The Happy Hooker

Yesterday evening a reader of this blog expressed polite frustration at what can only be described as my ceaseless self-promotion of late. I told her that I know exactly how she feels. And I swear I do. Sadly, my hands are tied. My hands are tied by a rapacious desire for bags and bags of money. I have changed. I have foresworn myself. I have broken every law I have sworn to uphold. I am become a starving flea, suckling at the tiny teats of Jabba Mammon...



But without meaning to jerk your tears, it’s a case of needs viciously musting. I am a popinjay in penury, teetering on the slippery rim of actually accepting hand-outs from my grandmother. ‘Call it a loan,’ she says, toasting my genitals over the emasculating flames of her kindness. Do you see now? You see how my hands are tied?

It’s time now to stand up, to grow up, and to be a man. And if that means I have to do a little whoring along the way… then so be it. As long as I believe in the product, I can sleep. All day if necessary.

Besides which, it is worth remembering, whoring can actually be fun! That’s what people forget. It’s not just a case of being forced into it because of financial difficulties and drug dependency. Na-ah. Part of me actually enjoys it too.

For example, I was positively crack-high with glee at being offered the opportunity to write something over at the blog of renowned bookman, Scott Pack. I like to think I was accorded this very special honour because of the delightfully winsome comment I left here over a year ago, rather than merely because Mr P happens to work for the same company that just a month ago published my book. That’s what I like to think. And you can't stop me.

Here is what I wrote:

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a writer. To me, being a writer was better than being President of Real Madrid. Better than managing a branch of Nat-West in Dartford or Orpington. Better than being trapped in a chocolate shop with a cloak of irresistibility and Audrey Tautou. Maybe.

Then a couple of weeks ago, it finally happened. My dream came true and a book, a real-life, flesh-and-blood, tough-bodied book, full to gushing with words from my very own fingers and heart hit the shops and shelves like something from an outlandish daydream being dreamt by somebody else. I don’t mind telling you, for a while there I think I felt a little of what Susan Boyle must have felt, shortly before it destroyed her.

And so I did all the things I imagine first-time authors do: I developed a fleeting obsession with the Amazon Sales Rank; I skulked into Waterstone’s, located my beautiful memoir wedged uncomfortably between Belle de Jour and Les Dennis, took a surreptitious photograph and skulked out; I became briefly obsessed with the fate of my book, much like a mother fearing for her first-born – what was going to happen to her? Would she be loved? Would Les Dennis jostle her to the floor of the shop and do her a mischief? Why was my book a lady?; I discovered insomnia – I was either up all night rehearsing award speeches or else repeatedly throttled awake by cruel nightmares in which I was writhing in human ordure, trapped in the base of the portaloos at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival, with both Martin Amis and Margaret Drabble above me, in adjoining cabins, voiding themselves vigorously into my eyes. I also did a few interviews, sent a few emails and flounced about like the whore one automatically becomes when one has a book to hawk. But without the sex.

This week things have gone a little quiet. And apart from the sempiternal dread of the book disappearing like sunburn – flare, fade, peel, pillow – and the failure fuelling thirty years of abject misery, I’m actually rather relieved. My life is the calmest it’s been for about a year. And despite the fact that it’s become like something out of one of Alan Bennett’s rejected monologues, I like it.

Yesterday afternoon, for example, I was lazing in the living room, watching the tennis like a lump of lard whilst Grandmother peeled turnips and carrots in the kitchen. ‘There’s no need for that,’ she said, as one of the Russian girls grunted like a scalded cat with every stroke of the ball. Then she shuffled into the living room brandishing her peeler, spits and spots of carrot skin stuck to the bandages on her hands. She shook her head and despaired. ‘Is nothing sacred?’ she said. I said I didn’t think so. Not these days... Then last night I crept through to the kitchen to find – amongst the shadows and the silence and the silverfish – that Grandmother had put some new jellies to set.

I smiled.

So this is my life. This is the life of a writer. A proper writer with a book in Waterstone’s. Just like Les Dennis. And all the other whores.

My book by the way, is called ‘The Intimate Adventures Of An Ugly Man’ and I want you to buy it. It has its roots in a blog I’ve been writing for the last 18 months. The blog is about me – face like a bag of elbows, gut like a pastry parade, bed like a beached windsock – trying to sort myself out and find someone to love. The book is about my life in general: my trials, my tribulations, my triumphs, my hilarious neuroses and my recent family upheaval.

Because the blog was highly confessional in nature, and genital-warts-and-all in its approach, and because I still had the remnants of a fairly ordinary life that I didn’t want to entirely besmirch, I decided I would write anonymously. So I became Stan Cattermole.

In eighteen months then, my life has changed substantially. I still haven’t found the everlasting wholly reciprocated love I was seeking. I still haven’t lost all of the weight I was hoping to lose. And if I’m honest, I still struggle with tobacco consumption. But at least now I have a ridiculous fake name and I eat a lot of jelly. Oh, and I have a book in Waterstone’s. Next to Les Dennis.

Whatever happens to my book – whether it becomes the bestseller it thoroughly deserves to be or disappears like a toddler in the Algarve – I decided today that I’m going to try and write another one. This one will be a novel, however. I’m going to write it as much of it as I can over the next two months, then move back to London in September and have a party. Anyone who’s ever left a comment on my blog will be invited. And Audrey Tautou. She’ll be invited too.

So here’s to the future. Feel free to buy my book, won’t you? And if you fancy coming to my party, you’d better go make your presence felt at my blog.

There will be jelly.

Goodbye.

Then I washed, put on my clothes and left.

Random Memorandum :: Unintelligible Sailing

I’m not complaining. Life is good and there is more now than there ever has been for which to feel thankful. And I am thankful. But people are complex, often inexplicable creatures. And it isn’t easy being one.

That’s all I’m saying.

Right. Feedback.

bulk :: 15st 7
booze :: some
films :: 2
jazz cigarettes :: some
days till next fresh start :: 7
days till book deadline :: 34
panic threat level :: low
unpleasant change threat level :: moderate

In other news…

…the kitten is on hold but there is a new basil plant in the kitchen. Sadly, he is already on the wane. Is it actually possible to keep a basil plant alive? Is it? Because I don’t know how.

…I was pestered on Twitter by a chap who’s just started a blog about his failed attempts at becoming a chef. ‘I shook the TV chef’s hand and began blurting out a load of nonsense. He took a step back, staring into the eyes of a madman. “I’ve always been into cooking, and well…I love cooking fish…in fact, it’s my favourite…and I just wanted to pick your brains about being…well, about being a chef.”….’ This is from the first post when he blags a week at Rick Stein’s kitchen as a lowly galley slave. It's called Chef Sandwich and it looks like it might be fun.

…Burns Night celebrations went slightly awry as changes of plans meant I ended up spending it alone at the cinema. But at least I got to feel increasingly depressed watching a film about terrorism.

And that’s probably enough feedback for now I think. Please excuse the slackness of this blog of late. I swear I’m not neglecting it. In fact, I’ve got something very exciting planned for Valentine’s Day. I hope you’ll be proud of me.

Hope all is good with all of you. Is it? Tell me everything.

The Dead Blog Amnesty :: An Open Letter to Blogger

Dear People of Blogger

A few years ago, I decided to start a blog. I had a novel that I wanted to write and I figured that if I had a blog, I’d be able to pin myself down to a chapter every two or three days and within six months, I’d have my first novel in the bag.

My book was going to be about an ugly man who – somehow – woke up one morning to find that he was irresistible to women. The blog on which it was to be based would simply be called Irresistible. It was perfect.

So I switched on the internet and went to the Blogger sign-up page. Unfortunately, Irresistible had already been taken.

Of course, I could have then turned to Wordpress or LiveJournal or one of the many other free blogging platforms, but I didn’t. Rather, I cursed the owner of the title I wanted and I ditched the whole idea. Which in retrospect is a shame, because if I’d kept up with it, I might now be lounging, tan and strong, poolside in Malibu, sipping margaritas with Charlie Kaufman and Audrey Tautou.

And you know it wouldn’t have been so bad if the person who’d stolen my career had actually done something with Irresistible. But instead, they just let the weeds have it.

The tragedy of course, is that this kind of thing happens all the time. And it can be very frustrating.

As I’m sure you’re aware, finding the right name for your blog is very important, and very likely something every blogger agonises over. If you’ve ever named a child before, you’ll maybe understand just how important it is to get it right. I personally have never named a child – not officially at least – but I have named a couple of cats and let me tell you, it’s a tough old job.

Young bands also, at that tentative christening period, must feel something similar. Of course, with a band, as with a blog (not so much with a child), you can always ditch it if it doesn’t work out and start again… but to get it right for first time. That’s when you’re golden.

And when it happens, when you hit upon the name that’s right for you, and right for the thing you’re naming, you know. You feel it. It’s like falling in love. It chimes with your core. You roll it around your gums and imagine your enemies jealous, kicking themselves that their blog is such a self-regarding bag of bumbling and mumbleweeds; and you imagine your pals smiling and saying, ‘Oh, that’s good’, or ‘That’s so Sam'.

Let us imagine a typical example. Maybe you’re an annoyingly over-zealous Withnail fan and you’re also a budding poet. A chilling combination. The blog you ache to start, populated with your poems and occasional love letters to Bruce Robinson can only have one possible title.

It’s from the scene in which Monty and Marwood meet for the first time, and Monty asks Marwood if he writes poetry.

‘Oh, no,’ says Marwood, ‘I wish I could. It’s just thoughts really.’

There it is. Your blog name. There can be no other.

Unfortunately, Just Thoughts Really has gone. And it’s not a pretty site.

Sadly, examples of such blog atrocities are seemingly infinite. Think of almost any potential title for any kind of blog and check to see if the blogspot domain is free. The chances are it won’t be. Furthermore, the chances are, the domain will be an unweeded garden, grown to seed.

Let’s say for example, you want to start a Shakespeare fan blog. Where shall we start? Um, what about To Be Or Not To Be? Nope, that’s taken I’m afraid, and tarnished. OK, what about To Blog Or Not To Blog? Nope, nor that one neither. Nor that one neither. So, let’s try just Hamlet? Nope, sorry, taken by the aptly-named Procrastinator. I Am Not Prince Hamlet? Nope. Alas, Poor Yorick? Nope. OK, what about just Shakespeare? Taken and, frankly, violated. Shakespeare Blog? Nope. I Love Shakespeare? Nope.

OK, balls to Shakespeare. What if your tastes are in the cultural gutter? Well, sadly, both Sex and the City and Mamma Mia have been snapped up and abandoned.

But hold on a minute. These aren’t the kind of names that people generally hit upon for their blogs. Let’s try and think of some more likely blog names.

OK here’s a list, off the top of my head, and - surprise, surprise - they’ve all of them gone, and they're all of them dead.

My So-Called Life. Me and My Life. Days of My Life. My Big Fat Geek Life. The New Me. Man of Many Hats. Excess Baggage. The Sound of My Own Voice. Where the Wild Things Are. Time Please. All You Need Is Love. Love Is All You Need. Love and Death. Making A Killing. English Psycho. Lol. Port In A Storm. Sex. Drugs. Rock and Roll. Sex and Drugs. Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll.

Pfffffffft.

I’m beginning to wonder, of all the blogs that have ever been activated, how many are actually or have ever been used?

If the internet was the real world, you wouldn't be able to move for dead blogs. All life on the planet would be snuffed out, suffocated by the tiny corpses of aborted Blogger foetuses.

It's a bit depressing, frankly.

Setting up a blog should come with some sense of responsibility, and if the blogger is not prepared to take that responsibility, then it must be left to the service provider.

Therefore, in my most humble opinion, you, the people of Blogger, should do something up about it. Firstly, you should send an email to all Blogger clients who have posted on no more than three occasions and who have not touched their blogs for over a year, and you should ask them if they wish to continue using their blog. If they don’t reply, you should write again, just to make sure. Then if they still have not replied, their blogs should be deleted and their domains once more made available for public use.

Then, maybe on a specially designated day, you could make a big deal about how from this moment on, another 500,000 Blogger domains are available, waiting to be snapped up.

Not only could you make a huge amount of positive PR out of it – ‘We’re Tidying Up The Internet!’ - but also, by freeing up your dormant domain names at once, it would greatly improve the experience of using your product, especially from the point of view of the beginner blogger.

Also, you could even say it was good for the environment. You’d be recycling all the dead domains. Hey, maybe it is!

So could you do that, please?

Oh, and please check on this chap. I’m worried about him.

Thank you.


Stan

Your Children Aren’t Special. Mine Are.

There’s nothing worse than those ghastly parents always wittering on about their kids and how amazing they are when really they’re not that amazing at all, they’re just ordinary little blobs of meat learning how to be humans.

‘Oh, little Steve is so talented! Look at this picture he did with crayons. He’s only seven!’

‘No, he’s not talented. That picture is crap. An untalented four-year-old could do better. Stop it now. Steve is a moron.’

The reason I mention all this is because I find myself about to come over like a deluded parent, the only difference being, I’m not a parent, and I’m not deluded.

My friend Keith – who may well be the closest I ever get to a son – has ditched his old blog and started a new one. He’s taken with him the best of the art he’s done over the last five months and put it into one post at his new place, and I - for one - think it’s amazing. So I’m clucking over him like a proud parent and telling everyone about it. Awww. Little Keith is so talented! And I remember when he was wiping his own faeces on the wall. Actually that was only last week. Awww.

So. Look at this and tell me it’s not astonishing: NotKeith’s Greatest Hits April ’08 – September ’08.

Thank God for MS and aneurysms.

Fresh Start No. 12,876 :: The Big Push

bulk :: 17st 1
cigarettes smoked :: 0
joints smoked :: 0
alcohol units taken :: 50
osteopathic beatings :: 1
chiropractic diddlings :: 0
runs run :: 0
swims swum :: 0
stretch sessions stretched :: 6
gyms joined :: 1
training programmes drawn up :: 1
gym sessions enjoyed :: 1 (enjoyed might be stretching it)
wishlist alerts :: 2 (enormous rubber ball for rolling around on, bidet)
days passed without blogging :: 18
days passed without thinking of blogging :: 0
responses from Virgin Media :: 2
satisfactory responses from Virgin Media :: 0
books read :: 2
lists made :: 12
new blogs launched :: 2
promises made :: legion
fingers crossed :: 8
toes crossed :: 0 (fat toes)
laptops rescued :: 0
laptops replaced :: 1
parents traced :: 1
trips to Brighton :: 2
London rendezvous :: 2
unseasonal blues :: 1
predictable pinks :: 1
fresh starts :: 3

Well, that was a few weeks well wasted.

How are you? You’re looking well, I must say. You look great in fact. Your eyes are shining. In fact, your whole body is practically fizzing with energy, like there’s some inner light seeping out through every pore and orifice. And… is that… have you been working out?

But enough about you.

So.

It’s been a while. Nearly three weeks in fact. Nearly three weeks in which I’ve discovered one very important thing. What I’ve discovered is that although life definitely does goes on when you don’t spend most of your day plugged into the internet, nobody really notices. Therefore, I ask you, is it really life?

Or in other words, if a blogger posts a story about a tree falling in a forest and no one actually reads it, what’s the fucking point? Eh?

Anyhow, as you can see from you above stats, I am officially a giant fatty again. In the last three weeks, I’ve managed to put on over a stone in weight, simply by doing next to nothing and eating like a stoned pig. (Although I haven’t been stoned, I hasten to add. Merely unpleasantly piglike.)

It’s weird. From the moment I knew I wasn’t going to be blogging again till September, I just thought, ‘Fuck it’ and strapped on a nose bag.

Pathetic. I hate compulsive behaviour. I hate being out of control. Even if it is, as in this case, a pseudo-controlled lack of control. Inasmuch as I gave myself 18 days to stop caring, to drop out of the regime I’d already let slide laughably, and do whatever I liked. Christ. I could’ve written a book in that time. A short one perhaps, but a book nonetheless. At the very least, I could have written a good few blog posts – maybe attempted to rewrite some of the stuff I’d lost in the flood. But I didn’t. I ate pizza. I ate cake and rice pudding. Ice cream and Sugar Puffs. I even ate a kebab, for heaven’s sake. I watched TV. And crap films - Sex and the City - God forgive me – a film that makes Mamma Mia look like The Sound of Music. I played Guitar Hero. I looked at the rain. I indulged myself. I pitied myself. I loathed myself. In that order. As I say, pathetic.

However, I also got a few things done, some of which I’ll be boasting about over the coming days and weeks.

Suffice - for now - to say, I have joined a gym and have started using it; I have started two new blogs, one in which I talk about the weather (I have no idea why – it’s quite possible I am having a nervous breakdown); the other in which I post desperately amusing examples of dodgy English.

What else? My laptop was tended to by various experts. It underwent numerous operations and experimental procedures, most of which tallied with some of the very helpful suggestions in the comments to the previous post. But all to no avail. So I gave up and bought a new one. I’m not sure I felt the sense of lightness some of you predicted on giving up on all the old stuff, but I certainly felt an enormous elation on becoming acquainted with my new jet black Mac. It’s a Notebook. And it's genuinely lovely.

In other news, I haven’t seen much of Keith of late, which leaves me feeling a little weird. If I’m completely honest, it makes me feel a little bit jealous and a little bit lonely, and I think I just feel weird about admitting it. Better out than in though. Also, when I have seen him, he is clearly very happy with his special lady, so obviously I have nothing but good wishes for him. They're even off to the Lakes tomorrow. The Lakes! In September!

Not that I’ve been entirely on my own of course. I have been spending a bit of time with my sweet-hearted fuck-friend Morag. More time perhaps than you might think strictly healthy for a copulation-based arrangement, but I have no regrets. We have fun.

I also made enquiries about my father, and have been surprised by my discoveries.

And also, worth repeating, I've finally joined a gym.

Oh yes. Fresh start, here I come.

But for now, sleep.

Before I go however, a massive thank you to everyone who's left comments and kind words in the last few weeks. Made me really happy.

Aaaaaah.

It’s good to be back.

The Bête Report :: The Truth About Stats and Blogs

A few weeks ago, knee-deep in a distinctly Gandhiesque starvation-inspired delirium, I wrote a blog post which was basically one half of a telephone conversation between one man and his blog, played out like a troubled love affair in which the blogger bemoans - amongst other things - his lack of comments. Unconvinced that it wasn’t pretentious garbage, I asked a couple of fellow bloggers to cast an eye over it for me. One of them didn’t get back to me, which was a bit distressing. The other said that she liked it, but she wasn’t sure. She also suggested that there exists in blogging an unwritten rule which states that the terrible, universal affliction of Comment Addiction shall never - under any circumstances - ever be broached in a public forum. I found this fascinating and wondered if it were really true.

The only way I could find out more however, would be if I were to ask other bloggers. So I considered a blog post posing the question. But if I did that, I figured that of the however many bloggers who read it, maybe only 5 or 10 of them would actually respond. Maybe 20 if a couple of them got into a to-and-fro. And although that would be entertaining, it wouldn’t really tell me anything significant. If however, I had the opinions of say, a thousand bloggers, then I might have something I could claim to hang a fact on.

Then I realised that I had lots of other questions I wanted to ask bloggers, questions that had occurred to me since I started this blog in December. And thus, the GREAT BLOG QUESTIONNAIRE was born (free delusion of grandeur with every ten questions).

So, if you have a blog and you're reading this, there's a distinct possibility you've already received a link to the questionnaire. However, if this is the first you’ve heard and you're not opposed to wagging your chin and logging your brain and your blog for eternity, then pop along here, and indulge yourself.

That's right, here.

So, for now, that's me done. Now I just sit back with my fingers crossed and hope that the urge to be heard (which I guess is what really unites all bloggers) will be strong enough to bring in lots of responses.

I’m quite excited. I feel like Shere Hite.

A Poignant Moment Out of the Sun...

I just read something which made me rather sad, and which I thought was worth sharing because of that very fact.

Here, a teacher's thoughts on losing a student.

Three Months In :: First Quarter Assessment

I had another blog before this one. It was supposed to be funny, rather than say, confessional. I would look at what was happening in the world, and then make clever pronouncements upon it all. But it wasn’t good because when the clever didn’t come, as it often did not, I just forced it, forced it out through clumsy, dense little fingers. And it showed. Then, because I didn’t even enjoy it, I stopped forcing and eventually deleted it.

Then time passed as it so so often does, and I decided to stop moping around and get on with my life. So I started this blog to push myself to lose weight, stop smoking and make valiant efforts to find someone to love. However, primarily because of the people I’ve come into contact with through the blog, it quickly became an enormous amount more than that. And from those who’ve helped me out with advice and ideas and even translations, right down to the Horsley lot who just witter on about genocide and whores in the corner, I’ve been overwhelmed by the friendship I’ve been shown. I know there are some people who say, you know, the internet is shit and everything, but… well, I think they’re shit.

This time around, blogging has been an absolute revelation to me. It’s not so much that I’m born again; rather that I’m born for the first time. I know I’m on the very meniscus of going frightfully overboard here, but what the hell. Forty pints of Tree Syrup in a week will make anyone emotional. Starting this blog has probably been the single best decision I’ve ever made. I realise that’s the kind of statement that comes back to haunt, and I’m practically crying out for blog-bred catastrophe to come and heap itself upon me, but… well, so be it. Every action has consequences. Some of them will be good. Some of them will make you cry and punch bus shelters. And they might still be the good ones.

I’ve always felt at a distinct disadvantage in real life, because of my looks, because of the psychological baggage I attach to my looks, and because I’m so very gauche. But in all seriousness, I’ve never felt more free than I do now. I’ve never felt that I have so much of an outlet for life, and more importantly, so much of an incitement to life.

I used to believe in God when I was a kid, but in a very contrived way. Now I’m 30 and the feelings I get from keeping a blog are very much closer to how I believe God should really feel; much closer than growing up Catholic ever felt. God was supposed to be someone to whom you could always turn, no matter what devilry was going on in your mind, and not only would he be there to hear you, but he would also offer guidance and support. He would set you on the road to being a better person. Which is great and everything, really great…. Except he never did.

In the blogging community however, things are different. For one thing, bloggers actually exist. And they listen to you, and they hear you, and they offer you their guidance and support like you’d known them all your life. And that, at times, has overwhelmed me.

Now, some of these people that have come to my blog have said lovely things about me and my writing over the last three and a bit months, and I’m afraid a few of these may rather have gone to my head. To give one example, when proper journalist ‘Hendo’ wrote a week or so ago that I’ve ‘got to be a pro’ because I write too well, I was flattered, for sure, but it was also a little queer. I felt like a freshly deflowered young woman whose one and only lover insists that there’s no way on God’s green earth that’s the first time she’s done that. I am flattered and glad my efforts please, but really, one mustn’t underestimate the talents of the amateur. There’s really no need to assume deception and liken me to a washed-up old whore-bore like Irvine Welsh. (Pride of place on the Trumpet Tower that one. Thanks for that.)

Actually I didn’t think any of that at the time. I just thought that Hendo must be a bit of a looney. But then I thought, no, Hendo’s not a looney. He’s a proper journalist, maybe even respected, and if he thinks it’s possible that I could write for a living, then sod it: that’s good enough for me. I’m going to give it a go.

And that’s my news.

I’ve really loved the last three months or so of blogging, much more than I ever imagined I would. I thought I’d really struggle to manage a post a week, as I have in the past, but thus far that hasn’t been a problem. I think it was the switch from looking without to looking within that sealed it. I guess, when you’re writing about yourself, even a slow week is not the end of the world because there’s always so much to remember and steal, and if shit comes to shovel, as it often does, you can just play around like a child and hope that something fun turns up. And if something turns up and it’s not fun… doesn’t matter! There’s always tomorrow.

In stark contrast, my current proper job is like blogging on an Etch-a-Sketch, wearing boxing gloves and a blindfold. It's like public speaking in a ball-gag. What I churn out for rent is lifeless, glib trash, mostly specialising in description, instruction and advertorial. And I’m really really sick of it. I want to stop pretending to give a damn about product. I want to stop writing praise, PR and half-truths just so that other people can make more money. It’s utterly soul-destroying and I don’t enjoy it in the least. And I’m 30, for God’s sake. I need to make something of myself. I’ve wasted so much time already, and now I really must crack on. Because I do want to do something interesting with my life. I hate the idea of spending fifty years attached to some account. I want to be able to get on and see what I’m capable of. I mean, ideally, obviously, I want to change the course of history. I want to be the man who kills the Video Star. Ideally.

But for the moment, instead, I have this job. And whereas I really hate my job, I really love tending this blog, and I often find myself working away into the night and faking Scrabble games for the sheer unadulterated joy of it.

So it makes perfect sense to try and swap one for the other. And basically I’m going to try and do that. Nothing will really change, but as some pin-headed lizard in a chalk-striped suit might say, I think I need to ramp it up a notch. Take it outside the box, put some blue sky behind it and just start saluting it till I get cramp. All that’s really changed is that I’m basically adding ‘get paid for writing something heartfelt’ to my list of New Life Resolutions. Other than that, I need to keep the momentum going, in order to capitalise on the luck I’ve had so far. I need to keep doing stuff and not get lazy. Ideally I need to commit more time… but I don’t want to start writing cheques that my ass will just chew up and spit out.

Also, much as I very much want to turn my back on the vulgarity of product forever, I know that fully, I cannot. And though I yearn to spurn everything that product means to me, I know that in actual fact, I must embrace product. I say more. I must, in essence, become product.

If I want to make a living writing stuff I like, I have to sell the stuff I like to write. Hence the rather inelegant Roster of Praise to the right. And yes, while I was kippering through the comments, cherry-picking praise blossoms, I did slip on a stray flake of Smug and accidentally disappear up my own arse. Yes, I did. But that’s what happens when you make the decision to become product.

I do feel somewhat tainted mentioning all this, like my penis has crept into my aunt’s lap at a christening and started weeping. I feel a little embarrassed. But I really wanted to share what I’m feeling and I’m very glad I did, because in doing, and in getting a tad emotional about the whole thing, it's become much clearer in my own mind. And clarity is always nice.

And so we come to:

Blogging Rule No. 1 :: Keep It Short.

And another thing…

…I think that if I have one talent besides the ability to make a woman feel seriously loved (but without being overbearing), it’s that I can put words together in an effective and well good way. I’ve been doing it for years in the service of manual and marketing mook, and this blog – or rather the response I’ve had from this blog – has given me the confidence to try to strive for more.

And for that I thank you.

And if I fall on my ever-slimmer arse and make a giant flange of myself, I will thank you again.

Then I’ll blog it.

The End

I received the following email this morning, from Patricia:

Hello Poppet

It would appear that I'm suffering from a terrible inertia today - I can't seem to do anything to its conclusion. The kids are with their nan, I have no work till Wednesday and as a result, I am STILL IN MY PYJAMAS. I keep half-doing things, then making a coffee and wandering round. Plus people keep ringing me. I know lots of people in need at the moment. And it’s good because their needs take my mind of my own.

Anyway, I’ve come to a decision about our mutual friend “Keith”. Basically, I read that blog your friend recommended and I realised that in many ways I’ve had a lucky break. So much of what this stranger wrote rings true - “too much hurt, too many impulsive actions” - and I’ve decided that I’m not going to try and patch things up with “Keith”. He’s never betrayed me with anyone else before, as far as I know, but he has hurt me with his impulsiveness – putting himself before me, always putting himself before me, to such an extent that I don’t really matter. Richard never did that. Richard put me first always. He loved me. He truly loved me. And then he died. Nice one, God. Fair play to you.

When it comes to the way they both treated me at least, “Keith” has nothing on Richard. I do love him, "Keith", but as far as I can see it, he doesn’t know how to love properly. People who know how to love properly don’t sleep around. I think it’s that simple. Maybe they can learn how to love. Maybe “Keith” could learn how to love me. Maybe. But that’s too bad because I’m not going to give him the opportunity. He can learn to love someone else. And I can find someone else who doesn’t find loving me SUCH A FUCKING CHALLENGE.

I’ve told “Keith” this already. He was here all day yesterday trying to convince me that he’s right for me. I want you to post this on your blog because it was your blog that led me to Javaira’s blog and I think if I hadn’t read that, there is every chance I would have forgiven “Keith” and stayed with him. And that would have been the wrong decision. I deserve better than that. I know he’s your best friend so I’ll understand it if you choose not to put this on the internet but I want you to. I want you to finish the story. Because it’s definitely finished.

I know this will hurt “Keith” too, but that’s too bad. Like Javaira said – “If he can still face everyone after this, then he is learning to face himself.” You’d be doing him a favour.

I’m feeling sorry for myself now and I know this will pass. I know that I have to be strong now, when I feel weakest. I have to say no. “Keith” wants me back. I have to say no.

Anyway, howareyou? It's a miracle that I've finished this email. You should be honoured. Hope this find you very happy, nibbling on some delicious unhealthy elevenses.

Mwa!
“Patricia” xx

Ten minutes ago, I received this email from Keith:

Yeah, whatever, I’m really not arsed. I suppose if she wants you to stick it online, it would be churlish of me to stand in her way. I hope it gets you some new readers.

So there it is. I’m going round to see Keith tonight too, so there appears to be no bad feeling. So that’s good. Unless of course, he plans to poison me and bury me under his patio. (If I haven’t blogged again by Friday, please notify the authorities.)

Max Gogarty :: The Ugly Side of Travelling

I’ve just spent the last couple of hours or so reading about Max Gogarty’s brief stint over at Comment Is Free, the Guardian’s attempt to gather readers and cachet from blogging and bloggers. It’s a life-affirming read on the whole. Not Comment Is Free, but the Max Gogarty drama.

Here’s the first post.

Here’s the official response.

In both cases, it’s the responses of the people – the comments, which of course are free - that really lift the soul. And it’s not about spite and meanness, and it’s certainly not about ‘threat and reputation savaging’ as the apologist, travel editor Andy Pietrasik suggests. Rather, it’s about people standing up and shaking their fists at such obvious mediocrity and such bald-faced nepotism. It all really pongs.

Here it is in a minuscule shell of some description: hack’s kid lands fairly plum role at the Guardian online; writes first instalment in such a way - i.e. very, very badly - as to immediately rub his readers up entirely the wrong way; readers annihilate him in their hundreds; editor and father turn up in sequel, only to make matters much worse.

According to his father (or at least someone having a damned splendid stab at pretending to be his father, which is certainly good enough for me), Max’s Guardian debut will have no offspring of its own. No tiny descendants for whom it will have to warm lavatory seats and scratch old school backs. And that, in my opinion, is a damn shame, because this has been fun. It really brought me out of my post-Valentine malaise.

I think they should at least let him have one final opportunity to show them what he’s made of. On second thoughts, I'll do it for him. I’ve got nothing else on... no exotic destinations to rush off to, no dusky dysentery or runny maidens to keep me busy. So what the hell. I’ll give it a shot. I imagine stirring music, as Max, in a moment’s respite in some Thai hostelry or other, scribbles frantically on a scrap of parchment he brought with him from Rymans…

This is my dad, Peter Gogarty, a self-made media mogul. He's quite a guy. This is Mr Pietrasik. He's gorgeous. He's one Guardian editor who knows how to take care of my dad. By the way, my name is Max. I take advantage of both of them, which ain't easy, ‘cause when they met, it was murder. Or attempted murder at least. My poor career. But I’ll be alright, I’m sure. I’m well in. A couple of months here in Thailand, couple more in India, I’ll get back in the summer, brown as a berry and ripped to the ribs, my synapses still throbbing from cheap and powerful hashish – and WHAM! I’ll spring back like a springbok, unharmed and horny for media, right into the lap of success. Lap my shitting arse! I’ll get right in the gusset of success, nestling in the very clitoral hood of public adoration, exactly where I belong. I’ve already got my novel deal in place. Simon Trewin is a tennis buddy of father’s. They love tennis, but they like to keep it real.

Shame Daddy had to be such a bleating pussy really. If only he’d butched out the storm and persuaded Uncle Andy to keep me on, kept me writing every week, me telling my edgy tales of teen excess, being all bawdy and lusty, burning the candelabra at both ends, just like in Skins! Guardian readership would have shot up. Like a bloody rocket. But I think that’s what they were afraid of. I attract success. Me in my skinny jeans with that awful supercilious tone - like a freshly oiled and fluffed Bruiser de Cadenet - which is how I imagine people rightly imagine I speak when they read my delicious words… words like ‘kinda’, ‘partying’, ‘bullshit’ and 'shitting'. Plebs love that shit and Rusbridger knows I’d have his job by August. He’s such an arse-diver. At least that’s what Daddy says, but I’m probably not supposed to say that either.

If only that bastard Alex Garland hadn’t written The Beach already. I could’ve written that. If I had any talent. Actually, he was somebody’s son too, wasn’t he? Pffft. A mere cartoonist. Makes sense actually. Like father, like son. But I bet Nicholas Garland doesn’t have his own a PR company. I bet he isn’t uniquely positioned to deliver maximum exposure. Like my dad. I bet he doesn’t know that knowing the right people is key. Like my dad. But by the looks of him, neither is he a brash, self-centred, jumped-up little money freak. Like my dad was saying just the other day: ‘I’m uniquely positioned for maximum exposure. Just write any old shit. As long as it’s got an exotic location, I can get some shit-hot young director to spunk a promising career on it. No worries. Lovely jubbly.’

This is why I rather enjoy the free comments I get over here. Because I’m so strong that I actually learn from them. I grow more powerful with every fresh barrage of your abuse. And I thank you for it. I feel good. Actually, I feel wonderful. My pummelling at your hands has rejuvenated me. I don’t know what it is about Thailand. Always manages to pummel me into a state of bliss. That or the opium’s kicking in…

I’d better stop there actually. I leave my critics with the single, really quite profound thought that while tales of Thai sticks and stoners may break your cohones, your words can never hurt me. You know why? Cause I got loadsaPR. Loads of it.

Of course the egg will be on all of our cynical chops when it turns out that we’re being played for prime chumps, but not quite in the way we think we are. That’s right, Max Gogarty is actually a brilliant writer, a nouveau nepotistic techno-Dickens and delicious little weaver of games. It’s all a scam, a writing showcase, all of it: from his seemingly gauche, foot-chompingly awful prose, to every single last comment – all written by him, crafted and honed to satirical perfection. The boy is a genius.

But probably not. More likely the big nobs at the Guardian haven’t got a clue what they’re doing.

Can't wait for his play.

Only in Korea...

What on earth is this all about? It's from here, a blog logging bog logos.



I really don't know what the message is it's attempting to convey, but really, it makes you think. They're way ahead out there.