Nine Months In :: Done With Love

New Life Resolutions, as made here in December 2007 and here in April 2008…

1. Lose 8 Stone in One Year
2. Stop Smoking Completely and Forever on January 1st
3. Do More Things and Meet More People
4. Write This Blog for At Least One Year – Ideally, At Least Once a Week, Chronicling Progress With Other Goals
5. Find Girlfriend
6. Get Paid for Writing Something Heartfelt

So here we are then.

Nine down, three to go. Months, that is. Not resolutions.

It’s been a good year on the whole, and in many ways, things have gone so much better than I ever really imagined they might.

With regard specifically to the resolutions, number one has gone passably well, with a few occasional, predominantly biscuit-based setbacks. I have lost around five stone, which is obviously well on the way to achieving my goal by the end of the year, although I’ll definitely have to step it up for the last quarter.

I can’t say I’ve really succeeded with number two however. I have smoked tobacco occasionally, albeit almost always in joints. But of course that still counts. I have a joint between my fingers right now in fact. Hold on… Mmmmmmm, terminal illness. Although, having said that, I don’t habitually smoke cigarettes anymore. So a partial success at least.

Number three I can tick without reservation. I have definitely done more things and I have definitely met more people. So that’s good.

Number four also. I have no doubts about that. The blog has been a resounding success. I’ve loved it. It’s been good to me. Everything I said in April stands and although I can imagine my life without it, I don’t particularly want to.

Which brings us to number five. And my biggest disappointment. As I said above, in many ways, things have gone great. Who would have thought back in December that by October I would have been the proud pleaser of three magnificent vaginas? Certainly not me. Unfortunately, a vagina does not a girlfriend make. And sex was never really the point.

I’ve been looking for love. But why? What is love anyway? Does anybody love anybody anyway? Seriously though, what’s love got to do with it? With anything? What’s the fucking big deal about love?

Maybe that’s where I was going wrong.

I think it probably was.

And so I’ve decided. Balls to love. To hell with the human heart.

From now on, vaginas are where it’s at.

You know where you stand with a vagina.

You know?

My heart – if that’s what it is – is like an overripe plum, all tender and vulnerable, weeping with aimless emotion. My cock meanwhile – as fit to burst as any runny heart – is like a bludgeon. It has no heart.

I know where I stand with my cock. I need to pay it more respect.

Respect the cock.

I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sod it. If I want to ramble, I will.

Nine months.

Three vaginas.

Patricia was damaged and needy, fingers of fire and teeth eager to cut and cry out. She was the best thing that had happened to me in years. Then there was Sally. Sometimes when Sally would stare into my eyes, stroke my face and slowly lick her silver lips, I would actually feel mentally ill with desire, my insides tumbling like asteroids. It was divine while it lasted.

And then there was Morag.

I had real hope for Morag. Right up till the end. Right up, in fact, till this weekend.

I read your comments to last week’s posts. Thank you all for sharing your thoughts. Well, not all of you. Some of you pissed me off, frankly. But that’s the price I have to pay for putting stuff out there.

There’s no way I can respond to all of the comments. So it’s probably best I don’t respond to any. I certainly don’t feel like it. So I'm not gonna. Some of you took against Morag though, and I think you were wrong to. I think she was straight with me throughout, or at least as straight as she could be, and that was good enough for me. And I’m no paragon of straight-talking when I get all heart-heavy and insecure. But then it’s tough to talk straight when you’re terrified of losing what you have and jeopardizing what you want.

Anyhow – probably nothing to do with what any of you may have said, so don’t feel guilty, Misssy – I drove to Brighton on Saturday.

Eyes thick with pity and knuckles sore with impotent rage, I drove to Brighton to set things straight once and for all. Fantasising as I drove. I am rooted in the me… What took you so long? You had me at hello.

I’d smoked half a joint I found under my bed. I’d drunk at least two glasses of wine. I was definitely over the limit. But apparently I didn’t care. Cool, huh?

Don’t kid yourself that I’m not a thoroughly awful, self-centred man. Because I am. Or at least I can be.

When I was half an hour away, I texted her. ‘Are you at home?’

No reply.

When I was outside of her house, I phoned her.

No reply.

I started to get paranoid. Had she blocked me?

Oh, I felt bad.

It was Saturday night. 8 o’clock. Why wasn’t she at home watching The X Factor? Why wasn’t I?

Actually, maybe she was. I steeled myself and knocked on her front door.

No reply.

Then it suddenly hit me.

‘I’m out of my fucking mind,’ I whispered.

I backed away from Morag’s house like it was on fire and clambered back into my car.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

That was the question I put to the me that was rooted in this undignified adventure, the me that was cowering in the rear view mirror, eyes acidic, ablaze, astringent. His forehead shrugged. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. I pressed him: ‘Are you a proper looney now, is that it?’ A shiny little girl holding her mother’s hand walked past the car, caught sight of me frantically hissing at my own reflection, and looked away.

I started the car, pointed it at London and drove. Fifteen minutes later I changed my mind and turned around. I found a Chinese restaurant three streets away from Morag’s and ordered some food. I sent another text message.

‘I'm not a looney, you know. I just miss you. I want to see you. Just for coffee maybe. Just to talk. xxx’

Why is it only when you press send that you realise how terrible your message sounds? Why don’t you get at least thirty seconds after sending in order to reconsider and cancel if necessary? A silent scream froze itself to my face as I waited for my message to be delivered.

Then I got a reprieve. ‘Message not sent. Retry?’

Thank God for that.

I pressed ‘Retry’.

This time it went through immediately.

I am a looney.

Minutes passed.

No reply.

She was ignoring me.

‘Unbelievable,’ I spat. ‘Fucking cow.’

Someone at the next table looked over at me, then looked away. I was well aware that I was behaving strangely. I poured myself another cup of green tea.

Then my phone beeped and I almost pulled a muscle reaching for it.

It was Keith. The shit.

‘You about?’ it said. I started texting back then got frustrated and rang him.

I told him I was in a Chinese restaurant waiting for dim sum.

‘Are you with Morag?’ he wanted to know.

‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m alone.’ I was feeling very melodramatic, very self-pitiful.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m starving. I’ll join you if you don’t mind. Are you round the corner?’

‘I’m outside London actually,’ I said.

‘Oh, where are you?’

‘I’m in Brighton.’

I explained what I’d done.

‘Fucking hell,’ said Keith. ‘You’re not having a breakdown, are you?’

‘No, no, no,’ I said, because that’s what you say when someone asks you that. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Why don’t you come home and get wrecked?’ he said. ‘I’ll pop over to Quinn’s.’

I paused for a moment and suddenly felt like I was going to burst into tears. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘God, that sounds like a good idea. Let’s get some crack.’



Another look from the table next door.

‘Crack it is.’ Keith replied. ‘Get your arse in gear then.’

Suddenly galvanized, I called to the waitress and asked her to put my food in some bags, then I paid for it, got in the car and drove directly back to Morag’s house. I parked outside, got out and knocked abruptly on her front door. No reply. Thank God.

But I’d tried. No one can say I hadn’t tried. I came, I tried, I failed.

Now it was time to go.

Then – naturally, because life is hilarious like that – as I turned to get back in the car, there she was. Off in the distance. Walking toward me. Drifting toward me through lovers’ lamplight, her and someone else. Someone who wasn’t me. Two of them, arms wrapped like scarves against the miserable drizzle, two happy people lazily clumping home for sex. They had just rounded the corner, ten or so houses away. I inched across the pavement and slowly opened the car door. But it was too late. I’d been spotted. Morag stopped walking, disentangled herself. In my mind, I heard her curse. Then she started up again, slowly walking toward me.

I closed the car door, waited, trying desperately to think of a reason to be there that might not sound completely unhinged.

‘Hi,’ I said, as she neared.

‘What are you doing here, Stan?’ She didn’t sound angry. She sounded concerned, which was so much worse.

‘No, nothing, no,’ I shouted, far too jovially. ‘No, I just popped by on the off-chance, to see what you were up to, you know. I’ll be off now… You must be Christ,’ I assumed.

‘Chris,’ said Christ. I leaned toward him with my outstretched hand. He leaned over Morag and shook it. He was tall. Handsome. Young.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said. Then to Morag. ‘I’m really sorry, OK? Have a good night.’

‘Stan,’ she said.

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I insisted, nodding, smiling, moving quickly, gurning from the driver’s seat, taking control, driving away. Bish bash bosh, I was gone and on the London Road in what seemed like minutes. All the way home, Wish by the Nine Inch Nails on repeat, window-rattlingly loud.

I was home by 10.15. By 11 I’d drunk three bottles of San Miguel, smoked a couple of joints and convinced myself that it had all been a dream.

There was no crack by the way, just in case you were wondering. Keith had assumed I was joking.

At ten minutes past midnight I received a text from Morag. ‘Are you OK?’ it said.

And you know what I did? I ignored it.

Ha!

Triumphant! Victorious! Not at all immature!

So, there we are.

Nine months in and I’m done with love. Seriously. As far as I’m concerned, love can go fuck itself. Ziplessly.

I’m done with it.

We used to read Catullus to each other, you know, some nights. That’s how fucking stupid we were.

Ha!

I don’t regret posting the Gchats, because I knew that by the end of them, Morag would come out looking good, at least to me. And I had her express permission. But you should know that I know that the only reason I really did it was because it might enable to us to get back together.

I don’t know much about women.

But I know what I like.

On the other hand, I regret it entirely. What on earth kind of way is that to carry on? Posting private conversations in public is just weird and totally without class. I need to take a long hard look at myself and what I consider acceptable behaviour. At least where other people are involved.

Done with love though. That remains.

After all, there’s only so long you can chase a wild goose. I reckon 30 years is about the limit. If you don’t give up after 30 years, then it shows a distinct lack of respect for the goose. You know? That goose is not for catching. Let it go. Chase something else.

So I’m refocusing my attention. I’ve always been too cerebral anyway. I read the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray when I was a teenager and I convinced myself I admired it. I reread it just now and hated it. Barely comprehensible pretentious garbage written by a hypocritical phoney who lived his whole life as a lie.

Done with Wilde.

Done with Art.

Done with Beauty.

Done with Truth.

Done with That Sort of Thing.

Done with love.

No more pining and moping and yearning and sighing.

No more putting the spiritual ahead of the physical

No more putting the brain ahead of the body.

And what better time to make that shift than now that I’m under 16 stone for the first time in God knows how many years. Now I need to consolidate with bananas and weights.

Secondly, no more intimacy. Intimacy fucks things up.

No more talking before sex, or indeed afterwards.

No more getting to know potential sex partners.

No more meeting anyone who reads this blog and knows more about me than what they see when they meet me cold: my large elbow-heavy head, my dead-eyed gaze and my increasingly impressive musculature.

No more confusing emotional need with physical lust.

I'm not done with lust. I'm just getting going on that.

I'm just done with love. And so on.

Good.

I’m glad I’ve got that sorted.

So what else is new?

Ah, yes, number six :: Get Paid for Writing Something Heartfelt.

Please. Don’t get me started. I’m beginning to think that finding love – which doesn’t exist – might actually be easier than getting an editor to reply to an email. What fuckers they are. At least I got a sniff, a backstairs whisper of what love might be like, had it existed, and at least when the love thing fell apart, at least the women involved had the good grace and common decency to dump me to my face. More or less.

If you’re an editor of a magazine, answer me this :: where the fuck do you get off not even deigning to answer emails? Seriously, who the fuck do you think you are? How difficult is it to have a standard rejection on hand that you can just send out when you need to? Even a single fucking word would be better – more courteous – than nothing. I don’t care if you're busy with presidential elections and the collapse of Capitalism. It takes seconds to say no. You know? I’m a human being and I deserve some rudimentary respect. Don't ignore me. Otherwise you come across as self-centred, egotistical, heartless shits, the lot of you.

So. There we have it.

Nine down. Three to go.

Obviously, it's not over yet.

But it will be soon.

When I started this blog, my plan was always to stop after a year. I thought that if I hadn’t achieved my goals, then at least I’d have a catalogue of failure to weep over in my dotage. Actually I didn’t. I had no idea what would happen. I just thought, try for a year, then stop. Whether I was still fat or not, whether I was still smoking or not, whether I was still a lonely old freak pleasuring oven gloves behind closed curtains or not, I would stop.

Now I can’t imagine stopping. But the way I feel at the moment, I might stop anyway just to spite myself.

I’m lost.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

I’m thinking I might do a Henry Miller, run away to Paris and whore myself into an early grave. Or a late grave, as it was in his case.

Ironically it was Morag who said I should read some Henry Miller. I say ironically, because reading Tropic of Cancer this week is bringing all kinds of misogynistic urges to the fore, of which Morag, being quite the feminist, would most certainly not approve.

Oh well.

Never mind.

Actually, I’m not convinced these urges are misogynistic. They’re merely misanthropic. Soulless.

This passage for instance, is a good example of the kind of stuff that's really firing me up as I read:

‘…O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider. I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am fucking you, Tania, so that you’ll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris’ chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces…’

Sorry if the language offended you. But not really. I’m not sorry. I love it. Because there’s no love in it, just a cynical rampage through life. Cold, but celebratory. Celebratory, but cold. I approve.

Done with love.

Fuck it.

Do you know what I mean? I mean that my heart has turned to bone. Ossification of the love muscle has been transacted.

I do not believe in love.

Love does not exist.

The stuff my heart has tried and failed to feel with any conviction, the stuff that you people allow to rule and ruin your lives, that is not love - or it may be love but it does not conform to the naïve notion of Romantic Love I had in my ludicrous head. Rather, it’s just some hormonal tick to trick you into staying together and raising children. It’s a genetically modified chemical blindfold. You wear it gladly because you’re hardwired to do so. Good for you.

I really think I might fuck some whores.

This is absolutely fascinating. It’s the oldest profession, you know.

So what else is new?

Well, the ache in my drum has returned. So much so that I've decided I've probably got stomach cancer. I shouldn’t complain though. You’re only as healthy as you feel. You’re only… as healthy… as… you… feel. Anyone?

I’m supposed to be finding somewhere to live too. What happened to that?

And yes, I know this is the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written, and I know I’ve written an awful lot of self-indulgent things over the last nine months. So sue me.

And yes, I fully expect to find myself embarrassedly apologising next week for temporarily morphing into the loveless monster you read before you, this polar opposite to everything I’ve ever said, thought or felt. But fuck it, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll take a whore while I'm still in the mood and maybe I'll take to money-fucking like a zipless duck to water. Maybe this is the new me.

And yes, I know that time heals all wounds.

And yes, of course I know that Morag will read this post. Why do you think I'm posting it in the first place? What? You don't think it will work?

Only kidding.

Done with love.

Feedback Friday :: Shami Dreamer

bulk :: 16st 2
exercise :: none
appointments :: 1
disappointments :: 1
prophetic dreams :: 1

So. You will notice that I have lapsed. My year of living salubriously seems to have hit a brick wall. There is however, a reason for this. The reason is, I don't give a damn anymore. I have completely given up.

I have decided that rather than ending the year a lithe, healthy 31-year-old in a rewarding and loving relationship with a gloriously special lady, I shall end it a lonely, 24-stone disaster area with a fucked spine and a heart condition. Rather than running the London Marathon, my ambition is now to save up enough money for gastric bypass surgery.

I jest of course.

In reality, a second person - Frank - suggested that it would be very unwise of me to continue exercising until I make sure that my back is OK, so I have decided not to take any risks. In fact, I have made an appointment with a chiropractor for next week. Finally. Fingers crossed I'll be back running and cracking on with the healthy stuff very soon, and not - worst case scenario - sitting in a wheelchair covered in biscuits.

In other news, the flat I was hoping to move into in a couple of months has – for reasons very much not worth going into - fallen through. So it looks like I may be living with Keith for the rest of my life. Or at least until he moves his adorable new girlfriend in and kicks me out.

So. This morning around 7 I awoke from a very strange dream. It went a little like this...

I was attending an event – a talk about human rights – with Sally. We weren’t together in a sexy way, but it was quite clear that she wanted me. I meanwhile, was playing it very cool.

There were a couple of hundred wooden chairs laid out in rows and people were milling about waiting for the talk to begin.

Shami Chakrabarti was giving the talk, and – unusually for her I think – she was going to finish by performing a few songs on her ukulele.

Sally and I sat in the front row and somehow, quite suddenly, I had Shami Chakrabarti’s ukulele in my hands and I was trying and failing to play it. This was enormously frustrating because in real life I am shit hot on the ukulele. In the dream however, try as I might, my fingers would simply not do that which my brain asked of them.

Then all at once it came together and for about five seconds I played the most complex and hauntingly beautiful arrangement which has ever been played on any musical instrument, ever. But it didn't last long and it ended with me loudly and embarrassingly breaking two of the strings.

At which point, Shami Chakrabarti decided she needed her ukulele. When she saw what I’d done to it, she was furious, and I was mortified. Embarrassed and ashamed.

Suddenly, from nowhere, David Tennant appeared. He told me he’d smoothed things over with Shami and explained to her that I’m not a bad sort really, but if I wanted to get out of this situation with my dignity intact, I’d better get the ukulele fixed immediately.

So I took off and ran for all I was worth through this rather quaint, slightly Dickensian town. I flew into the first music shop I found and asked about ukulele strings. I was in luck. Except for the fact that I hadn’t brought the ukulele with me. So I ran back to Shami, grabbed the ukelele, ran back to the shop, restrung the ukulele, then ran back again to the event where everyone was waiting. However, on that final stretch, that's where things turned awry. Suddenly, I found that no matter how hard I tried, I could no longer run.

I just couldn’t lift my legs. Like I was up to my hips in wet sand.

I began to panic. I couldn't breathe. I didn't think I was going to make it.

Then, quick as a flash, things changed and I was there.

I handed over the ukulele and everything was OK.

I woke up.

So.

What on earth can it mean?

Well, for me it’s obvious.

What it means is - simply - that everything is going to be alright.

Phew.

Have a lovely weekend.

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 :: 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.

Feedback Friday :: No Value, No Glamour

bulk :: 16st 2 (Oops. Um… not really sure what happened here. Actually I am sure. Pizza and chocolate biscuits. That’s what happened. With extra gorgonzola. Plus at some stage I thought, ‘Well, I’ll be training for the marathon in June – surely I can afford a little blow-out before then?’ I’m just amazed how quickly it all piles back on. I reckon if I really put the effort in, I could be back to 20 stone by the end of the month. I don’t want to do that however. That would be ghastly.)
alcohol units imbibed :: 16
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 0 (Hmm. Well, there you go. The weight gain begins to make even more sense. I am playing tennis tomorrow though, if that’s any consolation.)
status updates :: 1
value :: 0
glamour :: 0

My brain is officially dead. It has no value. It has no glamour. Finance has filled it with fog and fur. Foreign financiers have fucked it foroughly. And frankly, I’ve had enough for this week.

Sally’s out with friends tonight, which is a shame, but Keith has come out of hiding. Turns out he’d been asleep. After working stupid-long hours on a chocolate bar ad for five days, he went home and to sleep for 38 hours solid. Now he’s awake and suggests a catch-up with skunkweed and beer. As it happens, I can think of very few things I’d like more.

The only reservation I have is that Sally doesn’t like me smoking dope. She really hates it. Doesn’t like the smell of it on me; doesn’t like the taste. I told her it makes me eat more so she should be pleased. She wasn’t. She doesn’t even like me doing it when she’s not around. And I don’t want to upset or annoy her. But at the same time…



When I mentioned this on the phone to Keith not half an hour ago, he laughed. Then he said: ‘You’re such a fucking twat. You’ve gone from 30-year-old semi-virgin to treacherous love-rat to spineless pussy-whipped eunuch in the space of six months. You don’t know how ridiculous you are. And you don’t know a fucking thing about women.’ I laughed. Then I hung up.

I’m sick of people telling me I don’t know anything about women.

Part of me wants to say to Sally, ‘Listen. Shagpuss. I am what I am and that’s that. Take it or leave it.’ But of course I’m afraid that she’ll leave it.

Another part of me wants to never ever touch another cannabinoid as long as I live and to say to Sally, ‘Look! Look what I did for you! See? I’d do anything for you.’ But I’ve had an incredibly brain-frazzling week and I want nothing more than to smoke a few joints with my oldest friend because, frankly speaking, it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.

And I keep thinking to myself, what am I? A man or a mouse?

Oh, Sally.

Please don’t leave me.

....

In other news, a few people have asked me about the results of the survey. I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a while longer though. So far, I’ve only received 243 responses, and I’m guessing maybe 10% of those are spoiled (or whatever the word is for surveys that have been opened and pooh-poohed). Apparently that’s still not a bad sample – I was chatting to Frank last night who recently did some work for an internationally renowned arts institute that I swore I would not mention by name, and they commissioned a survey which received around a hundred responses. Fuck the ICA however – no, I’m just kidding, it wasn't them. It really wasn't.

But still, I paid for a thousand respondents, so next week I’m going to try and go after the other 757. At the moment however, I haven’t a clue how to go about it. Any suggestions gratefully received.

Now my fingers are failing and my eyesight is fading fast. Time to drink till I’m drunk, and to smoke till I’m senseless.

Have a great weekend.

Working On Sunshine

I feel very ambivalent about the sunshine. On the one hand, I feel I’m at least three parts cat and I’d like nothing more than to roll around in it, luxuriating and spreading myself across the tarmac, rubbing my face on the bare legs of hot strangers. But on the other hand not only do I burn easily, but my skin dries up and my eczema makes a mini-comeback. In the past, this has always been enough to make me rather hate the sun. This year however, I’m determined to try and fight. Fight for my right to sunbathe.

So first stop, Sally’s homeopathic mother. I sense from a few of the comments I received last week that homeopathy is not particularly well thought of round these parts. And I understand that. I don’t think particularly well of it myself. Or at least I didn’t use to. To be honest, Sally has brought me round somewhat. But I’m still fairly sceptical.

‘What about Ben Goldacre?’ I asked her over the weekend. Did you read that article?’

She shrugged. ‘Skimmed it,’ she said.

‘Well, what did you think? You can’t deny he puts a devilishly convincing case against.’

‘But none of it matters,’ she said, ‘I don’t care about placebos and regressing to mean. All of that may well be true but it totally misses the most important part of homeopathy, and that’s the care.’

I looked at her a bit blankly. She looked quite peeved.

‘Alright, let me try and explain. When was the last time you went to the doctor?’

I told her it was a couple of years ago, when I suddenly started suffering from a lot of migraines.

‘And what was the treatment?’ she asked.

‘I think I was just prescribed some painkillers,’ I said. ‘Oh, and I was advised to keep away from bright light, but I already knew that.’

‘And why were you getting migraines all of a sudden?’ she continued. ‘Did you discuss that with your doctor?’

I shrugged. ‘Stress?’ I suggested.

‘Did you discuss it with your doctor?’ she repeated.

I shook my head. ‘No, I was in and out in about two or three minutes.’

‘Well, there you go,’ said Sally. ‘There’s your conventional medicine right there, in all of its scientific glory. Let me ask you: do you have any pains at the moment? Anywhere in your body?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My calves are throbbing. Like slapped meat. Like Kenneth Tynan’s buttocks.’

She ignored my rather witty allusion and asked me if I had any idea what the cause of the pain might be.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Running. I’ve been running like a wildebeest.’

‘Right,’ said Sally. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Cause and effect. Like getting a hangover after drinking a lot of vodka, or a runny nose after shoving loads of coke up there. So what about your migraines? Why were you getting them?’

I shrugged. ‘Stress?’

‘OK, so why were you stressed?’

I shrugged again. ‘Life?’ I suggested.

‘If you can’t be more specific than that, there’s not much chance you’re going to be able to stop it happening. The painkillers your doctor gave you may have killed the pain but they didn’t make the migraines stop. They stopped for reasons unknown. That’s your Goldacre’s “regression to the mean”. It applies equally to traditional medicines. But the difference between traditional medicine and homeopathy is that, where you got three minutes and some ibuprofen from your proper doctor, you’d get an hour or so in-depth consultation from a homeopath, and with their help, you’ve got a much greater chance of finding out why your body is doing whatever it’s doing. Pain isn’t an accident, you know. It happens for a reason. It’s your body reacting to something. A homeopath is much more concerned with finding out what that is, and it’s that level of care and consultation which helps. I don’t care that Ben Goldacre and that fucking Teabag bloke think it’s a load of bollocks and that the pills are placebos – I don’t care if the pills really are placebos – it’s the full care package that homeopathy offers that works. I have complete faith in it. Is that faith part of the reason it works? Probably. Do I give a fuck? No. Are you a wishy-washy shit-for-brains who changes his opinions according to whatever he’s just heard? Yes.’

‘Hmmm. I’m definitely beginning to understand though,’ I said. ‘Because now I have a terrible headache and very low self-esteem, and I’m pretty sure it’s a direct result of the lambasting I just received.’

‘Good. Yes. Cause and effect.’ Sally nodded. She looked quite pissed off. I felt bad for talking about Ben Goldacre in such glowing terms. (His article about Gillian McKeith is however, a work of art.)

Having said that, what Sally said about care makes just as much sense as Goldacre’s science to me. Plus, crucially, Sally lets me pin her to the kitchen table and sweat into her. Can I say the same for Ben Goldacre? No, I cannot. Not yet anyway.

So, as soon as possible, I’m going to go and have a session with Sally’s mum. Not a pinning and sweating session, but a homeopathic consultation. I’m looking forward to it. I love talking about myself.

Until I have been cured by homeopathy however, I shall have to continue to hide from the sun, which is frankly, really depressing.

I love the sun. But the sun hates me. Actually, maybe Ben Goldacre can help. I shall write to him and find out.

J Evans Pritchard PhD Spotted in Leicester Square

Sally took this photo with her phone in the Photographers’ Gallery yesterday afternoon.



It’s a man enjoying an exhibition of 2,700 passport-size photos of Maria Elvira Escallon, taken over a period of ten years. It sounds cool. I wish I’d thought of that. Eleven years ago preferably.

The man in the picture was a visiting Turk. His name is Melik. I know this because he told Sally when he tried to pick her up, and Sally told me. His opener was, ‘Do you know how many photos?’

Not a PUA.

Sally pulled a befuddled face.

‘How many there are,’ he said. ‘You guess.’

Sally guessed.

‘Higher,’ said Melik. ‘Higher.’

2,700.

He knew because he'd counted them. He'd counted down the side, then he'd counted along the bottom. Then he did the math.

It seems to me a rather strange response to a piece of visual art. I suspect Melik probably works in a bank.

Oh, and when I think of Sally getting chatted up in a gallery... I grow below. Is that wrong?

Feedback Friday :: Late Night Ramble/Looks Like We Got Ourselves A Feeder

bulk :: 15st 13
alcohol units imbibed :: 20ish
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 2 (both stupid)
swims swum :: 0 (There’s just not enough hours in a day. How do people do this stuff?)
shocking revelations :: 1
great shafts of sun-flavoured hope :: 1

Every now and then, I find myself drifting off and fantasising about all of the ghastly, miserable things which could descend upon me at any moment. Not that I’m willing them to happen or anything, but all this ceaseless happiness is beginning to get me down. You know? Where's the conflict? What the hell am I supposed to be blogging about now? I really think I need something dark and unpleasant to come along and wipe this saccharine smirk off my increasingly self-satisfied face.

No, I'm just kidding. If it came to a toss-up between happiness and an exciting blog, there'd be no question. Sally would be history. I joke, I joke.

Anyway, there’s always conflict.

But before we get to the conflict, let me say this: years ago, on the telly, Philip Roth said that he always makes a point of saying to the people in his life: ‘If you don’t want it going in a book, don’t tell me.’ And he said it with a kind of arrogant, don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you swagger. At the time, I thought he was distinctly lacking in moral fibre. But now I’m forced to agree with him.

If I meet you and you know I keep a blog, there’s a good chance you’ll feature. (Unless you’re just really, unspeakably dull.) And if you don’t know I keep a blog, you’re easy pickings.

So I was reminded of this late last night, when Sally and I fell into a quite intense telephone conversation about some of her many deep-rooted psychological issues. (They’re like meercats, Sally’s issues. Just when you think the coast is clear, one will pop its head above the parapet and twitch at you.) After one particularly amusing exchange, I rather drifted off for a moment. Quick as a flash, Sally said, ‘You’re thinking about blogging what I just said, aren’t you?’ And I couldn’t lie.

‘Is that alright?’ I asked. ‘It’s actually probably a bit weird, isn’t it? Is it?’

‘It’s very weird,’ she said. Then: ‘If I asked you to stop, would you not do it anymore? Writing about me, I mean.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to use my blog for Evil. If it makes good people feel bad, then it must die. Do you want me to stop?’

Pause

‘No.’ Fame whore. ‘Just try and steer clear of the megapersonal stuff.’

‘You mean like how you like me to push your face into the pillow and thrash your bumcheeks raw with the IKEA spatula?’

‘Yeah. All that stuff is off limits, please.’

‘I know, baby-girl. I know.’

So.

I discovered yesterday that Sally – my girlfriend – is a feeder. This is how it came out:

Sally: What did you have to eat tonight?

Me: Not a sausage.

Sally: Not even a little chipolata?

Me: No, and I don’t miss it. I think I feel another fast coming on.

Sally: Don’t you dare. There shall be no fasting on my watch, Biggles. Gandhi wasn't sexy.

Me: But it cleanses my soul. It’s good for me.

Sally: Eat, man! What's wrong with you? Not eating is sick. It’s a disorder. And besides any of that, you’re a growing lad.

Me: But I’m fed up with growing.

Sally: You need to eat. You need fuel.

Me: I want to shrink myself.

Sally: Well, I don’t approve. You’re going to waste away if you’re not careful. Promise me you’ll eat something, Stan. Promise.

Me: Absolutely not! If anything, I’m promising you I won’t eat. I have no intention of eating. And I’m beginning to worry about you. I’m beginning to think you might be a feeder.

Sally: I like a big man. There's nothing wrong with that.

Me: You like a fat man. That’s different. That’s weird.

Sally: I'm going to buy you some baggy clothes, so you can grow into them.

Me: No.

So anyway, usually, feeders are men who want to control their wives or girlfriends by making sure they’re at home eating and piling on the pounds, rather than out and about looking slim and sexy and attracting other men. So it’s kind of an abusive thing borne of hideous insecurity. But I don’t think Sally’s is like that at all. I think she just gets off on being pinned down and taken roughly from behind by massive sweaty fat blokes.

Another one of her other madnesses is her really quite passionate belief in homeopathy. Or ho-ho-homeopathy, as I refer to it when I’m being witty. Now I like to keep a half-open mind as far as homeopathy is concerned (incidentally, no mind should ever be any more than half-open, otherwise stuff gets out), but my instinct is to damn it as errant tosh for the desperate and gullible.

However, Sally maintains that it works. She swears by it. Her mother even recently qualified as a proper homeopath, if that isn’t an oxymoron. Also, when she was younger, Sally suffered from migraines for years, had all kinds of prescribed medicines and conventional wisdoms and nothing. Then she went a homeopath and they cleared up almost immediately. This makes me doubt my knee-jerk cynicism a little, I must say.

What has me yammering about this however, is the fact that I started to rash up last night after spending a couple of hours in the lovely hot sun. Just a mild itch at first, but blotching and bubbling are in the post if I persist. And when I told Sally about it, she said, ‘Mum could knock you up a remedy.’

So I’m going to give it a shot. Apparently I have to sit down with her and tell her everything about my life, including but by no means limited to my medical history. It actually sounded like a therapy session the way Sally described it. It sounds great. And I really want to be able to go out in the sun without blistering like a vampire. So I’m going to give witchcraft a go.

Wish me luck.

Have a smashing weekend.

Happy Leigh, Ever After

Crikey. What a wonderful weekend I’ve just had. Let me bore you with it right now.

On Friday evening I went to the Tate Britain and an evening of free events entitled Drawing on Jarman. I went with Sally. Sally. Pride of our alley. I told you I wasn’t gay. Now I rather like Derek Jarman – at least I enjoyed Caravaggio many years ago when I saw it, and Jubilee wasn’t entirely repulsive. So I thought a bunch of his short films would - at the very least - be interesting to look at.

So first up, we sauntered into a screening room called the Lightbox, where Imagining October was being shown. Billed as a ‘rarely seen experimental short film’ and ‘a dreamlike mediation on art and politics in the final years of the Cold War’, it became clear after a matter of minutes why it was rarely seen. ‘Rarely endured’ is probably nearer the mark.

The only seat in there was a spongy banquette against the back wall which we shared with two other people, invisible in the dark. We managed about ten minutes, but only because Sally allowed me to put my hand on her bare knee, and then slowly move it up over her knee, under her skirt and onto her thigh. I was watching pretentious garbage that had nothing to do with either art or politics, peppered with images of semi-naked Russian boys stroking one another and sledgehammer phallic symbolism and I felt probably as sexually excited as I ever had before in my life. Life is queer. Then we left the Lightbox and Sally said, ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ She said, ‘That man is far too gay for his own good. There was nothing whatsoever to connect with there. Where was the empathy? Where was the human emotion? What kind of reaction was that supposed to provoke? Am I just being inhuman here? Did I miss it? Do you have to be gay to understand what the point was?’

I said, ‘Why are you asking me?’

I agreed with her that it was over-indulgent garbage. But some people don’t agree. The film scores nine out of ten on IMDb, which is just ludicrous. It has had only 12 votes however, and interestingly, the rating has fallen 38% in the last week. Hold on… there. My vote is now cast. Let’s see if we can’t get a more realistic score on there. I’ll show you, Jarman. Lovely man though, don’t get me wrong. Lovely man.

So I said, ‘Let’s go and look at proper art’, and we had a wander through the galleries, gawping at the good stuff. Now I don’t know about you but art galleries always get me a little excited. In the toilet area I mean. I get terribly aroused just walking around, no matter what I’m looking at. I shared this information with Sally in front of The Lady of Shalott and do you know what the little minx did? She kissed me passionately whilst touching me on the Johnson.

John William Waterhouse would have been proud. I reckon.

Then we went to the main bar where there was more Jarman being shown to the accompaniment to some wacky Aphex Twin-like music and where the Tate make their money on free events by selling severely mediocre wine at laughably high prices. We drank a little wine, ate a tub of olives and made up stories about the other people in the bar – some of whom also had the good grace to look appalled by what was being passed off as art.

After which we hopped on a bus to Clapham. Sally lives in Clapham. We had a tajine each and a bottle of wine in a Moroccan restaurant, then we went back to hers.

Now, when I started this blog, it was always my intention to be painfully frank – genital warts and all – but, having said that, I also feel the need to exercise a certain amount of restraint where other people are concerned. Well, some of them. All of which is a roundabout way of saying that I have no intention of taking you with me into Sally’s bedroom. But – rather like a teenage boy who wears his tie deliberately loose to ensure you get an eyeful of his love bites – I wish to make it absolutely clear that I went there myself.

Oh yes.

What a self-satisfied smirking smuggle I am.

Well, sod it. It was about time.

So on Saturday afternoon we went to see Happy Go Lucky and Sally had to tolerate the distinctly unpleasant site of me weeping like a giant sore for at least fifteen minutes after the film was over. It really got me. I love Mike Leigh, but the last three films of his which I saw - Topsy Turvy, Vera Drake and Career Girls - I didn’t particularly enjoy, and for at least the first ten minutes of Happy Go Lucky I felt I was in for another disappointment.

Poppy was really irritating me. Her relentless jollity and inability to let a single remark pass without attempting to make some kind of joke out of it really made me want something hideous to happen to her. I found myself praying for something dark, for Johnny from Naked to wander in and destroy her with some superbleak cynicism. But then when the darkness did wander in, in the form of Scott, driving instructor and joyless time bomb of neuroses and bigotry, I immediately found myself rooting for Poppy and willing her to turn him round and bring some of her happy go lucky into his life. And from that moment on, I fell in love with the film.

My favourite scene was the one in which Poppy spends a few minutes with a wasted, stammering homeless guy on a bit of derelict wasteland. Sally didn’t see but there were tears streaming down my cheeks throughout this scene. It was just such a perfect and beautifully touching example of human empathy; one human being reaching out and making an effort to touch another, to let someone know that they’re not alone. Which is kind of what Mike Leigh specialises in, I think.

On Sunday I got on with some work which has come up and I ran again. Following on from Frank’s push last week, I ran twice the distance I used to. It hurt, but I managed it. In the bath afterwards, I came to an important decision. Another one! This one is a hefty decision that I know I’m going to regret sharing with you. I also know that I have to share it with you, or I probably won’t get round to it. My decision is this: I’m going to run the London Marathon next year.

Yep.

So there.

Oh, and to round things off, I saw Sally again yesterday and we sat in the sun all day laughing and frolicking and me feeling rather like Caligula at a gymkhana.

You know, I don’t believe I have ever been this happy in my entire life. And it’s only May!

Look at the sun!

Huzzah!

Feedback Friday :: Fingers Crossed

bulk :: 16st 0 (very pleased - next stop 15st something, especially if I join a gym. Eh? Eh?)
alcohol units imbibed :: 15ish
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 2 (one stupid one)
swims swum :: 0 (boo! Free swimming with gym membership! Further incentive right there.)
votes cast :: 4
dates enjoyed :: 1. Maybe. Or possibly 0.
dates about to be enjoyed :: 1. For sure.
horrible feelings that I may just have hexed myself :: 1

No time! No time at all! You know why? Because I'm going on a date! Is it a date though? Yeah, fuck it. It's a date. Yes, with Sally. Flat deloused. Crevices cleaned. Fingers crossed.

Oh yeah, and I was going to post this yesterday with the title, Sorry, Keith:



But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

It isn't real by the way. I took a cheeky snap of the blank form yesterday and filled the crosses in using techno-trickery. But the way things stand, it seems in very poor taste.

Bye-bye, London. Hello, Ridiculous Nonsense Joke Town.

But still, you never know. It's not over until the Pompous Arse crows.

Fingers crossed.

Look at Keith's pics by the way. I think he's ace and I'm very proud of him. (I really tried to say that in a non-patronising way. I get the feeling I failed. Sorry, Keith. You clever boy.)

Before I run, I must ask a question - if you were going to send a questionnaire out as an email, when would you send it to ensure the highest possibility of people actually filling it in?

a) Friday evening
b) the Saturday morning of a bank holiday weekend, maybe when people have got a bit more time, but are probably spending it in Whitstable
c) Tuesday morning after a bank holiday weekend when everybody has a big pile of work to get through
d) Wednesday morning

I think I might have answered that myself, but if you have any thoughts, please let me know.

Now I must rush.

Have a super weekend.

Fingers crossed!

Happy Sundays

Sunday started with floods of tears and deep, deep sadness. In fact, I don’t think I’ve cried so hard in quite a while. Certainly not this year. I’m almost embarrassed to share this, but… well, the reason I was crying so hard was… there’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to spit it out. Stepmom. I watched Stepmom on TV. God. I almost passed out toward the end. Couldn’t get my breath. It was like Terms of Endearment all over again.

I’m not proud.

Then I went to bed, still feeling rather emotional, and I daydreamed vigorously into an old pair of briefs.

Then on Sunday morning proper I cleaned the flat from top to tail, just in case, then went out to meet Sally at the British Museum. Was it a date? I assumed I’d find out sooner or later.

We hugged hello, then went to the café inside the museum for a coffee. Sally had read Friday’s blog entry, and the accompanying comments. ‘It’s a bit like living in The Truman Show,’ she said. She said that reading other people’s interpretations of her life gave her the fleeting desire to start her own blog, so that she could have her say. Together we imagined a world in the near future where people no longer spoke in real life, choosing instead to communicate solely through their blogs. She said something about it being really rather tragic that some people are prepared to say things anonymously online that they don’t dare say in real life. I agreed. Then I realised she was being rather pointed. ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘So is this a date or what?’

She laughed. ‘That’s more like it,’ she said. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. A bit of balls. A nice bit of spunk.’

‘Balls and spunk,’ I repeated. ‘Is that what you’re talking about?’

She nodded enthusiastically, her silver eyes flashing like tiny trophies in the sun. ‘Balls and spunk,’ she said, looking into my eyes. ‘Man spunk,’ she added. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Have you got an erection right now?’

‘Raging,’ I replied. ‘Do you have any plans to actually answer my question or not?’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Sorry, yes. Um… I don’t know what this is. I like you a lot and I like spending time with you. Which is why we’re here, right?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Spending time.’ (Vincent Gallo, Buffalo 66.) ‘Spending time.’

‘I don’t fancy you at the moment, if I might be brutally honest.’ I winced. ‘But maybe that will come in time. I’m a great believer that physical attraction is something that can grow. And it already has grown to some extent. You know? What do you think?’

What I thought was that even if nothing ever happens between us, she’s great fun, and gorgeous to boot, and I’d be insane not to want to spend time with her, given the opportunity. I told her I thought she was lovely. She told me she thought I was lovely too, and ever so gently, she touched the side of my face, elbows and all. Ever so gently, I raised the table we were sitting at with my knees, as if to suggest that I had some kind of bionic penis.

Sally laughed. And called me a dirty old man.

Then we finished our coffee and with the words, ‘Come and have a look at my etchings’, Sally took me to upstairs to The American Scene :: Prints From Hopper to Pollock.

At this point I should perhaps mention in passing how much I love London. I really couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in this country. I know there are great museums all over the country, but obviously nowhere near as many, and frankly, most of them probably nowhere near as good. This exhibition at the British Museum was fantastic and – amazingly – it was free. (I love free things. Even things I really don’t want – if they’re free, I can’t help but embrace them.)

Sally is something of an expert when it comes to art. Although photography is her bag, she also knows rather a lot (certainly more than me) about other media. So it was great seeing this exhibition with her, as she was able to explain to me how the prints and the etchings we were looking at were made, which certainly added to my enjoyment. Even without a knowledgeable sex kitten to guide you however, it’s a great exhibition. Look at these:

It’s a good size too, so that even if you really take your time, it’s not going to eat up more than a couple of hours of your day. (Because let’s face it, art’s all very well but it shouldn’t get in the way of real life.)

After the exhibition we walked into Soho, in the rain, sharing an umbrella, singing that dreadful song and imagining we were making slow tender love. That last part may have been just me. Maybe. Hungry after all that culture, we sheltered in a Wagamama, where we were shown to our table by an incredibly surly homosexual gentleman. When we were then served another (thankfully less surly) homosexual, Sally whispered behind her hand, ‘Fagamama’. I laughed. Then I reprimanded her and accused her of violent homophobia. She countered that she wasn’t even remotely phobic of homosexuals, and that not only were some of her closest friends homosexuals, but she had on occasion even shared hugs, kisses, beds and bodily fluids with certain of her homosexual friends. Gosh.

When we asked for the bill, we were attended to by a young woman with a rather provocative, heavily lipsticked mouth and a series of deep purple lovebites around the base of her neck. When she disappeared to get the card payment thing, Sally went back to whispering. ‘Slagamama,’ she said. I could feel her breath on my ear. I shook my head in grave disappointment and the table lifted of its own accord.

‘Let’s go see a film,’ she said.

I gasped with something akin to joy.

‘So are we going out together or what?’ I said.

She laughed, thankfully, and told me to chill out. ‘Don’t fence me in, Daddio,’ she said. ‘Let’s just see how things turn out,’ she said. But for now, she really wanted to see Persepolis. And whatever Sally wants, Sally gets. If I’ve got anything to do with it.



We both agreed Persepolis was alright but not especially brilliant.

We said goodbye at Clapham Common.

We kissed.

It was no big deal. I was like, whatever.*

….

In other news, Keith has gone back to the drawing board (my title) and has started drawing again. I think he’s pretty damn good, and I know my art. Alright, alright. But I do know what I like.


*This is me using psychology.

Feedback Friday :: Onwards!

bulk :: 16st 2
alcohol units imbibed :: 20ish
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 0 (Very very bad. This is the fault of work. Not me.)
swims swum :: 0
deadlines met :: 4
decisions made :: 3
promises broken :: 0
books begun :: 2. The House With a Clock In Its Walls by John Bellairs and Preston Sturges by Preston Sturges, by Preston Sturges (and Sandy Sturges) (with a foreword by Tom Sturges) (That’s a lot of Sturgeses.)
dates enjoyed :: 1. Maybe. Or possibly 0.

So I went out with Sally last night. And it went very well. I didn’t know beforehand whether it was a date in the conventional sense, or just friends meeting and eating together. And by the end of the evening I was still none the wiser. Nothing happened to suggest it was anything other than friends eating food together, except perhaps the erection I was hiding under the table throughout the meal, which was particularly potent. (The erection I mean, not the meal.) Oh, and maybe the fact that Sally was very complimentary about how much weight I’ve lost and how I have ‘lovely eyes’. (I don’t. I don’t think.) Oh, and maybe the fact that she split up with her boyfriend a couple of weeks ago, then is suddenly asking me out to restaurants willy-nilly.

I don’t want to keep bringing up Charlie Kaufman in Adaptation, but I keep being reminded of him, of the scenes with Amelia, when it’s clear she wants him and he’s so full of self-loathing that he just can’t see it. Because there are definitely, obviously signs that Sally might be interested in me. Sexually I mean. And if my life were on film and I were watching it, I would be thinking, it’s obvious – of course she wants him – why else would she invite him out and tell him he had lovely eyes? That fact alone is proof enough. But then, back in the real world, I know what I look like and I know what she looks like and I know therefore how unlikely it would be that she would consider meshing her face and body against my face and body.



But then I think, ‘oh, shut up. Not everyone is obsessed by looks. You’ve got a delicious little personality and a sterling sense of humour and that’s obviously what interests her. There’s more to you than an oversized head, a bunch of eczema scars and an arse like a pair of malignant airbags.’ And then I slip my trousers around my knees and pleasure myself to emission.

I’m sorry I had to share that. But I did.

So anyway, whether it was a date or not, it was a lovely evening and well worth sacrificing a speed-dating session. At the very end, Sally gave me a hefty hug and a slightly wet peck on each cheek. Furthermore, we agreed that we’d go to the cinema sometime, maybe at the weekend.

So. Are we going out together now? Have I got a girlfriend?

I have no idea.

The great thing about keeping a blog of course, is that I can simply take all the questions I’m too terrified to ask in real life, and ask them right here!

Crafty eh?

....

A couple of projects I’ve been working on come to an end today, which is a great relief and means I’ll be able to do some more interesting writing next week. Hopefully. Actually I have something in mind, which I’ve been working on sporadically for the last couple of weeks. An interactive thing which will hopefully stop me getting so depressed about plummeting traffic. I know I’m destined to sound like a petulant worm just mentioning it, but lack of traffic and comment really brings me down. I feel all alone. I’m pathetic I know. But I can’t help it.

Oh, and I have to move out of my house. I knew this might happen ages ago and I did nothing about it. Now I have just over a month to find somewhere else to live. I’ve decided that as I have to move, I should move properly – out of South London. I’ve never lived north of the river before, so I figure now’s the time. And if there’s anyone out there who can help, that would be grand. Basically I’m looking for a one-bedroom flat, Pablo-compatible, somewhere nice, like Hampstead or Belsize Park or St John’s Wood, for about £800. Yeah, whatever. Price is negotiable for the right place. If you happen to have a place yourself that you’re moving out of or renting out, then please let me know. Thank you!

Now, to the weekend.

Death, Dating and Other Natural Disasters

Sally didn’t fancy the funeral in the end, which is a shame because it was extremely moving. Ange’s mum was evidently very much loved. For some reason (blind prejudice) I had come to assume that the inhabitants of Dartford were all vile soulless cretins no more capable of genuine human emotion than a bucket full of piss and clams. But that was wrong of me. And yesterday brought that home.

Sylvia Charlton had two miscarriages and a still birth before Ange came along, all healthy and bouncing and bold. Then, even though they wanted more, Sylvia and her husband Ed stopped trying to have kids of their own. They thought they'd quit while they were ahead and Ed had a vasectomy. They loved kids so much however, that – as well as cherishing Ange, obviously - they did everything they possibly could for everybody else’s kids. I guess they realised more than most how truly sacred young life is and they wanted to do everything within their power to nurture it, and to make it great. And so they became community child carers in a way which would never be possible today. (I am led to believe that these days, before you can even blow a raspberry at someone else’s child, you need a qualification in midwifery and a certificate from the local council.) In the 70s and 80s however, children were not made of sugar glass and you could still throw half a dozen rocks into a crowd of people without necessarily hitting a paedophile.

So basically Ange was raised in a community crèche. And although she never had any siblings of her own, other people’s kids were always around and she never wanted for company. Sometimes she got jealous of course, and on occasion she lashed out, but that’s only because she was – in Sylvia’s words – ‘a proper little madam’.

Naturally, as she spent a lot of time looking after their kids, Sylvia spent a lot of time with the young mums of the area. Consequently, she got to know them, and when they had problems – problems of a sensitive nature – they would confide in her, and Sylvia discovered that she had a knack for sorting them out, giving them the right advice and helping them help themselves to get their lives back on track. And so, as well as her role as community childcare consultant, Sylvia became the first port of call for any young couples in need of any kind of advice. As far as I could gather, she gained a reputation as a kind of a cross between Dr Ruth and Dr Spock.

Consequently her funeral was a very emotional affair, with a long line of friends and relatives taking turns to pay tribute to Sylvia, to tell their stories of how she’d helped them better their lives, and to thank her for all that she’d done.

Then when they were all done, we listened to The Green Green Grass of Home by Tom Jones. I don’t think there was a single person in the church who was not crying.

Sylvia loved Tom Jones.

Tom Jones and Dr Hook.

Despite that, I wish I’d known Sylvia, and although I never met her, I found myself missing her. Grief is infectious. At some stage it seemed odd to me to be weeping over a woman that I never knew; but then later it occurred to me that it wasn’t at all odd. Funerals are an emotional business, and as any decent film or book proves, just a couple of tales of human kindness and suffering are enough to move a person. In fact, by the time I got back home this morning, I felt like I’d been dragged through a particularly involving episode of Six Feet Under.



In the absence of Sally, Keith accompanied me to the funeral. It was the first time (as far as I am aware) that he’d seen Ange since they slept together. Ordinarily such a meeting might have been slightly fraught, but death has a way of putting things in perspective. And although Keith may have ruined a decent relationship by putting his thing in Ange, at least no one had died.

On the whole, Sylvia's funeral was pretty amazing. Indeed, and I don’t mean to be in any way disrespectful or inappropriate when I say this, it was truly wonderful. It was everything a good funeral should be. It was a mega-moving celebration of a life tremendously lived.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ said Keith.

This was this morning, on an early train back into London. We were a little hungover and probably still slightly mawkish from the funeral. I already knew about the results of Keith’s MS tests. He told me last week. He asked me not to mention it here because he was intent on getting on with his own blog. But that hasn’t happened. And if I want to tell you what Keith said next, which I do, I have to tell you what Keith said before. So here goes.

Last week Keith went to see the specialist to talk over the results of his various tests. There was good news and there was bad news. The bad news was that he does have MS. The good news is that he has a very mild form of MS and apparently there’s no reason it should get any worse than the intermittent tremors he experiences now. Although it might. But there’s no reason it should.

And that was that.

As I say, that was last week.

This morning, Keith said, ‘There’s something I didn’t mention.’ He looked me in the eye. The right eye. It twitched. ‘There’s something in my brain,’ he said. ‘The size of a blueberry.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not supposed to be there.’ He shrugged, looked out of the window.

He had a brain scan. And they found this area, this small dark patch. A shadow. It could be anything. It could be nothing. Well, not nothing. It’s definitely something. But it could mean nothing.

He has to go in for more tests this Wednesday. So he’ll find out soon enough. Well, not soon enough, but… you know what I mean.

Last night I had Ange crying on my shoulder, sobbing that she wouldn’t know what to do without her mum. I told her everything will be alright. Will it? Probably. One way or the other.

This morning I had Keith, all wet-eyed and looking elsewhere as the grey Kent countryside blurred past him like quotidian hyperspace. I told him everything will be alright. Will it?

We hang by a thread.

And sometimes it really scares me.

Meanwhile, in other, somewhat lighter news, Sally wants to take me out for a meal, which is as queer as it is exciting. (Queer in the old-fashioned sense). But she can only do Thursday. Which means that speed dating will have to be sacrificed. Apart from the fact that I’ve already paid, this actually makes me feel rather gay. (Also in the old-fashioned sense.) So… rather than throwing the money away, is there anyone out there who’d like a potentially humiliating experience on me? If so, drop me a line and I’ll give you all the details.

Salut.