Feedback Friday :: Six Feet Under

bulk :: 15st 3
cigarettes :: 3 (I know, I know. It’s like I have a death wish or something)
tears shed :: no, no, no. Let’s not go there.

So. I just finished watching the 63rd and final episode of Six Feet Under. And you know what I want to do now? I want to start at the beginning and watch all sixty-three episodes all over again. Than again with the commentaries. But I won’t. Not yet. Not now. Now I’ve got to get on with living. But you - if you’ve never seen Six Feet Under, please, please make an effort to do so. It will improve the quality of your life.



Six Feet Under is – in my most humble opinion – the greatest television programme ever made. Not just because it has the most profoundly drawn and miraculously written characters I’ve ever seen. Not just because it is consistently imaginative and hilarious and exciting and harrowing and terrifying and provocative and subversive. But also because it is very, very important.

Before Six Feet Under, TV shows didn’t really talk about death, or if they did, they danced around it on tiptoes, like tourists in a notoriously dodgy part of town. Six Feet Under gets up close and personal with death. It gets right under its fingernails in a way that is courageous and unflinching and at times unbearably painful. And this is important because it helps us to come to terms with our own mortality, and this is important because it helps us to feel the miracle of life more acutely. At least this is how it affected me. And I'm by no means special.

My ex found it uncomfortable. Particularly the deaths which opened each episode. I hope she comes back to it one day, because I think it will help her too. It’s definitely helped me. It's no exaggeration to say that I feel more ready to die because of Six Feet Under. (And not in the same way I felt more ready to die after watching Mamma Mia - I don't want to die; I just don't fear it quite so much.)

Six Feet Under has made my life considerably richer. I feel honoured to have seen it, to have felt it, and I feel genuinely privileged to have known the Fisher family. I love them. I really love them.

Here's a scene - just one scene until I learn how to get DVD clips online - which contains many of the elements which make it so good...



God, I love it so much.

My one regret is that I watched the vast majority of it alone, but... well, that’s life.

And life goes on.

And speaking of which, apologies to Publisher Lady for having fallen behind with the rewrites of the book. I’ve had a tough week. I’ve been grieving. I know, I know. No one was more surprised than me. I thought I was out of the woods, but it came back to haunt me. Sorry for the delay. You’ll have what you need by Monday morning. I hope that's OK. And then, then I guess I’ll have to find another job.

So.

Let's raise a glass. All of us.

To the future.

Who’s with me?

Saint Sebastian

Sometime in the week following Valentine’s Day, when everything was upside down and my emotional life was in bits, I received an email from one Lennie Nash concerning all-round would-be bad egg, Sebastian Horsley. It’s rather interesting, and I reprint it here with permission:

Dear Stan,

I don't know how to say this, but you are so wrong about that Sebastian Horsley. After reading about him with interest (mine not yours) on your excellent blog, I went to see him do a reading at Foyles book store.

At first he was spectacularly bad, and I kept thinking 'how right you are Stan, how right you are!' He came on, called everybody 'cunts' because they were clapping, then called some women at the front 'sluts' because they were women. One looked so offended, her face crumpled up like a baboon pissing glass.

Then Horsley read from some of his bad reviews, which was petty funny, but I don't think I heard yours mentioned.

Then more name-calling and a couple of passages from his book. No more genius to declare than that really.

But it was what happened next that made me realise there's more to the man than some third-rate Wildesque cad, frothy with wit in 140 characters.

I hung around, earwigging, at the end, near the handful of people wanting photographs etc. And what amazed me was how incredibly nice he was to them. He was gracious and softly spoken and I could go on, but I'm not sure if you'll believe me anyway.

Also, I noticed he liked human contact - when people wanted their photos taken with him, he put one arm around them and rubbed their backs slowly. It was like he needed the warmth of proximity. This might put all the whoring in context (his not mine), then again might not.

Then something splendid happened, Stan. He was talking to this couple, and I heard him say, "Well, I tell you what, you can have this copy", and he handed over the book he'd been reading from to a couple who couldn't afford to buy their own copy. Just like that. And he inscribed the inside front cover at length too. They both sort of squealed with delight. And I think I did too. It was very generous. His inscription was about 100 words long and seemed to end with the words, "remember me".

I was so impressed, I had my photo taken with him. I said: "You're actually a really nice guy, aren't you? All of this calling everyone 'cunts' stuff is just a big act." Sheepishly he agreed.

"You've got to confuse the enemy," he replied, rubbing my back. The person who’d taken our picture returned my phone camera and said "Is that alright?" Horsley replied, "You look great, I look terrible", and then muttered something about his skin flaking off his face. I told him he looked great, wished him well and left.

When I told someone heading to the same Tube stop what he'd said about confusing the enemy, she replied, "He is the enemy" - and I think she was right. Horsley is his own worst enemy, spending all that time and effort being outrageous and getting people to hate him, when all he really wants is a little love. But I suppose, there’s only one thing in the world worse than being talked about...

Anyway, I thought I'd better tell you the truth about Horsley because I think if you met him, you'd probably quite like him.

All the best,

Lennie

What was particularly satisfying about reading this was that it’s more or less exactly what I’d predicted here. And I quote:

He’s carved out this niche for himself, created this character, this rather contrived cocktail of the Marquis de Sade and Oscar Wilde who struts through life, whoring, pontificating, smoking crack and playing the gigantic ‘I am’, when all he really wants is someone to hold him close, mop his furrowed brow and tell him that everything is going to be alright.

Interestingly, Stephen Fry’s production company Sprout Films recently bought the rights to Horsley’s memoirs, so everything probably is going to be alright.

Thanks for the story, Lennie, and particularly the baboon-based imagery.


Lennie Nash blogs about his failure to become a professional chef at Chef Sandwich.

Money Actually

All you need is love. That's what John Lennon reckoned, but he was wrong. Sometimes you need a bulletproof vest too. And sometimes you need a cynical, jaded eye. Often, in fact. Having said that, although love is most certainly not all you need, it is the prime mover of the human spirit and life without it is stale, flat, tiring and - on the whole - depressingly pointless. So when on Saturday 17th January I received an email from Nikki Leigh, contacting me on behalf of Dr Ava Cadell, founder of Loveology University, I automatically assumed that this was merely yet another unscrupulous, self-serving charlatan exploiting humanity's instinctive desire for love for personal financial gain. But I thought I’d better do a bit of research, just to be sure. So I looked up Loveology University online and to my gargantuan surprise, it turns out that it’s actually a beautiful thing! Turns out that Dr Ava Cadell is a genuine, warm, caring human being who wants nothing more than to help people help themselves to become more ready to give and receive love. Nah, just kidding. She’s a charlatan. And Nikki Leigh is her Satanic little PR twot. This by the way, is only my opinion. I know how litigious these American charlatans can be, so let me reiterate that all of this is mere opinion - bitter, malicious, loveless conjecture based on what to my disenchanted eyes are glaringly obvious facts. Anyhow, Ms Leigh wanted to know if I’d like to help promote Loveology University and their repugnant, soulless Valentine’s Day-themed competition to find the World's Best Lover. (Yawn.) You probably heard from her too. I’m sure she contacted every blog on the internet which somewhere features the word ‘love’ or ‘sex’. I wrote back to say I’d be very interested in interviewing Dr Ava and a week or two later, I sent her a bunch of genuine, heartfelt, inquisitive questions, including the following...

If you would like to read the rest of this article, Stan recommends you go here and purchase a copy of The Little Book of Shame. Not only does it contain the article you're currently reading, it also contains around 50 others, and all for the incredible price of whatever price it happens to be at the moment. You lucky thing you.

Valentine's Day Cancelled :: A Dead Fox Stole My Heart

Sorry for the piss-poor blogging of late. Couple of excuses: hard work on book (up every day at 6!); and the slow, painful collapse of everything I ever believed in.

I know, I know.

Which is to say, Morag and I have split up.



One day I may tell you the story of the dead fox. It was extraordinarily poignant and in effect helped us sign the death warrant.

This was yesterday. Timing, as ever, impeccable.

I don't have much else to say about it. Certainly nothing that I haven't already said here.

So yeah, Valentine’s Day is cancelled this year. As is the rest of February. I shall be getting back on the horse in March. And not before.

In the meantime, please, even if you feel it, please do not say ‘I told you so’. You know who you are. Thanks.

Oh, and happy Valentine’s Day. May a leather-clad Cupid coat each of your erogenous zones with a heady mix of lubricant, bremelanotide and paprika.

Have fun!

See you in a couple of weeks.

x

News Of A Personal Nature :: I Feel Pretty

Oh, so pretty.

I feel pretty.

And witty.

And ‘gay’.

Seriously though.

And furthermore, I pity any girl – or indeed, any boy – who isn’t me today – or indeed, any day. Actually no, not any day. Just today.

Actually, thinking about it, to be fair, ‘pretty’ might be pushing it a little. I've still got a head like sack of aubergines pulled from a burning pork scratchings factory, but I was just checking myself out in the bathroom mirror there, with a bit of product on the old thatch and my £200 coat on. And you know what? I kind of half-fancied myself.

I had candles on and – if I say so myself – I looked like a ne’er-do-well in a noirish thriller. A bit dodgy for sure, but doable nonetheless.

So, yes, you may be wondering what has occurred to make me feel so pretty. So witty. So ‘gay’. You may not. I do not know. I lay claim to the ability to peer within the nether regions of neither your soul, your mind nor your pocket. All I can say is this: you know when someone you know – let’s say a friend – is going out with someone you really don’t think is suitable for them? Often you’re dead against the relationship, but you have to respect your friend’s decisions, or at least pretend to, so you bite your lips and nibble your cheeks and say nothing.

Then your friend splits up with their partner, you get drunk together and it all comes out. Everything you’ve ever thought about that good-for-nothing bag of rats. ‘Thank goodness you’re shot of that piece of human excrement,’ you say. ‘Trust me, worst thing that ever happened to you. You’re so much better off without them. In fact, and I probably shouldn’t say, but you were pretty unbearable yourself, while you were together.’ Then before you know it, they’re back together and frankly, things become a little uncomfortable.

Well, brace yourself, for I have news of a personal nature.

Morag and I are back together!

Yes, and by Christ, it definitely deserves at least one exclamation mark. Maybe more. But let’s not go mental.

This time we are going out with one another. None of that modern nonsense. Fuck buddies! I mean, come on. Who were we trying to fool? What were we thinking? In this day and age. Stuff and nonsense. Fuck buddies be buggered. A man needs a wife! No, I’m just kidding. I mean, maybe it’s true. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Although we have made a commitment to each other. And we’re talking about Christmas. And London. And generally being a couple.

That is all I have to say on the subject and I command you – with all of the stentorian muster of Brian Blessed bellowing through a megaphone into a microphone on the main stage at Glastonbury, with the speakers turned up to 11 – to have nothing but good feelings for me. If you don’t mind.

I know most of you will anyway, but a couple of you said some pretty harsh things about Morag when I was stupidly washing our dirty laundry in public a couple of months ago. Or whenever it was. I know you were just trying to be nice to me, but – nothing. Let’s say no more about it. Seriously.

Except this: I am very happy. And what’s more, for a fairly unambiguously ugly bloke, I feel pretty. Sing it!



Now leave your good wishes in the comments and let’s tuck into a celebratory box of Wispas.

Nine Months In :: Done With Love

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

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

So here we are then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that’s where I was going wrong.

I think it probably was.

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

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

You know where you stand with a vagina.

You know?

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

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

Respect the cock.

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

Nine months.

Three vaginas.

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

And then there was Morag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No reply.

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

No reply.

I started to get paranoid. Had she blocked me?

Oh, I felt bad.

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

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

No reply.

Then it suddenly hit me.

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

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

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God for that.

I pressed ‘Retry’.

This time it went through immediately.

I am a looney.

Minutes passed.

No reply.

She was ignoring me.

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

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

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

It was Keith. The shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, where are you?’

‘I’m in Brighton.’

I explained what I’d done.

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

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

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

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



Another look from the table next door.

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

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

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

Now it was time to go.

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

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

‘Hi,’ I said, as she neared.

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

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

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

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

‘Stan,’ she said.

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

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

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

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

And you know what I did? I ignored it.

Ha!

Triumphant! Victorious! Not at all immature!

So, there we are.

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

I’m done with it.

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

Ha!

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

I don’t know much about women.

But I know what I like.

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

Done with love though. That remains.

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

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

Done with Wilde.

Done with Art.

Done with Beauty.

Done with Truth.

Done with That Sort of Thing.

Done with love.

No more pining and moping and yearning and sighing.

No more putting the spiritual ahead of the physical

No more putting the brain ahead of the body.

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

Secondly, no more intimacy. Intimacy fucks things up.

No more talking before sex, or indeed afterwards.

No more getting to know potential sex partners.

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

No more confusing emotional need with physical lust.

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

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

Good.

I’m glad I’ve got that sorted.

So what else is new?

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

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

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

So. There we have it.

Nine down. Three to go.

Obviously, it's not over yet.

But it will be soon.

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

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

I’m lost.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

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

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

Oh well.

Never mind.

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

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

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

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

Done with love.

Fuck it.

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

I do not believe in love.

Love does not exist.

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

I really think I might fuck some whores.

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

So what else is new?

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

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

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

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

And yes, I know that time heals all wounds.

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

Only kidding.

Done with love.

Don't You Know Who I Am? (The Internet Is Scary.)

I’m in a really good mood. Things have happened over the last few days which have really made me happy. I shall tell you about them now, in reverse order.

1. Lots of new readers have arrived to grant my humble quest their time, courtesy of a couple of much-appreciated links. Many of them have left lovely comments. And I love that. It fills me with joy.

2. I’ve been memed by DJ Kirkby. She has sweetly awarded me an E for Excellent, which I must now award to 10 other bloggers. It will be an honour. Very soon.

3. A new season of America’s Next Top Model kicked off last night. I do feel ashamed if that’s any consolation but the fact is, I just can’t help myself. I just love watching beautiful, predominantly low-intelligence people attempting simple tasks - like buying nice clothes, looking sad or walking - like they’ve been asked to cure cancer with three pipe cleaners and a bag of flour. And the bitching is such a pleasure. Ebony and Bianca, I think, are the major bitches for this series. Every series must have at least a couple major league Satan-women, just to pick on the sweet ones for our viewing entertainment. The sweet ones this time round are Victoria, lozenge-faced college student from New Haven, and Heather, weepy humpbacked autist. Aaaaah, reality TV. Fuck you, Tyra. Oh, and shame on you for dumping Spontanouise. From her name on down, she was comedy gold.

By the way, if you care, don’t read the next two words: Saleisha wins.

Sorry.

Unfortunately I’m out tonight, so I’ll miss the first instalment of The Next Best Thing, which looks great, apart from the dreadful, dreadful, dreadful judges. Ideally, if you’re making a TV show in which you humiliate deluded members of the public, you should ensure that the panel have at least a modicum more talent than the average contestant. The Next Best Thing appears to fail horribly in this respect.

Anyway, I’ve said too much. I should perhaps point out that I also enjoy news programmes, critically acclaimed American drama (particularly HBO mega-sagas) and arse-numbingly serious documentaries.

4. More important even than reality TV, this: I was out running in Brockwell Park yesterday afternoon. It was a lovely day. A bit cold, but the sun was out, the air was crisp and light like a perfect pancake and I swear my guardian angel came to me in the form of a fluffy grey squirrel. This squirrel ran ahead of me, for at least a minute, scurrying from one tree to the next, then waiting for me to catch up before running on. It was quite odd. Made me laugh. Then it disappeared. A few moments later, I’d completed my circuit and was stretching by a gate, a young woman walked up to me, slowly. She was wearing a big duffle coat and big jumper and a big dress and big trousers. But she wasn’t big. She was quite small. Slim anyway. As far as I could tell. She had long dyed-blonde curly hair that had lots of bits of stuff tied into it. She had lots of piercings. She looked a bit scary if I’m honest. But pretty.

When I realised that she was definitely coming towards me and not just ambling in my direction, my heart began to beat a little faster. I felt like a wreck, a phlegm-packed, sweat-stained, sickening mouth-breather of a wreck. I thought she might be about to chastise me for blowing my nose in the park, or else just say something really unpleasant about my appearance; something about the sight of fat men jogging being repellent to her. But she didn’t. She just said: ‘Hello.’

I blushed and squinted at her. She really was very pretty. Bright grey, piercing eyes. Like silver in fact. And pierced, black eyebrows. I tried to regulate my breathing. ‘Hello,’ I said. It wasn’t brilliant, but I figured the ball was still in her court.

‘This is a bit embarrassing really, but I think I know who you are. Do you write a blog?’

I nodded vigorously before I could speak. Then I sort of gurgled an affirmative.

‘Are you Bête de Jour?’ she said.

It sounded really strange. It was a strange sentence to hear.

‘Yeah,’ I said. I was blushing horribly. I felt like I’d been unmasked. I was embarrassed I think because the only reason she could have known it was me is because I am fat and ugly and I run in Brockwell Park.

‘Your blog is really good,’ she said. ‘You’re a really good writer.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, a tiny bit too blasé perhaps. ‘That’s really nice of you to say.’

There was a silence. She nodded a couple of times. I knew I was supposed to say something. Or else she’d just walk away. I nodded. I thought about negging her. Something about her piercings weighing down her face maybe. ‘Well, OK,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to say, you know, keep it up.’

‘I just saw a squirrel,’ I blurted out.

She smiled. Nodded again. She likes to nod.

‘I’m not usually a great believer in squirrels,’ I said, ‘but this one was definitely something special. It ran with me for about ten minutes, ahead of me, like it was trying to say something. But then it didn’t say anything. It was quite disappointing in the end.’

‘I’m not a fan of squirrels,’ she said. ‘And if I may say so, that behaviour there that you’ve just described is typical of them. They promise so much, then they just let you down.’

‘Yes!’ I cried. ‘They are evil!’ I stopped. Looked into her eyes. ‘Cute though,’ I said.

Wow. I do believe I was flirting!

‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘But appearances can be deceptive.’

Flirting!

At which point she introduced herself. Her name was Spontaniouse. Nah, just kidding. Let’s call her Sally. Which is actually very close to her real name. Sally studies at Camberwell College of Arts. She’s a painter. And a photographer. And she plays the guitar. And when I said she was pretty, I was wrong. She’s divine. She’s absolutely perfect. And - DAMN YOU, WORLD! - her boyfriend thinks so too.

And I must remember, now that I’m sitting here having thoughts I probably shouldn’t, that she probably wouldn’t be interested in me in a million years. I’m ten years older than her, ten stone heavier than her and way way way out of her league. The other way around I mean. She’s out of mine. Whatever. We're in different leagues. Plus she has a boyfriend. But she does like my writing. And we did chat for a full ten minutes before she had to rejoin her friends and carry on drawing trees. And we did make each other laugh. Which counts for a lot.

The funny thing is of course, that the chances are, she will read this.

I’m not sure what that means really. I guess I just have to carry on being myself. Not drive her away by breaking down in the middle of sentences and declaring I LOVE YOU, SALLY – I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU. No. That would be madness. And so not true. I mean, she was alright. I meet breathtakingly beautiful, gob-smackingly intelligent, brain-wateringly funny women all the time and it’ll take a lot more than a comprehensive knowledge of Nobuyoshi Araki to win me over.

So, really, apart perhaps from pointing out that I really do like Nobuyoshi Araki too, now that I know who he is, it's pretty much business as usual.

Nothing to see here.

As you were.

Because Heaven Knows, If There's One Thing the World Really Needs Right Now, It’s Another Enormously Self-Indulgent Blog…

Welcome.

So. What possible justification could there possibly be for the publication of yet another goddamned weblog? Latest figures show that of the 100,000 new blogs created every thirty seconds or so, most of them don’t get beyond the initial post, and of those that do, only one in two and a half million is actually worth reading.

So there’d better be a darned good reason for this one. Well, I like to think there is.

What I’d like to say is that through confessing my myriad humiliations and measly triumphs – as I intend to do – I can help others who share my afflictions.

I’d love to say that. But it isn’t true. If that happens along the way, then that’s great. A wonderful bonus. But that’s not my prime motivation.

Rather I’m writing it all down in the hopefully not altogether vain hope that I can, as a result, find myself someone to love. It’s as simple and, I have to say, as pathetic, and, I have to say, as crucially important, as that. So yes, this whole exercise is as much of a device, as much of an attempt to find love as speed dating, placing a personal ad or volunteering at a college of the blind. More of which later. The only difference is, I can do this in my underpants, and I can stop whenever I want, without anyone having a go at me or poking me with sticks and tossing strawberries at me. More of which later.

So this blog was for quite a while, in my imagination, called Bag of Elbows. And I expect you, my imaginary reader, are just dying to know why. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because those are the words that followed me through my entire school life, from the first week when the nickname was coined by Gary Turnbull – who frankly speaking was no oil painting himself, but then that’s often how it is with bullies; they know that if they aren’t dishing it out, they’ll be on the receiving end – the shits – to the last day when I walked out of the examination hall with the word ‘elbow’ chalked onto my blazer-back.

Titles I also considered were: ‘Sex and the Ugly Man’, but that would have been somewhat misleading, at least in part – i.e. the ‘sex’ part; ‘Confessions of an Ugly Man’, which I think sets quite the wrong tone; ‘A Life Less Loved’, which I decided was too self-pitiful; and 'Plight of the Munter’, which I like, but frankly, rather condescendingly, considered a little obscure.

So I decided on Bag of Elbows. Then at the last minute, I changed my mind. (Billie Piper was partly responsible for this. I was wondering – extremely conceitedly – who would play me if my humble blog was televised. I decided it could really be anyone, but that they would have to wear an awful lot of make-up.)

Anyhow, here it is, and if this doesn’t end at least some of the heartache, then at the very least, it’ll provide a place for me to track my progress, as I attempt to turn my solitary, sedentary life into something more lived. And something more loved.

So, enough of the prevarication. Let’s get on with it. Let the seduction commence!