The Monday Review :: Unsound Bites

Haters, haters, look away, for this is self-fellaters day...

First up, I just did a phone interview with Christian radio station, TWR. I spoke to a chap called James, who was very pleasant, had actually read the book and even claimed to have enjoyed it. He said he didn’t expect to enjoy it. I said I didn’t expect him to enjoy it either, mostly because it’s not awfully complimentary about his god. Also, because it’s a bit fruity, and Christians generally don’t like fruit. It’s forbidden. So he asked me a bunch of questions and I gave him a bunch of answers. At one point I rambled for a bit, then asked him to remind me what the question was. He said it was fine, I’d answered it. ‘That was the sound bite we wanted,’ he said, and I swear, something inside of me died. Sadly, James didn’t suggest that I might not exist, which is a shame as I had a Jesus-themed response ready for that. Despite the sound bite thing though, it was fine. He said he’d let me know when it’s going to be broadcast.

In other news, I may be going to London later this week to appear on Canadian television. Canada AM to be precise. With a bag on my head. Or something.

Um…

Oh, and a couple more reviews on Amazon, one from literary spy who says:

‘This is a gem. One of those books that you want everyone you know to read - because it's so good. It's funny; it's challenging - it made me cringe and laugh and the twist at the end made me almost cry. The writing style is excellent. Stan has a unique voice and is really gutsy. You must read this book; it stays with you and you'll want to recommend it to your friends, too.’

To which I say, almost? Almost? Oh, Literary Spy. Have you no heart? And less of the gutsy if you don’t mind. Cycling is shrinking me daily.

And one from J Dutton, who writes, amongst other things:

‘I have just completed it after a few nights (and lunch breaks) of non-stop reading and have not laughed so much in a while… I would normally give my books away once finished...but nobody is getting this one! I intend to read it over and over, you'll just all have to buy your own!’

So that’s nice.

In other book news, I finished reading The Road last night. Crikey. I don’t think I’ve ever been so profoundly upset by a book. I think the most upsetting scene of all is when the cart is stolen from the beach and then the thief is discovered trundling down the road. I was with the boy on this. I thought the man let everybody down. I shall say no more – except! In the film, the thief is played by Michael K Williams, aka… Omar!



Awwww.

Now And At The Hour Of Our Death

The following was scribbled yesterday morning, reverently, into a lachrymose notebook whilst waiting for a train to Palermo....

There is a tiny chapel in the train station of Agrigento and, I must say, very little else. Which is why I find myself sitting here at the back of this wholly deserted room, surrounded by the usual, enormously tasteful Catholic gewgaws and a sweetly patronising message from the Good Pope (the one before the Nazi). Also, because today is a national holiday in Italy, the train station is empty but for a few elderly American tourists, and here in this chapel, it's just me and this old bird...



Anything could happen.

Sadly, my time in Sicily has not been all good. It started out wonderfully, however, and everything was going great, until halfway through my second night, a couple of people with whom I had been getting on really enormously well turned on me, swore at me viciously, pushed me away and left me drunk and weeping in the middle of the night, in the middle of a strange town, without even the name of the hotel where we were staying. I’m still not sure why it happened, but I do know that it ruined the whole trip for me. Or at least this leg of the trip.

Actually, I do know why it happened – it happened because I made jokes about the relationship between our two nations, and because I was talking to a girl that one of the other men fancied. Imagine that. Me. Making someone jealous.

I don’t want to say anything else about it here as I’m going to write to the two people involved and see what they have to say about it in the cold light of day. I'm still reeling from it all actually, and it's left a very sour, and very sad, taste in my mouth.

But life goes on, and I suppose, on the bright side, one day it’ll give me something interesting to write about. But not now. For now at least, we forget, and we move on, back up North to Faenza and hopefully, everything crossed, to the adorable Pea.

Now, come on, Mary, you old bugger! Give me your goddamn blessing!



Thanks, love.

The Wednesday Morning Play :: The Collector

The Collector.

A Play by Stanley H Cattermole


Act One, Scene One – INT. LONDON. A fairly small living room is made to seem smaller still as piles of half-emptied boxes and endless book cases vie for space. There are books and boxes of magazines and newspapers everywhere. Half-museum, half-warehouse, the lack of order is stifling and claustrophobic. A man and a woman stand in the middle of the mess.


MORGANA :: [raising her hands to her head, grabbing hold of her lavish hair] Aaaarrrggggghhhhh!

SLIM :: Is that absolutely necessary? Really. Is it?

MORGANA :: Yes! Evidently it is. I obviously can’t get through to you with common sense and logic. So what else am I supposed to do? I can’t…. I have no… Aaaarrrggggghhhhh!

SLIM :: Oh, please, come on. Stop that. Listen, just because I don’t agree with you doesn’t make me illogical.

MORGANA :: It’s nothing to do with you not agreeing with me. It’s to do with you being certifiably insane.

SLIM :: Right, yeah. I’m not the one standing in the middle of the room screaming like a retard.

MORGANA :: Slim, darling, please see sense. I’m not having a go at you, I’m just saying, you have too much stuff. You’ve got to get rid of some of it. It doesn’t make sense to live like this.

[MORGANA reaches into a nearby box and pulls out a smaller box, shoe box size.]

This for example. ‘Beermats, 1994-98.’

[SLIM shrugs.]

SLIM :: What?

MORGANA :: What do you mean, what? You have a collection of beermats. Why the fuck do you have a collection of beermats?

SLIM :: What kind of question is that? Why wouldn’t I have a collection of beermats? Probably a more pertinent question is, why don’t you have a collection of beermats?

MORGANA :: Slim, please, come on. You’re just being silly. Please. I beg you.

[SLIM rummages between boxes and picks up a laptop from the floor. He sits on an armchair and opens the lid.]

What are you doing?

SLIM :: I’m just going to have a look online. We’ll see who’s mad.

MORGANA :: We already know who’s mad. I don’t think the internet can help us at this stage.

SLIM :: Here we go. Beermats. 2,403 results on eBay.

MORGANA :: And what do you suppose that proves? All that proves is that there are thousands more lunatics out there just like you. But at least they’re doing the decent thing and trying to get rid of their idiotic collections.

SLIM :: No, what it proves is that to you that’s just a collection of beermats. To the collector, it’s gold dust. I could be sitting on a goldmine here. Look at this, pre-war South London Brewery beer mat, £25. That’s one single beermat, £25.

MORGANA :: So what? And pre-war, you said? Which war? How old is it exactly?

SLIM :: It’s from 1939.

MORGANA :: And your beermats, how old are they?

SLIM :: But this is exactly my point! This is why I refuse to throw them out. They’re an investment. In another 50 years, they’ll be worth an absolute fortune.

MORGANA :: You’ll be 80, Stan.

SLIM :: Slim.

MORGANA :: Sorry. Slim. You’ll be 80.

SLIM :: Yeah, I know. And I’ll either be struggling to get by on a state pension, and therefore, desperately in need of the cash, or I can give it to my grandchildren. It’s like a trust fund.

MORGANA :: Believe me, you won’t be having any grandchildren if you insist on hanging on to shit like this. It’s one or the other. A collection of beermats or a family. No one has both.

[MORGANA sits on the arm of the armchair and reads over SLIM’s shoulder. SLIM attempts to shield the screen.]

What? What are you trying to hide?

SLIM :: Nothing, I just don’t want you deriding my fellow….

MORGANA :: Your fellow freaks.

SLIM :: Collectors.

MORGANA :: Chinless freaks.

SLIM :: I’ve got chins.

MORGANA :: Chinless freaks with no girlfriends and fucked-up childhoods.

SLIM :: I’ve got a girlfriend.

MORGANA :: Yeah, well, don’t piss her off with a box of beermats, that’s my advice to you.

SLIM :: What, are you actually threatening to leave me just because I’ve got a hobby?

MORGANA :: Look at this, no bids, no bids, no bids, no bids. There might be two thousand chinless freaks trying to sell their beermat collections but no one wants to buy them, do they? Not even other chinless freaks.

SLIM :: What is this obsession with chins? I’ve got heaps of chins.

MORGANA :: Oh, hold on, there’s one. One bid. What’s that?

SLIM :: ‘One thousand plus beermat collection. 70s and 80s. Needs a good home.’ Only 1p!

[SLIM gasps and allows his mouth to fall open. He turns and stares at MORGANA.]

Only 1p. That is amazing value, Mo. This is quite possibly the bargain of the century and an opportunity far too good to miss.

MORGANA :: Don’t even think about it.

SLIM :: Oh, look, he’s got photos. There they are in a bin bag. There they are laid out on the living room floor.

MORGANA :: Look at the state of his fucking house. What a loser. Look at that. Shit everywhere.

SLIM :: Probably nearer 2000, he says.

MORGANA :: What kind of moron keeps 2000 beermats in a bin liner? Eh? Seriously though. What must have happened to him in his childhood? Write to him and ask him that. I bet you any money that he had a fucked-up childhood.

SLIM :: I will, I will, yeah, that’s a great idea. I’ll write: ‘Dear Sir, I was just perusing your impressive collection of beermats on eBay when my impertinent girlfriend encouraged me to write to you and enquire as to what manner of horrific abuse your parents visited upon you when you were a child that so twisted your mind and turned you into an adult who keeps beermats in a big bag.’ I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.

MORGANA :: Fucking freak.

SLIM :: Sweet-peach, please. Have a little compassion.

MORGANA :: I do. I mean, I’m sorry for him. I’m sorry for anyone who feels they need to cling to worthless items in order to compensate for the love they never received as children.

SLIM :: Oh, it’s as simple as that, is it?

MORGANA :: [standing, moving between the boxes] Why else do you suppose you’ve got an entire box of Big Issues here?

SLIM :: [shaking his head] Sorry, I’m a little confused. You see a box of magazines and you automatically think: abused childhood? Does that not strike you as a little odd?

MORGANA :: Nope. What strikes me as odd is that you have six boxes of Empire magazine that you never ever look at and will probably never look at again.

SLIM :: But we’re at complete odds here. I was eleven or twelve when that magazine came out and I just happened to see the first issue, so I bought it, and then I decided to collect them. So I collected them, and I went out and bought a copy of the magazine every month, and I read it from cover to cover because I enjoyed it, and I enjoyed seeing my collection grow. You know? It gave me pleasure.

MORGANA :: Yeah, I can understand that but Stan, that was 20 years ago….

SLIM :: Slim.

MORGANA :: I used to collect Just 17 magazines, but what happened then was this: I grew up and I threw them all away.

[SLIM flinches.]

You have to learn to throw things away. All this shit, this clutter, it’s suffocating you. You need to get rid of it. I really believe it’s holding you back, keeping you tethered to the past. I really think it’s time for a spring clean.

SLIM :: But I don’t agree.

MORGANA :: Well, I don’t know. I’m not giving you ultimatums here….

SLIM :: Ultimata.

MORGANA :: …but this is a small house and I’m not sure there’s room for all of your stuff and all of my stuff. But to be honest, it’s not really about that. I really think it would be good for you to break free from this crap. I mean, how many books have you got?

SLIM :: Oh, you want to burn my books now?

MORGANA :: Oh, please. I don’t want to burn anything. Except maybe your beermats.

SLIM :: Nazi.

MORGANA :: Oh, touché. Anyway, you’ve just lost the argument, haven’t you, according to what’s it called – Godfrey’s Dilemma, is it?

SLIM :: Godwin’s Law.

MORGANA :: Whatever. Loser.

SLIM :: Nazi.

MORGANA :: I just think, there are six book cases in this room, that’s hundreds of books, most of them you’ll never look at again, most of which I bet you’ve never even read.

SLIM :: Balls.

MORGANA :: I’m sorry?

SLIM :: Try me.

MORGANA :: OK, then. What about… Ulysses.

SLIM :: Oh, that’s not fair. You pick the one book that no one alive has ever actually finished. I had a good crack at it though. There’s a bookmark. What page…? 89, that’s not bad. So anyway, yeah, I’m still reading that book. That’s a work in progress. Next!

MORGANA :: How to Be Born Again by Billy Graham.

SLIM :: I’m saving that.

MORGANA :: What, for your death bed?

SLIM :: Yeah, it’s last minute bet-hedging material.

[MORGANA shakes her head and sighs.]

No, but in all seriousness, that’s a great book and it’ll come in really handy when one day I’m writing something about religion, about being born again or about Billy Graham.

MORGANA :: And when will that be?

SLIM :: I don’t know. One day. It’s bound to happen.

MORGANA :: But it might not.

SLIM :: Well, no. But by that same token, we might both be hit by a truck tonight so there’s no point going to Sainsbury’s.

MORGANA :: I think the likelihood of us surviving the week is slightly more than the likelihood of you writing something about Billy Graham.

SLIM :: Shows what you know.

MORGANA :: [mocking SLIM’s petty intonation] Shows what you know.

SLIM :: Look, this is going nowhere. What….

MORGANA :: The Little Book of Calm.

SLIM :: [shouting violently] KEEP YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY LITTLE BOOK OF CALM!!!

MORGANA :: OK, OK. Jesus.

[Hands SLIM The Little Book of Calm, which he proceeds to stroke whilst chanting.]

SLIM :: Calm, calm, calm….

MORGANA :: And this? How To Give Successful Dinner Parties. Have you found this particularly useful?

SLIM :: Indispensable, yes.

MORGANA :: Really?

SLIM :: Really.

MORGANA :: Fine. I won’t call you a liar.

SLIM :: Big of you.

MORGANA :: Thanks. What about this though? Stories For Girls. Isn’t that a little bit… gay?

SLIM :: Don’t be homophobic, Morag, please.

MORGANA :: Morgana.

SLIM :: Sorry.

MORGANA :: I mean, why have you even got this book?

SLIM :: Um… I found it, I think.

MORGANA :: Where did you find it?

SLIM :: Outside of a charity shop if I remember correctly.

MORGANA :: What do you mean?

SLIM :: There was a pile of books outside a charity shop one night. I was drunk.

MORGANA :: What, and you just took it?

SLIM :: Yeah.

MORGANA :: You stole from a charity shop?

SLIM :: I was drunk.

MORGANA :: Wow. That’s pretty low.

SLIM :: Oh, come on. We’ve all done it.

MORGANA :: Not me. That’s pretty fucked up if you ask me. Stealing from charity shops. That’s just wrong. That’s…

SLIM :: Don’t….

MORGANA :: …wrong on so many levels.

SLIM :: No! Please don’t say that

MORGANA :: Oh, now this is just totally random.

SLIM :: Oh, don’t say ‘random’, please. You’re just deliberately saying things that you know will annoy me now, aren’t you?

MORGANA :: Happy Days 4: Fonzie Goes To College? WTF, Slim?

SLIM :: Aaaarggh! I’m not listening.

[SLIM clamps his hands over his ears and makes loud nonsense noises. MORGANA glares at him. He stops.]

MORGANA :: FFS.

SLIM :: Oh, please. I beg you.

MORGANA :: Listen to me. Darling. Sweetheart. Do you think we have a future together?

SLIM :: I’m not… This is… You can’t…

MORGANA :: Yes or no, baby.

SLIM :: I hope so. I’d like that, yes. But you know, the future’s….

MORGANA :: OK, and you know we’ve talked about going to live in France maybe, in a year or two?

[SLIM folds his arms, stares. He knows where this is going.]

Darling? France. Me and you.

SLIM :: Yes, yes, yes.

MORGANA :: Well, you know, I’m just saying, all this stuff? You can’t take it with you. And storage costs a fortune. And really, I don’t think it’s good for you. It’s like an albatross around your neck. You know? The beermats, the badges, the coins and stamps. The magazines. You’re a grown man. You have to let go. Even the books.

SLIM :: Oh, not the books. I love the books. Each one is full of memories. Even the ones I haven’t read. I remember where I was when I bought them, what I was doing or feeling.

MORGANA :: The thing with books though, you can always get hold of them again. I mean, if ever you have the urge to read a certain book, then you can have the pleasure of going out and finding a copy again.

[SLIM takes a deep breath, rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands.]

It’s just not practical, Stan.

SLIM :: Slim.

MORGANA :: Stan. You’ve been here three weeks and you still haven’t unpacked everything. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe deep down you know….

SLIM :: Alright, alright, alright. Jesus. I’ll think about it, alright?

MORGANA :: Thanks, baby.

SLIM :: Maybe there are some books I can get rid of. Maybe. But I’m going to count them all first, and catalogue them.

MORGANA :: OK, darling. That’s lovely. You do that.

[MORGANA turns to walk out of the room. As she goes, she sings the following word, stretching out the final syllable…]

Psycho.

[SLIM picks up his copy of Happy Days 4: Fonzie Goes To College, opens it up and starts to read. Lights fade. Scene One ends.]

Christmas Present :: Bye, Humbug!

If I knew then what I know now, I’m not sure it would have made much difference, but it would have made some, and that would have been the difference between feeling ashamed and self-pitiful, and feeling self-pitiful and somehow immune. But I didn’t know then what I know now. All I knew then was that Christmas was a time that other people seemed to love but that I really hated.



Humbug.

I hated Christmas because my parents would use it as an excuse to drink themselves into oblivion.

I hated Christmas because I had to go to midnight mass and pretend that I believed in the concepts which I invariably heard expressed there, concepts such as love, acceptance, forgiveness, peace and compassion. Concepts such as God and the family. I hated church. I hated church because my parents would also be pretending, and they would put on a show for the people they knew at church, the people they called friends, and then when we got home they would revert to the scowling, cursing, ruthless vulgarians that deep inside they truly were.

I hated Christmas because I was a child like any other and I wanted Sonic the Hedgehog and a PC and I wanted videos, hundreds and hundreds of videos, but unfortunately Christmas gifts that were anything other than absolutely necessary were in our house deemed frivolous and irrelevant. One year I received a new school blazer. Another year I received a new carpet for my bedroom. Sometimes however, if I was lucky and my parents were feeling particularly festive, one of them would bung twenty quid in an envelope. We never had a tree.

I hated Christmas because I had to stay at home for most of it and pretend.

I hated Christmas because the only bit of Christmas I loved was spending time round Keith’s house. This caused a real schism within me. On the one hand, it was wonderful to be given the opportunity to be able to understand what Christmas was all about and to see why other people enjoyed it so much; on the other hand, it brought home everything that was lacking in my own family. On the whole though, I cherished the time I spent at Keith’s house, or – as I came to know it – The Great Escape.



And then I escaped for good, and was miserable to discover that I had begun to hate Christmas for new reasons.

Primarily, I hated it because I was scarred, and because hating it had become a habit.

As an adult, I spent quite a few Christmases alone, despite protests from people who knew me – to some people there is no greater crime against nature than spending Christmas alone. For the most part I never minded those Christmases though. I’d tell myself I was going to write, then I’d watch six films back to back instead. It was fun, but yeah, kind of sad fun. One Christmas I had a tin of meatballs for Christmas lunch. That was quite sad actually. I remember feeling rather unhappy at that point.

Then last year there was change and I had excellent fun. Christmas with kids is a a whole new kettle of fish and I hope to spend many more Christmases in future with children. Inshallah. Last Christmas seems like a long time ago now, and indeed it was. It was almost a year. It marked the beginning though, of a turning point.

This year promises to be even better, and this is the first time I can actually remember actively looking forward to Christmas.

This feels like the first Christmas of the rest of my life.

I can’t wait. I'm going to go mental this year.

The particularly great thing about this Christmas is that I already have everything I could possibly want, so everything else is a bonus.

Awww.



And what about you? What do you want for Christmas?

Whatever it is, I really hope you get it.

Three Months In :: First Quarter Assessment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s my news.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so we come to:

Blogging Rule No. 1 :: Keep It Short.

And another thing…

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

And for that I thank you.

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

Then I’ll blog it.

Day Four :: Whippet

It's in The Wasp Factory, and I think it’s Eric who describes sleep as a social construct. Society tells us we need sleep, preferably eight hours a night where the vast majority of us are tucked away in our beds, safe and sound, causing no trouble to no one. Something like that. Bloody Thatcher. Yes, it was Thatcher’s fault. She fed us sleep whilst never indulging herself. She made some passing contrivance concerning four hours a night but it was clear she was lying. Everyone knew her as the Iron Maiden, or the Sulphuric Harpy, or the Child Snatcher's Assistant, but to the wise, she was first and foremost a poignant and much misunderstood character. She was The Baroness of Dreams. Putting the Baroness to one side however, generally speaking, sleep is essential and everybody needs it. Eric was mad, and sleep, we can clearly see, is not a social construct.

Food however, most certainly is.

I haven’t eaten a solitary morsel since Sunday evening, and here I am, as fit as a giant kaleidoscope made entirely of fiddles. My brain has never been on more excitable form. I swear, it’s like a whippet in a breadbox.

I’ve been writing stuff all day. Little bit of work, but lots of other stuff too. In fact, between this sentence and the last, 45 minutes have passed whilst I sketched out some other quite, really quite sparklingly brilliant thing.

The mania continues apace, as you see. But I’m enjoying it. This fasting lark is like a whole case of adrenaline injected right into my ear. Or even into my third eye, man. And the strange thing is, I’ve hardly checked my weight today at all – not since first thing this morning. And that’s unusual. But today I’ve been alive with loads of other things. I even cracked open the flipchart I bought seven years ago. I seem to have reached such a point whereby this is really not anything to do with losing weight anymore, but what it is about now and – I mean, I’m guessing here – but this sounds like it’s about Total Brain Purification.

O yiieea...

I have lift off. I am floating up to Nirvana for my 2.30 transcendental appointment.

All Hail Gandhi.

And so on.

Next time I’m going to do it without grass though. I’ve enjoyed the grass to be sure, and I’m sure it’s brought me some fine thoughts, but I just feel it’s interfering with the clarity. The tobacco is tainting the spirituality.

Next time I need to feel just a little more like Jesus.

Christ. I can’t even begin to imagine what he must have felt like after 40 days. 40! And me tossing pearls like these after four! I really believe, after 40 days neither eating nor masturbating, anyone could perform miracles. But did Christ have Tree Syrup? That’s something I need to know.


Ah, this person here also wants to know how Jesus managed it. ‘I want to know if it is clear how Jesus fasted? I've been told that He couldn't have done it on Tree Syrup alone for 40 days because his digestion tract would be so severely damaged afterwards.’ It’s an interesting point, but one that rather overlooks the fact that Jesus was Magic and could have just pulled a brand new digestive tract out of his tattered sleeve.

Anyhow, I’ve been so full of typing beans that I’ve completely ignored my physical health - apart from the not eating of course - which is very bad. Neither have I had time to do any reading. Which reminds me… Some people, they love to interact with a good film. Don’t they though? Like those giddy souls who dress up for The Sound of Music orThe Rocky Horror Picture Show. Or then there’s those students who like to surround themselves with cider, whiskey, ale and lighter fuel and play the Withnail and I drinking game. Or those other students who exclaim that you simply must read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas whilst high on adrenochrome and ether! Or that you simple must read Three Men In A Boat whilst you’re actually in a boat! (Preferably with three men. Or of course, if you’re a man yourself, with just two other men.) Or that you simply must read Ulysses in a single day, Inspector Morse amongst dreamy spires, and American Psycho surrounded by silk ties, platinum business cards and lightly buttered prostitutes’ pelvises. But I say to you, no. You should in fact do none of the above. Because if Living the Book is what you’re into, then reading Knut Hamsen’s wonderful Hunger while you’re absolutely famished is where the real kicks are. I started today but got distracted. I’m going to continue tomorrow.

Is that it? Am I done? I think I am.

Next!

Oh, and don't eat food. It slows you down.

Pease Pudding and Porn Crackers :: The Ugly Side of Senescence

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Good Friday Feedback :: Happy Easter!

bulk :: 17st 4
cigarettes smoked :: 0
units of alcohol imbibed :: 12
runs run :: 1
swims swum :: 1
realistic vaginas purchased :: 0
sofas sacrificed to misguided altruism :: 0
chocolate eggs purchased :: 5
chocolate eggs eaten :: 0 (but there is still time)
tears wept for Christ :: 0

I don’t know about you, but I hate Easter. Or at least I used to, when I was a kid. It was never a time of chocolate-bingeing and egg-painting for me, as it apparently was for other kids. It was a time for recognising what dreadful unworthy sinners we all were, a time for rubbing my nose in the blood of Christ and generally feeling rotten about life.

My parents were fairly hard core Catholics. My mum had this weird habit of dabbing water on her eyes at Easter. It was to show how upset she was at the crucifixion of Christ. It used to drive me crazy. First, I never understood why she was so upset that Christ was crucified. It was my understanding that the whole point of Christ coming to Earth in the first place was so that he could be crucified and that if he hadn’t been crucified, then he would pretty much have failed in his mission to make us all feel guilty and miserable for evermore. Secondly, if she was upset enough to cry, then why didn’t she just cry? If I feel upset about something, I don’t sprinkle salty water on my cheeks. I cry. Similarly, if I need to void my bowels, I don’t dump a bag of stinking old meat in the loo. I void my bowels.

In my opinion, both of my parents were severely mentally ill, and their hard core Catholicism was just one aspect of that. Anyhow, as soon as I was brave enough to lapse – when I was 13 – I lapsed.

I’ve never really bothered with Easter since then.

This year however, I’ve bought masses of chocolate and Easter booze and I intend to celebrate like a proper hedonistic heathen. This Easter is all about earthly pleasures and absolutely nothing more. To hell with Jesus.

On with the mini eggs!

Feedback Friday :: Arise, Brother Bête

bulk :: 18st 2 (don’t know how it happened, but I’ve lost nothing this week. I’m guessing it was to do with levelling out after the illness. It’s still very disappointing though. But I have to look at the bigger picture. For weeks ago I weighed 19 stone. Now I weigh 12 pounds less. And that is to be commended. If I could reach, I’d give myself a slap on the back.)
cigarettes smoked :: 0
units of alcohol imbibed :: 6 (crikey. I’ve just realised, the only difference between me and a monk is that monks believe in God and I don’t. I used to though. Maybe I can pick it up again and fashion myself a crazy tonsure. I bet monks have more sex than me. I’ve seen The Name of the Rose, I know they do. God, I so want to be a monk all of a sudden.)
runs run :: 3
friendships jeopardised :: 3
marks overstepped :: 1
lessons learned :: 2 (don’t blog about your friends’ personal lives if you think they might be reading / don’t pleasure yourself after chopping chilli without first having thoroughly washed your hands – more like an old lesson relearned, this one)

So it’s been a funny old week. And one I’m just about ready to put behind me.

Boof!

There it goes.

Now, I’ve discovered this thing. This thing is called Madal Bal Natural Tree Syrup, and here is the good news.

Madal Bal Natural Tree Syrup is a safe and natural detox with no preservatives and no chemical processes. The Lemon Detox allows the body to cleanse itself naturally of accumulated toxins and helps the body to normalise its weight.

YES!

The body has miraculous powers to cleanse itself. Unfortunately much of what we eat today in the western world is useless and the numerous chemicals and toxins that have been introduced into the natural environment can find their ways into our bodies through the air we breathe and the water we drink. The Natural Tree Syrup & Lemon Detox lets the body cleanse itself naturally while you take a break from solid food.

YES!

Furthermore, apparently, people who have completed the detox programme frequently report a wide variety of benefits including…

• Cleansing the body of toxins

YES!

• Effective weight loss

YES!

• Increased vigour and vitality

YES!

• Better digestion

YES!

• Sounder sleep

YES!

• Better circulation

YES!

• Shiny hair and stronger nails

YES!

• Clear skin and eyes

YES!

• Greater resistance to illness

YES!

• Reduced dependence on supplements and drugs

YES!

• Fortified will-power and determination

YES GODDAMMIT!

• Improved concentration and clarity of thought

Er…. YES!

• Balanced emotions

Yes.

• Happier, more positive outlook

YES! ; )

• Sense of inner peace

And relax.

How absolutely wonderful does that sound?

It’s £37, which isn’t cheap, but for all those benefits it’s surely the bargain of the century.

I can’t help thinking there must be some sort of catch – like maybe falling down dead after 72 hours – but to hell with it, it’s got to be worth a shot. I’ve sent off for some, and I’m going to give it a go. I plan to do a week, which is the time recommended for a detox beginner. I’m very much looking forward to it. It’ll be like going on a retreat. Of course! My monky business! This fasting will be exactly what I need to tip me over the edge into a total religious fervour! I'll probably be speaking in tongues and all sorts by the end of the week. Fantastic. Benediction followed by superhot monk sex here I come!




The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee.

Cool.

Have a good weekend.

Putting My Money Where My Mouth Is #1: Online Dating

So. I’ve just signed up to an online dating site. I reckon this is a good, fairly easy first step on the road to hearts, flowers and rumpy pumpy. It would be all kinds of rash madness to dive straight into the deep end of, for example, a night of speed dating, and frankly, even the thought of it terrifies me. At least with online stuff, I can do it all from my study - or if it gets saucy - my bed.

I considered putting an actual picture of myself up on my profile. I considered it for a long time. But then I decided against it because it would be a bit like being at school, hoping to be picked to play football whilst sitting at the edge of the pitch in a wheelchair. So I put up an Elephant Man photo instead. Which is a bit like being at school, hoping to be picked to play football whilst sitting at the edge of the pitch dressed as the Elephant Man. In a wheelchair. I'm just not ready to put my face on the internet yet is all.

I’ve been pretty honest – brutally honest actually. Otherwise what’s the point? For example, when asked to describe myself, I wrote the following:

Last month I turned 30, and I decided it was high time that I sorted my life out. I decided to take positive steps to find the things I need. Or rather, the thing that I need. For I only really need one thing. All I need is love. Love, love, love. Love, and to lose some weight. 112 pounds to be precise. Those are the only two things I need. And to stop smoking. Love, lose weight, and stop smoking. Those are the only three… Oh, and I need to stop blaming my big fat ugly body for lack of success with women.

So that’s why I’m here. For the love part. But of course it has to be genuine. Which means in turn that I have to be genuine. Which is why I’m being honest about being hideously ugly, severely obese and seriously unhealthy. In other words: quite a catch.

What I do have going for me however, are the following:

* I have a good, steady, fairly well-paying job.
* That’s it.
* No, wait, I also have a sterling sense of humour, as you can see, and a beautiful, open heart.
* Plus, I’m fairly smart.
* Oh, and I dress well. And I have impeccable taste in all things.
* Finally, if I can find someone I can actually love, I believe I’ll do a better job than anyone else has ever done. Does that sound scary? Shit, it does, doesn’t it? I’ve come across as a proper psycho, and ugly to boot.

Ah well. There it is. Form an orderly queue.

I’m anticipating an awful lot of interest.

The only problem with the site is that you’re only allowed 400 characters to fill in your little boxes, and I accidentally wrote considerably more. Rather than just waste my words then, I’m going to put them here. This can be my second online dating page in fact. Why the hell not?

Religion:

I used to believe in God. Then I grew up. Now I prefer the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I even prefer the idea of total and utter nothingness. Meaninglessness. Maggots. However, if God does exist (against all the odds), then He is reading this, as well as my mind, therefore He knows full well what I want. So come on God, you old bugger. Let’s have it. Find me someone to love, and I’ll pretend to believe in you. I promise.


Disability:

Severe obesity and extreme ugliness. The former is my fault, I know, and I’m working on it. It’s not me glands. It’s me steak pies and Snickers bars. The ugliness however, is congenital and chronic, and although it’s not usually recognised as such, I genuinely believe it *is* a disability. Just not one that comes with any benefits.


Musical Instruments played:

I play the ukulele – the banjo ukulele if you will – the same one played by George Formby. Not literally the same one, but the same kind. I saw my first Formby film when I was around seven. I was spellbound and wanted to be him. What really amazed me was how he’d be in a situation with people deriding him, hating him because he was such a preposterous, unsightly fool – then he’d pull out his ukulele and within seconds he’d won everyone over. Men who were bullying him were now smiling wildly and slapping him on the back; women who were at best previously unaware of him, at worst openly hostile, were now fawning over him little girls over a puppy. I wanted that power. It would be another eight years however, before I managed to get my hands on a ukulele, and another four years to become proficient. It was only then that I realised that you should never, *never* base your life on a George Formby film.


Music Enjoyed:

If there were any justice in the world, I would be a gay man. Firstly – and correct me if I’m wrong – gay men will shag *anything*. My mate Eric for example – face like a puzzled tapir yet there’s not a week goes by when he doesn’t find someone new to have sex with him. He is built like a brick shithouse on Hampstead Heath though, which probably helps. My point being – if I were gay, I get the feeling I wouldn’t be quite so damnably lonely. But I’m probably wrong. Secondly, and this is where it becomes relevant, I love show tunes. The Sound of Music, Cabaret, Sweet Charity, West Side Story, Guys and Dolls. And I know this is the music of the sexually flimsy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I also like a lot of music from the 20s, 30s and 40s. And George Formby of course. Gotta love George. George Formby also has a huge gay following. Believe it or not. Oh, and I like West Life.

Just kidding.


Sports and exercise:

I’m a big man, but I’m out of shape. Horribly out of shape. In a word, I’m fat. In fact, I worked out my body mass index recently and I’m ashamed to report that I’m actually ‘severely obese’. But before you start sending me your salacious winks, you chubby chasers, you should know that these things are about to change. Although I haven’t done any exercise or sport since the early 90s, all this will change just as soon as my coccyx is better. For by the end of this year, my body will have become my temple, and I want you – yes, you! – to be first through the doors on worship day. (Friday.) And you don’t even have to take off your shoes. Although it would be the polite thing to do.


Animals and Pets:

I would like four or five dogs and four or five cats and a couple of horses and some goats. I would also like a large house with substantial land to keep them all, and until I get the latter, I’ll probably just settle for my devil-black cat Pablo, who sleeps on my neck and doesn’t care how fat or ugly I am. As long as I feed him. And let him sleep on my neck.


Interests and activities:

I’m something of a film buff. I watch at least four films a week, which probably seems like an awful lot to you. Two things are worth remembering though: 1) I don’t watch rubbish – I mean, it’s not as if I’m into martial arts or horror or porn (although if I’m honest I have on occasion watched all three, but rarely at the same time) – I like good films; 2) I have nothing better to do with my time. Which is where you come in, baby.

I also read, write and play the ukulele. Plus, I’m the best cook you will ever meet.


Newspapers and magazines:

A couple of times a month I read The Sun because it reminds me that no matter how depressing my life sometimes seems, at least I will never be Jon Gaunt. Or any other tunnel-visioned, self-centred xenophobe. I read everything else as and when it turns up. Plus I kind of collect unusual specialist magazines – the kind of thing that turns up as ‘this week’s guest publication’ in Have I Got News For You. I also read cookery magazines as I’m always on the lookout for recipes to modify slightly and pass off as my own for the couple of cookery columns I write for old ladies’ magazines.


Books:

Get stewed. Books are a load of crap. Not true of course. Just a little allusion for the poetry fans amongst you. But I don’t read as much as I should. I guess I prefer films. I do tend to read on holiday though. I like biographies. And funny novels.


Favourite Films:

I could probably list a couple of hundred films that I love, but that would be very tedious. So here’s ten: The Hunchback of Notre Dame, MASH, A Night At the Opera, Together, The Elephant Man, The Apartment, Mask, Secrets and Lies, It’s a Wonderful Life, This Is England.


Enjoyable evening out:

Loads and loads and loads and loads of dim sum followed by a film premiere in a swish Soho screening room with a woman I love. Oh, and she’s in love with me too. I’m fed up with all the unreciprocated stuff. I wrote the screenplay for the film we’re watching by the way, and when it ends, the whole audience jump to their feet and start cheering. But we can’t hear them because we’re too busy doing it.


Ideal Holiday:

Being a big fat bloke, activity holidays are impractical, but I like them nonetheless. In theory at least. So my ideal holiday would be one I take this time next year, when I am eight stone lighter and wildly in love. It’s something of a world tour wherein we visit 15, maybe 20 cities, smooching across Europe and Asia, maybe popping briefly into Australia before flying down to Rio, then up through the Americas. Lots of mountain climbing, water skiing and paragliding along the way. Then we might finish up with an Atlantic cruise, setting sail from New York, back to Blighty.

By then of course, I’ll be superfit and profoundly tanned, so despite having a face like a bag of elbows, I’ll be the happiest man alive.

I tell you what, let’s stop off in Barbados and get married. Yeah? Yeah, why not.


In another life:

This one is easy. In another life, I’d still be me, but I’d be so good-looking that women would look at me and would gasp from every orifice.

I know it’s superficial to go on about looks all the time, but until you’re properly ugly, you don’t really know how much it affects your life. And I’m sure being gorgeous brings its own set of problems, but yes, in another life, those are the problems that I would have.


Personality:

On the whole I’m a happy-go-lucky, laid back and funny kind of chap. I have opinions and wit and generosity and warmth. I’m imaginative, spontaneous, creative and… yeah, and so on. But also, I do get down. I get terribly lonely and sometimes quite depressed. To be honest I don’t know whether this is because I have so much love to give and no opportunity to give it, or because I’m actually deep down inside a rather miserable sod. I hope one day to find out.

So there it is. It’s on Love and Friends. UK internet dating for thinking people. Thinking people! That’s me! I think you have to be a member to look at profiles. If you are a member – no shame in that – look me up. I’m ‘elbows’. Cool huh?

And if anyone has any tips, any dating website optimisation tips, I would very much appreciate hearing them.

So. I guess now it’s just a matter of sitting back and waiting… Or should I be more pro-active?