I want everything.

So anyway, there’s something you should know. I wasn’t going to tell you because frankly, part of me is ashamed and frightened. But then, some people feel that if something frightens you, that’s a damn good reason for doing it. I'm not sure I'm one of them, but in this case, to hell with it.

So, I hadn’t actually thought about this thing I'm about to share with you for years until I joined the Cook’d and Bomb’d talk forum recently. There was a thread there in which people were confessing to some of the vile things they’d done – lots of stories of bodily functions gone wrong, enforced emissions under unusual circumstances and so on. I was a little repulsed by these people if you want to know the truth, then I remembered when I was 13 or 14 and I became embroiled in an experiment. We’ve all been there. What happened was this…

One late afternoon I was home from school, in my room watching TV and eating marmite and cheese on toast. Inadvertently, some of the marmite found its way on to the back of my hand. Rather than wash it off, I guess I must just have rubbed if off, and not very well, for later that evening, still in my room I couldn’t help notice that my pet kitten was licking the back of my hand with an unusual attentiveness. One might even say a passion. This gave me an idea. You can probably see where this is going already. I am sorry.

Thinking about it, I’m pretty sure I was actually 15. But definitely no older.

A few days later – hours, minutes, whatever – I found myself home alone and feeling a little lonely – a little “lonely” - as teenage boys are wont to, and I decided I’d try a little experiment. So, I retired to my sleeping quarters with the tiny jar of marmite, giving Mavis a little sniff to make sure she followed – Mavis was the name of my kitten and I do take some solace from the fact that she was at least a lady cat. I then proceeded to undress myself, lay on the bed and smear a tiny trail of marmite on – at first – my nipples, which were particularly sensitive, then later, when that proved an enormous success, on the end of my burgeoning boyhood.

OK, so. You’ve got that image in your head. A strange-looking 15-year-old boy lying naked on an unmade bed in a slightly smelly room with hot summer sun trying hard to squeeze its way in through permanently closed curtains; he is lying on his side, holding himself in his right hand; a tiny black kitten is lapping at the end of his teenage Johnson with its tiny sandpapery tongue.

How does that make you feel? Do you find yourself strangely aroused? No, of course you don't. Well, believe me, it sounds as strange and perverted to me as is does to you. I have no idea what was going on in my head that convinced me it would be a good idea.

As it happens, it wasn't. And it didn’t last very long. No, not because I emptied myself all over poor Mavis’s tiny head. No. That would be sick. But because at some stage – around about the time Mavis got a little too bitey – I kind of saw what I was doing and I felt a little repulsed. So I stopped. Then I went and washed myself, took Mavis downstairs and gave her some proper food.

So, all in all, nothing really happened. Except that I cajoled an underage cat into licking my erogenous zones. And ‘cajoled’ is probably a bit much. It was consensual. She was purring.

After I’d posted this on the forum, someone from there asked me if I would mention it here. They suggested that if I did so, I may alienate some of my readers. I know that that is a possibility – a pussibility! – but it’s a risk I have to take. The fact is, I feel better having shared.

Oh, look! Pablo has just wandered into the room. He’s just eaten. He’s licking his lips. Awww. He’s so sweet. He wants to come on my lap. Come on then, Pablo. Just this once…





No kittens were harmed in the retelling of this adolescent abomination.

Wednesday Weigh-In, Black Dog, Black Cat

bulk :: 19st 13 (I mean, what’s the point? Really. My body seems not to be able to tell the difference between chocolate and salad.)
exercise achieved :: swam 750m in about 50 minutes – it felt good, but that really is atrociously s l o w . . .
calories :: no idea. I’ve decided that calorie-counting is for gimps. No offence.
cigarettes :: none
packets of Nicorette gum chewed :: 4
alcohol units :: 16ish
black dogs saddled :: 1
ladies bewitched :: 1

So. I’ve been a little down of late. In fact, sometime on Sunday night I fell into a big black hole of total and utter despair and self-loathing.

God, I despised myself.

I should probably talk about it. I think it might help.

The word is pathetic. That’s how I felt. That’s generally how I feel when I get down. I just feel pathetic. I feel like a big useless turd of a man. Neither use nor ornament. Neither mickling nor muckling. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I looked at this blog and I thought: what on earth are you doing with your life, Stan Cattermole? And not one of the answers I came up with made me feel any better.

There were a number of factors I think leading to this particular bubble of despair, and again, I think it might help to go through them.

1) My coccyx doesn’t seem to be healing anywhere near as fast as it should and I want desperately to start running or something, I really do. I’m so fed up with this sedentary life of mine.

2) Love and Friends has yielded nothing. Not so much as an ironic wink. I don’t know what I expected really, but I guess I just thought – I don’t know – that someone might say hello or something. God, I’m wretched.

Is that it? That can’t be it, can it? Jesus. Oh, no, wait…

3) I’m fat and I’m fugly, and neither of these things seem to be going away. And with every wave of self-pity, there is an attendant wave of self-loathing. It’s like, how can one man be so incredibly self-indulgent? Self self self and I say to myself, I say Self, there’s nothing wrong with you, you spoilt Western toad! You’re relatively healthy, wealthy and wise, you should just shut the shit up and make the best of it. I know all that. I know it. Yet still, it persists…

However, there are two sides to even the most devalued coin – even chocolate coins, for God’s sake – therefore I should definitely list the things that helped me to shoo the black dog away. So here goes…

1) Keith left a message on my answerphone on Sunday night. It said: ‘Alright, mate. I’ve just got this terrible feeling that you’re sitting at home moping and feeling sorry for yourself and pissed off that you pigged out yesterday. If I’m wrong and you’re right as rain and off out celebrating your joy, then I’m happy to be so wrong. But if I’m right, then… I dunno. Cheer up, mate! You’re allowed to treat yourself once in a while, for God’s sake. It might not be good for your diet but it’s good for your soul. Your soul! Anyway, take care and speak soon… Oh, and everybody here loves you.’ At which point, in the background, Patricia, Ben and Dina all shouted, ‘We love you!’ and laughed. ‘You see?’ said Keith. ‘Seeya later, mate. Give us a bell. Bye.’

At the time, hearing the message made me feel even more pathetic than I already did. The idea that someone knew me well enough to know that I’d be sitting at home in a nauseating heap, too miserable even to sob, let alone pick up the phone, upset me. Was I so predictable? Was my pathetic personality so widely acknowledged?

But then 24 hours later, listening to the message again made me shudder and shake with dirty great tears of something approaching joy.

Then, as if by divine coincidence…

2) Ange called and asked me if I fancied going out for a drink on Thursday evening. I said I did. I do. We ended up chatting on the phone for over half an hour, which is something I generally don’t really do. At all. I have a very brusque phone manner apparently. But it was easy with Ange. I confessed that I’d been down and do you know what she did? She cheered me up.

I honestly didn’t think she’d be in touch again. It’s great to be wrong sometimes.

3) I’ve got a reader! Yes, you. You know who you are. You’re an American lady and basically, you said you’d do me to death - sight unseen - if only you didn’t already have a boyfriend. Alright, you didn’t quite use those words – because you’re classier than that. But you did describe me as ‘crush material’. And you did say, ‘Don't discount the power of brains coupled with a dark sense of humor.’ And that made me feel good. So thank you. You also said that I shouldn’t be so self-deprecating. I know you’re right of course, but believe me, it’s a hard habit to break.

So, what else has pleased me this week? Oh, yeah, further to my last meandering retch, I received a reply from David Baddiel. I wrote to him about Facebook Walliams. He wrote back:

He's not the real one. But I haven't bothered to take him off. The real one took himself off about three months ago.
If you look again at my site you'll see a link to a column I wrote in The Times about fake Facebookery.
At last count there were about four fake mes on Facebook.
And lastly: John Sessions. Please.
D

Good old Baddiel though eh?

On the back of our exchange, I thought I’d try to befriend all of the other David Baddiels on Facebook. Just for a laugh. But unfortunately, I ended up accidentally trying to befriend the real Baddiel. Now he thinks I’m a total nutbag.

Jesus, maybe I am.

However – nutbag or no – at least I have friends. And they mean the world to me. As does Pablo. My beautiful black cat.