Classic Road Trips, Part One :: Whitstable '94

I have hitched before, but a long, long time ago, and it wasn't enormously momentous. I was with NotKeith. I think we were 17 at the time, but we may have been a little older.

Keith’s dad dropped us off on the other side of the M25 out of Dartford. It was early. Slightly too early. I’d overslept, keelhauled into consciousness with a shrill summons from the kerb. I hadn’t even had time to perform my morning purification ritual (poo). So much so that no sooner had Keith’s dad wished us luck and rejoined the traffic, I realised I really had to go.

The junction we were at backed onto woods which rose steeply from the hard shoulder on the other side of a shallow dry trench, if I remember correctly. I jumped over the trench and scrambled up and away into half-arsed thickets. As soon as I was hidden from traffic, I pulled down my trousers and pants. I crouched. I felt like Stig of the Dump.

I don’t know if you’ve ever done a poo in a bit of woodland down the side of a motorway, but if you have, you’ll know it’s not something you'll ever want to recount in ghastly, practically palpable detail, particularly if at the time you'd neglected to avail yourself of anything with which to wipe the horrified walnut shell of your bleeding, freakishly distended rectum which sobbed and throbbed from exertion so that it was almost breathing, its odious breath a heady cocktail of rotting dog, ammonia and chips; its lips aghast, gaping, like a messy eater who’s just seen a ghost.

I shouted down to Keith. ‘Keith!’ I shouted. ‘Have you got any toilet roll?’ He didn’t have any.

Reader, I had no choice. Foul as it was, I grabbed dead leaves from the cold earth and tore the living from the branches of my bowel-friendly bower, pushing them against my poor dirty bottom, old before its time, and rubbed away the leftovers.

With the terrible tools at my disposal, I did the best I could and, apart from a slither of stool beneath a couple of fingernails, I think I pretty much got away with it.

So I did myself up, scrambled out of the thicket, down the bank, over the trench and joined Keith at the roadside. I remember thinking he looked rather silly standing there with his thumb out. I was just about to tell him what a terrible time I’d just had when a car pulled up ahead of us. Our faces lit up. We grabbed our bags and ran.

‘Where you going, lads?’

We didn’t have a sign. That was stupid.

‘Whitstable!’ we replied in unison.

‘I can take you as far as Rochester,’ said the driver.

We hopped in.

Keith got in the back before I could, so I got in the passenger seat. The driver was a middle-aged man with a moustache. He was on his way to work. I don’t think he said what he did but his car suggested it was something manual. He was perfectly nice and everything but he didn’t seem to want to talk. After a bare minimum, a mere smattering of superficials, he switched on Radio One and we became silent.

Which was when I noticed the smell of excrement.

At first it was more like the mere threat of a smell, or maybe just a memory. I assumed it was my fingernails and surreptitiously hid them away in the folds of my coat.

Then it became stronger, and I realised that when he had turned on the radio, the driver had also fiddled with his heater, flicking the switch that made hot air come through the footwell. This in turn led me to the realisation that when I had left the thicket, I must have inadvertently trodden in my own poo.

God knows what the driver thought had happened. He probably assumed that I’d shat myself and was too polite to say anything. Or else he had no sense of smell.

The rest of the trip passed without incident, unless you count the stench, which persisted.

And that, for better or for worse, is pretty much all I can remember of the classic Dartford-Whitstable road trip of the spring of ’94. We did make it to Whitstable as I recall. And we had a bag of cockles each and caught the train home.

I know. It’s not the greatest story in the history of hitching. There was no poetry, no jazz. I didn't even find myself on the road, for God's sake! Hopefully that'll happen next week.

In the meantime, have you ever hitched? Yes, you. Was it any good? Did you find yourself? Did you get where you were going to? Did you like the things that life was showing you? Tell me your tales. Go on, inspire me. Or frighten me if you must...

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.

Shame Week #3 :: What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever stolen?

When I was 13 years old I made friends with Raymond Moulding, one of my comprehensive school’s lower-echelon bad boys. Ray for short. And he was short.

Ray lived in the next street from me and used to enjoy picking on me every few months or so while we were growing up, just to keep his hand in. Then one day I lost my temper, grabbed him by the throat and pushed him up against a brick wall.

The reason I lost my temper – if I may be allowed to digress for a moment – was because Ray had discovered a repugnant and to his mind hilarious new trick with which to torment me. This consisted of him holding his hand against his bottom, passing wind into his hand and then thrusting said hand into my unsuspecting face whilst spitting the words ‘’Ave a fart’ at me.

We were sitting on a wooden bench along one wall of the giant sports hall at school. A game of indoor cricket was in progress and we were waiting for our turn to bat. So naturally I was already fairly depressed. Imagine by what degree my mood worsened when with the words, ‘’Ave a fart’, I found Ray Moulding’s foetid hand pushing itself into my face.

I don’t actually remember if there was any malodour to speak of, but I was certainly repulsed by the concept, and just the very idea of having this ghastly bastard’s sweaty little mitt in my face. I was disgusted. No doubt this showed on my face, causing Ray to dissolve in a small burst of rancid giggling. My disgust mounted. I really didn’t want him to do it again.

He did it again.

Up went the hand. Out came the same line. ‘’Ave a fart.’ (It repulses me just to have to write it.) On came the giggles.

To my left was Alan Dowell, a school non-entity like myself. When Ray had recovered from the desperate amusement he was causing himself, he said, presumably to himself, or perhaps to the devils in his head, ‘He’s dying to laugh’ – meaning Dowell – ‘and he’s dying to cry’ – meaning me. And what made that such an unforgivable thing to say is that he was absolutely right. There were tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. I swore at him. He repeated my curse back at me in a mocking voice even more childish than my own.

Then, maybe thirty seconds later, he did it again. That time, something in me snapped and seconds later I found myself pinning him to the wall, my right fist raised behind my head, ready to smash his stupid, flinching and suddenly quite frightened little face to a miserable pulp. But I didn’t throw the punch. I didn’t have it in me.

Whether it was the fact that I’d finally retaliated, or the fact that I’d shown some sense of restraint or control or whatever he imagined I was showing, I never discovered, but something in that moment made Ray decide that we would be friends. Not great friends, not by a long chalk, and not lifelong friends, but friends nonetheless. And the part of me that was desperate for any kind of friendship didn’t object.

For the most part, Ray’s and my friendship consisted of us playing darts in his bedroom. But also, and finally getting round to the point, it also consisted of going into the town centre, and nicking stuff from shops. Ray had been taught how to nick stuff by his older brother, Nick. Ray in turn passed on the arcane knowledge to me.

‘Pick up two things,’ he said. ‘Put one back.’

I lost my virginity in a local department store which at the time had a small U-shaped sweet section which was a shoplifter’s paradise. You’d walk in at one end, shuffle down the narrow aisle filling your pockets with all kind of goodies, then when you’d turned left twice, you’d reach the day-dreaming checkout girl and pay for a single packet of Polos. Then you’d sashay out into the street trying not to drop anything, take the first left into the nearest backstreet and stockpile your booty. I still remember vividly the feeling of joy when, after one particularly audacious haul, I slid a monstrously large Toblerone out of my sleeve and pulled a Terry’s Jelly Lemon out of the front of my underpants.

So that’s how it started. At first it was me and Ray nicking sweets. But I got a taste for it, so I started to branch out on my own.

After sweets came stationery. I’ve always absolutely adored stationery. Before I started nicking it, I used to just look at it in WHSmith and occasionally treat myself to a pen. When I started nicking I had no need to show such restraint. And what I was surprised to discover was that stationery nicked was twice as sweet as stationery bought.

It was also during this period that I discovered the full extent of how invisible I was. I was just the cowering, self-conscious ugly kid. I wasn’t particularly threatening. I clearly wasn’t going to cause any violence or anything horribly untoward. I was merely an unfortunate retinal sensation which was best, and quite easily, avoided. People either averted their eyes or simply looked through me. And I found I could get away with quite a lot.

From stationery I graduated to pocket-sized toys and games - Top Trumps were especially easy - and from there it was a simple and natural progression to books. Mostly I stole paperbacks I had absolutely no interest in reading. It was odd. Indeed, by the end of my petty criminal career, I was prone to increasingly inexplicable crimes. Anything that caught my eye would find its way up my sleeve or jumper, into my pockets or pants. A wind-up Woodstock. Juggling balls. Novelty pens. Horror novels. I was a regular little magpie, and I became convinced that I had something of a talent for it. Consequently, it became a habit.

Then one day, after having stolen an autograph book from the very same department store where the whole thing had kicked off around eight months earlier, I was sashaying down the street outside of the store, as per my MO, when I heard footsteps behind me. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny,’ I thought to myself, ‘if I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder.’ Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I stopped and turned to face a tall blonde man who was already reaching into my inside pocket and pulling out the autograph book I’d just taken from his employers’ shop. He then slid one hand under my arm and led me back into the shop. I believe he may have used the words, ‘What have we here?’ and ‘I think you’d better come with me’, but equally, I may just have heard them on the telly.

What I have no doubt about however, is that I said, in a tiny, suddenly petrified voice, ‘What will happen?’ and he repeated it back to me, not mocking me, just echoing, stalling, playing for time. It wasn't his job to converse.

I couldn’t believe it was happening. Other shoppers stared.

I was led into a small back room where a middle-aged woman sat at a table with a phone and some papers in an untidy pile. The store detective sat me down at the table, handed over the evidence to the middle-aged woman and left us to it.

She took down my details. My name, my address, my telephone number. She told me she would have to call the police. As I offered to pay for the autograph book, I started snivelling. Couldn't stop. ‘You should have thought of that before,’ she said. I offered to pay double. She said that wouldn't be possible.

She asked me if I’d ever stolen anything before. I said I hadn’t. She asked me if anyone had ever stolen anything from me. I said that they had. She asked me how that felt. I told her it felt awful, but I was just going through the motions, telling her what I knew she wanted to hear, all the while willing her not to call the police.

‘It’s not nice, is it?’ she repeated.

I shook my head, staring down at the floor.

‘So why did you do it?’

I told her that schoolfriends had pressured me into it. She nodded. She understood. She'd seen it a thousand times.

‘Alright then,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to call the police this time, as this is your first offence.’ I managed not to put my hands in the air and start cheering. I continued looking at the floor. ‘But I am going to telephone your parents.’

‘OK,’ I mumbled.

Score!

My dad answered the phone. It was a short exchange during which I ascertained that he was being his usual scintillating conversationalist.

‘You can go home now,’ I was told. ‘And don’t do it again.’

'I won't,' I said. 'I promise.'

On my way home, I wondered what kind of reception I would get. In the end it was exactly what I feared most: almost total disinterest. ‘Oh, here he is,’ said my mum when I walked through the front door. ‘McVicar.’

My mum was an idiot.

Then she said, ‘What did you get caught for, softarse?’ I didn’t say anything. I shrugged and went up to my room. Thinking about it now though, it was probably something to do with a craving for attention.

Now we come to the answer to the question. The biggest thing I ever stole was not that autograph book. No. The biggest thing I ever stole I stole probably half an hour before that from a different shop, a book shop. The biggest thing I ever stole – probably both in terms of size and value – was a beautiful, sumptuously illustrated, leatherbound bible.

I was a funny boy.

Over the years, as my faith shrivelled away to nothing at all and eventually turned in on itself, becoming a rather violent anti-faith, I came across the stolen bible on a number of occasions. Each time I had a powerful urge to tear it up and throw it away. Partly out of anger, partly out of guilt, partly just out of some weird religious hangover shame thing. But I never did. Not because it was The Bible. But because it was a Book.

That evening, I sat on my bed and took the bible out of my school bag. I flicked through it, found the Ten Commandments, rummaged in my booty drawer and dug out a highlighter pen and a shatterproof ruler I’d previously liberated from Woolies. I found the commandment I was after - Thou shalt not steal - and using the ruler and the very tip of the nib of the yellow highlighter pen, I painted it yellow and stared at it.

And I never, ever stole again.

Much.

Here endeth the lesson.

Amen.

…

And you? What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever stolen? Spill your shameful beans in the comments...

Thanks.

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.

Feedback Friday :: Sweet Memes and Early Spring

bulk :: 18st 9
cigarettes smoked :: 0
alcohol units drunk :: 14
runs run :: 3
Men’s Health gym-at-home exercise routines performed :: 2
ladies befriended irl :: 1
kittens abused :: 0

This week’s Feedback Friday is more of a Summery Saturday Summary, but it’s all the better for it in my opinion. What a beautiful day. The sky is blue, the sun is splendid and there is a palpable odour of possibility on the air…

I woke up wide and early today and couldn’t get back to sleep. So I got out of bed, ate a banana and settled myself at my computer. But then I felt restless and unusually energetic. It was a beautiful bright morning through my window and my car was fixed and waiting to be picked up at a nearby garage. I phoned at 7.30 and the mechanic was already at work, which surprised me, so I ate two more bananas and went to pick up my car.

I call my car Heathcote because I am pretentious and self-aggrandising. But Heathcote doesn’t mind. And this morning he was shiny, light and positively reborn. The mechanic chappy was quite chirpy as he talked me through the list of extra jobs he’d had to do and I must admit, when I paid him, I did so with a horrible grimace. However, Heathcote didn’t mind at all. He felt great in fact. He felt like he’d just back from a health farm and a tonne of bricks had been taken out of his boot.

So we went for a drive, Heathcote and I. Balls to London, Heathcote! That is what I shouted as we found the open road. And let me tell you, I really opened that bitch up. As they say. Half an hour later we were drifting towards Dartford and I found myself toying with the idea of revisiting some old haunts – my childhood home, my school, the birthplace of Mick Jagger – but then I thought, no. I thought, that’s a terrible idea. So instead I headed off into the country and drove rather too fast for half an hour or so. It was exhilarating.

And the weather was perfect for me. Too much sun and heat and I get all rashy. Today was glorious. Fecund, sharp and moist, like spring.




I parked up somewhere near Maidstone and took to the fields, feeling almost pagan enough to strip myself naked, thrash about on the ground and rub soil into my nipples. But not quite.

Full of promise though. It was really glorious. And it reminded me, that life is good.

This week I lost more weight and got a little fitter. I also promised that I’d reply in kind to a blog props meme, but in the end I actually found it too difficult. I feel underqualified frankly. I don’t know the web well enough and am just starting to find other people’s blogs. I thought the internet was just about me, but maybe it isn’t. But hey, maybe it is. Anyhow, there are two websites which I visit regularly that always leave me feeling a little richer. One is very well known, one less so.


1. Post Secret. Excellent for giving so much with so little. It’s impossible not to spend five minutes there without laughing, smiling, gasping, shaking your head and feeling very sad.

2. Clairvoyance. Excellent for sharing tiny short stories – or, ‘moments of grace where the heavens conspire to deliver a slice of life too good to ignore’. As above, this site gives an emotional reaction in such a short space of time. Something I would love to be able to do.

Oh, go on then, on a similar vein…

3. Exploding Dog.
Send him your titles and he’ll illustrate them. Although so far he’s ignored mine. The talented swine. The two pictures in this post are his The first is called ‘another awesome day’. The second is called ‘i’d slay a dragon for you’.

And that is that.

Meanwhile, I’m trying desperately not to get ahead of myself here, but Sally and I have become IM buddies.

Um….

‘I Am At Home With the Me. I Am Rooted in the Me Who Is on This Adventure...’

I’m a film buff. Films have served me well since I discovered the Marx Brothers as a miserable nine-year-old and Halliwell’s Film Guide when I was 12. I currently have a library of over 600 DVDs, which I dip into when I need to be reminded of something or inspired in some way. So, for instance, earlier this week, the night before my first ever school reunion, I rewatched Grosse Point Blank.

Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to be Martin Blank. I already have the flexible morality, the sharp suits and the occasional smart-mouthed remark, but just imagine having John Cusack’s face and Martin Blank’s skills as a professional killer. What a repertoire.

Anyhow, the night before my first ever school reunion also happened to be the night before my 30th birthday, the day that I had long vowed – like so many before me – would be the day I’d finally stop disappointing myself and would turn my life around once and for all.

This was two days ago. Happy birthday to me.

I’d been invited to the reunion by someone who’d tracked me down, appropriately enough, on Friends Reunited. I’d finally got round to joining Friends Reunited because I was nearly 30 years old, and I was sick of hiding away. When I saw that the reunion coincided with my 30th birthday, I accepted the invitation immediately, before I could talk myself out of it. Then I attempted to talk myself out of it. But I resisted. I would go. If only to show the world that I didn’t care what it thought anymore, and that its verbal slings and arrows bounced off my broad back like ducks off a diving board.

So, the night before my first ever school reunion and my 30th birthday, I stood naked in front of my flatmate’s full-length mirror and I said, a la Martin Blank, ‘I am at home with the me. I am rooted in the me who is on this adventure.’ And then I laughed. God, I’m ugly. I’ve always known that but it took till very recently to be able to laugh at the fact. And with that newfound ability came the desire to show the rest of the world that their jibes didn’t crush me anymore. Much.

And so to the reunion.

The reunion was held in a pub in Dartford, where I lived as a child. Now – the last thing I want to do is come across as in any way bigoted or discriminatory or supercilious – but it’s important that I’m honest about this one, perhaps slightly controversial fact: people from Dartford are subnormal. Now I’m sure there are a small few rule-proving exceptions – none of whom are Mick Jagger – but on the whole… massively subnormal. I don’t know what went wrong in the gene pool, but at some stage in Dartford’s history, I suspect some malevolent swine urinated in it. The people of Dartford possess less human kindness, less discernment, less decency and fewer IQ points than the inhabitants of any other inner-city conurbation anywhere else on planet Earth. A lot of this is conjecture of course. But it’s based on fact.

I hadn’t been back to Dartford in ten years. Not since my mother’s funeral. And the celebration that followed. I was horribly nervous. I would have given anything to have been accompanied by a friend. But I had no friends from school. Which made me wonder why the hell I was going to a reunion. I was essentially voluntarily walking into a room full of people who, 15 years previously, used to amuse one another by seeing who could be the most cruel to me. I was deliberately, and with self-harm aforethought, putting my head back into the lion’s mouth. And why?

Just to show ‘em, that’s why.

It felt similar to the reasons people give for doing extreme sports. They climb stupidly dangerous mountains and whatnot because if they don’t, then the mountains have won. I was fed up with letting the mountains win.

And breathe…

Must eat.

Back soon.