Emperor Ming and the Mystical Muff Hunt

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

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

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

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

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

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

So there you go.

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



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

Aaaah, Sicily...

I've just discovered, I am going to be without internet probably until Wednesday. This is something of a blow. But I have my laptop with me and will be writing stuff all the while, so I'll be back with a vengeance just as soon as I can.

In the meantime, I don't know, tell me something about yourself. Sometimes it feels like we don't talk anymore. What are you up to? What's going on?

Dimmi tutto.

Morag & I :: More Than Friendship, Less Than Love

Obviously, Morag is not her real name. In fact, I find it difficult to imagine that Morag is anyone’s real name. But apparently it is.

Scottish people can be so cruel.

This was Morag’s opener:

‘I’ve read your blog from start to finish and I think you should probably come to Brighton and bugger me.’

Wow.

That was my initial thought.

Wow.

Blogging is by far the best thing that ever happened to me.

She went on:

‘I think we have a lot on common. You’re bright and funny and can write well; I’m bright and funny (and modest) and can write well. You’ve got a very large penis, or so you claim; I’ve got a very large vagina, or so my ex who shall remain nameless claims. You have a weight problem and physical appearance issues; I – according to my ex who shall remain nameless – would also benefit from dropping a few pounds and having a couple of moles removed. You’re looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with; I’m looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with. You see? It’s almost like it’s in the stars.’

I had to agree. It was eerie. It was like Derren Brown was sharing our virtual space, squatting on our fat pipe with both of our names written on a playing card in his back pocket. But I had my reservations. It wasn’t just the fact that a complete stranger was approaching me and asking me to do her up the bum. It was also the fact that she kept mentioning her ex. Nameless or not, it sounded ominous. Like there were still feelings.

But of course I emailed back. And before long we were chatting on IM.

This was about three weeks ago now.

At the beginning of last week, we had this exchange.

Morag: So what about Wednesday? Is there a tiny window in your busy programme of self-abuse?
Scat: …
Morag: What’s that? Dot dot dot. What are you trying to say with that?
Scat: …
Morag: ……
Scat: Touché. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m scared.
Morag: Oh come on. Ya big Jessie. Where’s your sense of adventure?
Scat: It’s in my head, Morag. It’s in a tiny little box in the back of my head.
Morag: Then it’s time you opened the box, Scatmuncher. Because life is short.

She was right of course. We had been talking late into the night every night for over a week. We got on really well. It was time to meet up. The fact that we still hadn’t seen each other’s face was, as Morag put it, ‘all part of the adventure’. Even when I offered to swap photos, she refused. She said that if either of us was repulsed, then we could just have a drink or two and call it a night. Or we could become friends. You can never have too many friends, she said.

By the time we got round to meeting, I already knew quite a lot about Morag. I knew some basic biographical stuff, like this:

- She is Scottish, born in Glasgow.
- She is 26.
- She loves film and works for a cinema. Bad Lieutenant is her favourite movie of all time.
- Her parents are separated. Her father lives in Edinburgh with a new wife and three new sons. She gets on with them OK, but doesn’t really have much in common with them.
- She doesn’t get on with her mother however. Her mother is a writer. She lives in London and writes historical novels, apparently with a fair degree of success.
- She is allergic to cats. (Morag, that is. Not her mother.)
- She loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez and has a thing about Magic Realism. I barely know what Magic Realism is. That’s not really about Morag however. That is about me.

Also, I knew this, specialist information, reprinted with permission:

Scat: So. Did you have any pets as a child?
Morag: Yes. I had four guinea pigs and a dog.
Scat: What were their names, please?
Morag: The guinea pigs were called Edmund, Baldrick, Percy and Lord Melchett. The dog was called The Dark Lord Tiberius.
Scat: Nice names.
Morag: Thanks.
Scat: When you were shouting for the dog to stop chasing squirrels or stop humping the vicar’s leg or whatever, did you say. ‘The Dark Lord Tiberius! Stop that at once!’
Morag: He didn’t chase squirrels. Squirrels were beneath him. He did hump the vicar’s leg though. But we never tried to stop him. To answer your question however, no. We called him ‘Tibs’.
Scat: Awww… Do you have any recurring dreams?
Morag: Um… apart from the usual stuff about going to school with my muff out…
Scat: Your capacious muff.
Morag: Hush now. I dream a lot about my ex-boyfriend, who shall remain nameless. He fucked me over in lots and lots of ways and sadly, horribly, he has burrowed his way into my subconscious, where he will probably forever bubble to the surface in all of my worst nightmares.
Scat: I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your favourite flavour ice cream?
Morag: Rum and raisin.
Scat: What do you think of bats?
Morag: You’ve asked me that already. Don’t you listen? They’re alright. Nothing to write home about. I like vampires though. Vampires are sexy.
Scat: What’s the most valuable thing you’ve ever stolen?
Morag: Um… honestly, probably a car. I went through a troublesome phase in my teens. I didn’t keep it though. I just drove it around for a bit then left it in a park. Actually, I stole a bus too. That’s probably more expensive than a car.
Scat: You stole a bus?
Morag: Just a single decker.
Scat: Ah, OK. What’s the most unusual object you’ve ever had inside of you?
Morag: That is a freaky, borderline scary question.
Scat: I’ve got to press you for an answer.
Morag: Um… let me think. It depends on your definition of unusual really.
Scat: I’m happy to go with your definition.
Morag: OK. Probably a bible.
Scat: What?
Morag: No, just kidding. I did once and for the briefest of periods have an action man doll pretty much all the way inside of me, so that just his boots were peeping out.
Scat: Wow.
Morag: Impressive huh?
Scat: Capacious.
Morag: Fuck off.
Scat: So. Do you believe in God?
Morag: Yes.
Scat: Oh.
Morag: God is Harvey Keitel.
Scat: Oh, OK. Thank God for that.
Morag: Thank Harvey.
Scat: Thanks, Harvey. Have you ever had a threesome?
Morag: Hmm.
Scat: Hmm is not an answer.
Morag: Alright then, no.
Scat: You see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?
Morag: But I have had a couple of foursomes.
Scat: Oh my.
Morag: Exactly.
Scat: Oh me oh my.
Morag: I know, I know.
Scat: I’m simultaneously aroused and frightened.
Morag: That seems like a reasonable response. Ya big Jessie.
Scat: Thank you. We will talk about this in more detail at a future date. In the meantime, and finally, what’s the most important thing in the world?
Morag: The most important thing in the world is Love.
Scat: Aaaaaaah. Thank you, Morag.
Morag: No, thank you. And I hope I’ve passed the audition.

Then, last Wednesday, we met.

And for a short while, it was everything.

The worst thing about… well, about life I guess, is disappointment. Actually, no. Cancer is worse. But disappointment is up there. I hate disappointment. It’s tough, and it’s hard to bear.

So when I met Morag in Brighton, at the train station, and she curtseyed and shook my hand and kissed my cheek, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

And when a couple of drinks into our evening, I asked her if I could kiss her and she said yes, and then we kissed, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

And then when we proceeded to get a little bit drunk and to fumble our way into Morag’s bed together, and then when we made love as best we could with our lack of knowledge about each other’s bodies and the things which give us pleasure, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

But then, some time around 1 am, when Morag told me that she really liked me but didn’t think that what we had on our hands was a long term relationship, I was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that I had a little cry.

Boo hoo.

The next morning we went for a walk on the beach and we talked about things. We kept it light. I came back to London that afternoon feeling elated and deflated in equal measure. I was still disappointed, but I regretted nothing.

The next night we spoke on IM and Morag said to me, ‘What do you think of fuck buddies, as a concept?’

I had to say that as a concept, I thought it was potentially a predominantly good one. I said so.

‘Good,’ said Morag. ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’

So now I guess that the difference between ‘being in a long term relationship’ and ‘being fuck buddies’ is the level of emotional investment, or at least the level of spoken emotional investment.

I have to say, there is something in me – something slightly old-fashioned perhaps – that balks at the idea and feels that it's a kind of failure, a kind of settling for second best. And I don't like that. I don't think it shows either of us in a particularly complimentary light. But there is something else in me – something slightly desperate perhaps - that craves consensual physical contact under any circumstances, and that part of me shrugs, says ‘Fuck it’, and dives in. Like an action man. Till just my boots are peeping out.

So there we have it.

I was looking for a love buddy. I found a fuck buddy. It’s not ideal, but my God, it’ll fucking do.

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

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

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

Ewww.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Excuse me?’ I said.

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

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

‘When?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At which point we fell out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm.

Until tomorrow.

(Honest.)

Why, That's Delightful!

This - Why, That’s Delightful! - is my new favourite website. (Apologies if I’m thrusting a rather shiny glass cock under anyone’s nose with this.)

And it really is delightful! Especially delightful is this interview, which is delightful in a rather painful way, but delightful nonetheless (it gets painful around the 4-minute mark):



And this, which was just lying around in his comments and follows on from this, is simply gorgeous:



But then I am in a slightly silly mood.

Forgive me.

I wonder if I should ask Graham Linehan to do my survey. Hmmm… Why of course I should!

Joyeux Jeudi.

The Things You Find On the Internet When You Should Really Be Asleep #12 :: Realistic Vaginas

I’m sure this is 100% Glass Cock (if you’ll pardon me getting down with the kids for a moment, lol) but it’s new to me so maybe to you too: Realistic Vaginas.

Wow. Worth knowing about.

Although I must admit, it took me a while to figure out what was going on.

This helped:

"Stephanie, words cannot express my joy and elation at finally being able to sit and pee just like a woman. I was delighted to receive my new deluxe miracle vagina, I put it on immediately, as you suggested powdering my lower body first with your medical talc. Having marked where the tip of my penis was, I simply used a hot needle and made a tiny hole through the latex sheath - now I can go to the toilet in sheer ecstacy, and sit and pee!"

Cherie, Toronto

Actually, no. I tell a lie. That’s only complicated things still further. Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on in this crazy world?

How to Find Love Using Totally Idiotic Videos

Last night I stumbled across Video Jug, a site devoted to short ‘how to’ videos that cover everything from ‘How to Kiss Someone Passionately’ and ‘How to Put on a Condom’ to more serious stuff like ‘How Did AIDS Become a Pandemic?’ and ‘How Can I Examine Myself For Cancer?’ to really idiotic stuff like ‘How to Avoid Trapped Arm Whilst Cuddling in Bed’ and ‘How to Hide an Unwanted Erection’. Some of it is clearly supposed to be funny. But isn’t. Some of it supposed to be genuinely helpful. But isn’t.

In fact, everything I’ve watched so far has been uniformly hideous and insulting. This is from the Kiss Passionately film:

‘When you think about it, putting your lips onto another person’s lips and moving them about is an odd thing to do. But do it right and it can be a wonderful experience.’

Is it odd? It's not odd. On French kissing:

‘This kind of kissing was not invented by the French, although they’re probably quite good at it.’

Are they? Why, because they’re French? Ugh. Horrible horrible horrible. They also define ‘necking’ as ‘kissing and nibbling the neck’. Is it? I’m no expert but I thought it was just another name for kissing. Anyone?

Oh, God. Whatever you do, if you suspect your child is gay, don’t watch the film entitled ‘What to Do If You Suspect Your Child Is Gay’. But do take a moment to check out the very creepy Dominic Davies. The man who puts the ‘rapist’ in ‘psychotherapist’. Oh, and the ‘psycho’. He puts the ‘psycho’ in too.

Video Jug's tagline is 'Life Explained. On Film.' I don't know how long they've been going, but I wish to God they'd stop.

Before they stop however, one film they should definitely make on is ‘How to Get Rid of a Friend You Discover Actually Watches Video Jug Videos Seriously and Uses Them As a Genuine Source of Good Advice’.

Then they should stop.

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.

Feedback Friday :: Looking Forward to February

bulk :: 19st
cigarettes smoked :: 0
alcohol units drunk :: 12
runs run :: 4

Aaah, February. The cruellest month. Oh wait, I lie – January is the cruellest month, by a long, cruel chalk. And the good news is: it’s over! And although it was cruel in places, it also actually proved quite a glorious month, all told. So glorious in fact, that I reckon composing a list of five of the most glorious things about January will be a piece of cake. Let’s see:

5 Genuinely Excellent Things About January

1) I lost almost a stone in weight. That’s 14 pounds to you, my American cousins. Or 6.35 kilos for those of you who shun the imperial wealth of the stone and insist on living in the 21st century.

What this means is that if I manage to keep this up, I will have reached my ideal weight by the end of August. At which point I will have to do something to regulate my diet. Otherwise by August 2009, I will have completely disappeared.

2) The people I’ve ‘met’ through this blog, and the internet in general. I started this blog with high hopes indeed but if I’m honest, I never expected anything like the reaction I’ve achieved so far. I suspected that I’d grow tired of the sound of my own voice and the feeling that I was pleasuring myself alone in the dark, as I have with other online ventures in the past. So thank you to all of you who have shared your thoughts and opinions with me thus far. They really do mean the world to me, and the fact that I already feel so much better than I did last year is in large part down to you. Thank you.

Also the people I’ve got to know on various talk forums. I know it’s been said a billion times for a billion reasons, but really, it hit me more than ever this month: the internet really is amazing.

Thanks especially to The Spearmint Killer. Sometimes positive feelings can be derived from knowing that no matter what happens, no matter how bad things get, you will never put gum in a woman’s hair. Nor want to.

3) I’ve stopped smoking. Alright, I had a couple of setbacks last week, but they were both pretty extraordinary – pushy Turks and wacky baccy. I know it all counts and it means I have smoked this month, but I haven’t smoked since then and I genuinely feel that I have broken the habit. And once I’d kicked the Nicorette, it really wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. Plus, the morning phlegm jamboree is already beginning to ease off.

4) Getting out there. I’ve done loads of things this month. In fact, this month has been my busiest month for years, maybe even ever. I’m working quite a lot at the moment, I went to Istanbul for the first time, and let's not forget Peckham! I now go running regularly, and last night I went with Patricia (who is a cellist by trade – don’t let Keith know how incredibly sexy I find this) to the Royal Festival Hall to see some ‘contemporary music’ being performed. The composer was one Luca Francesconi.

Now, call me old fashioned, but I like a melody in my music. And I like to be moved, damn it. The music we heard last night was contemporary music in the same way that a pile of bricks is modern art. It was the kind of stuff that brings out the reactionary in people like me. I mean, it was fun, don’t get me wrong, but it didn’t seem - to the untrained ear at least, and I fully admit that I probably just don’t understand it - that anyone could possible have sat down and written it. It was just this discordant cacophony. And you would never be able to tell if someone played a bum note. Or even if they had their sheet music upside down. At some stage during the first piece, I heard a noise that sounded like a fire alarm, and I thought, ‘Heh. This music is so wacky that even if a fire alarm went off now, everyone would assume it was just part of the “contemporary feel”. In fact, it wouldn’t be a complete surprise if one of the musicians started to play the mobile phone.’ For I had assumed that the intermittent bell sound was indeed part of the music. There were some pretty unusual instruments on stage after all. But then I realised, as did the rest of the audience at probably the same time – after two or three bursts, that it was in fact a fire alarm, or some kind of alarm, going off in a nearby corridor.

Glances of concern rippled through the audience. Not concern that the place was going to burn down - the alarm was too far away to be one of genuine danger, but too close by to be ignored. The concern was mostly for the orchestra, who despite the obvious distraction, played on.

Until about after a minute, when the conductor brought proceedings to a halt and apologised to the audience. He explained that it wasn’t fair to continue, and that he would wait till they found out what was going on.

And so we sat in a fairly excruciating silence – apart from this bloody alarm, which went riiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiiiiing - for about another minute. Then it stopped. There was applause. Patricia giggled next to me.

Then the piece began again. The same way it had begun the first time, which was with this eccentric-looking man plinking away slowly at his cimbalom. Now I’d never seen a cimbalom before and when they wheeled it on stage between the two pieces, I’d assumed there was going to be a game of table football played during the music – you know, as a contemporary gesture. But no. It was a cimbalom. Like a cross between a xylophone and a naked piano.

So when the guy started plinking away again, for some reason, Patricia (who you would think as a professional cellist would know better) was suddenly grabbing onto my arm and shaking violently. At first I thought she was having a epileptic fit, but it turned out to be a fit of the giggles. She managed to more or less keep a lid on it I think, so that no one else noticed, but it was touch and go for a moment. Then, gradually, as the piece picked up and the other instruments started pushing and shoving their way into the mix, Patricia regained her composure.

Then, at about the same point in the piece that the alarm had started last time, you’ll never guess what happened. That’s right, the alarm went off again. Patricia let out a little whoop and buried her head again. It probably lasted two minutes and this time the orchestra played through it till the end when the applause was, at least from where I was sitting, more of relief than anything else. It was excruciating though, whilst the bell was actually ringing, and you couldn’t help thinking that when the concert was over, backstage heads would be rolling at the RFH.

However, all that said, it was hilarious. But that’s not the point. The point is, I’m just much happier in general being out there, going out and doing things. I feel more confident, less self-conscious and generally happier. In fact, I feel fitter, happier, more productive. So that’s good. Heck, what am I saying? That’s great!

5) Ryanair’s Schoolgirl Ad. And there I was thinking they were a bunch of evil, money-grubbing, misanthropic shysters. How wrong I was. They’re a bunch of moronic evil, money-grubbing, misanthropic and misogynistic shysters. Surely this ad and the fact that they’re trying to appeal to men who want to fuck little girls is just going to damage them. Surely there’s no way that they could possibly be successful in raking in the 'acceptable paedophile dollar', as it's commonly known. What on earth are they playing at though? It's madness. Michael O'Leary clearly thinks he's Hugh Hefner. Before the year is out, he'll be pioneering Aeroporn. Mark my words.

I've included this by the way, because I want to believe it's the beginning of the end for Ryanair. (But I kind of know it's not.)

As I was writing this, I thought about those memes that people on the internet do and I wondered whether I should send this to some other bloggers who’ve befriended me over the last month and find out whether they’d like to talk briefly about five genuinely excellent things that had happened in their January, but then I thought, what if they all ignore me? I’d just feel really depressed, and that would get February off to a rotten start. And I don’t really know enough about blogging to know if they are commonly despised or not. Tagging someone with a meme is after all just like sending a chain letter. And no one likes that. So what I’m going to do is say here that I’m going to do no such thing, and then secretly forward it on to a couple of people and see if they bite. If they don’t, no one need ever be any the wiser.

Now I have an appointment with the inland revenue. Bugger. Maybe this is the cruellest month after all.

Nah.

Happy February!




Update: Sweet Memes are made of this.