Help I’m a Royalist…

"Get your filthy lips off me, you big eared bigot" "Oh, go and convert to islam, you bleeding heart whore"

I had a proper sleep in, and woke up at 12. Went downstairs to get breakfast and then realised with a start ‘Cripes, I’m missing the Royal Wedding!’

Hotfooted it back upstairs to our mega Sony TV (sponsorship please)- but I had missed the ‘I Dos’ and had to settle for the sickening pomp of the time-killing rest of the ceremony. I don’t want to look at choir boys and bored aristocratic tweenies- I want to see the secret back-room finger fumbles of Wills and Kate, their whispered ‘Can’t wait to get you homes’s.

"Is this what you want, you blood sucking plebs?"

Enough with this ‘Off with their heads’ mentality- it’s all empty posturing. Resurrecting the horror of the French Revolution is not cool or timely, it’s a false righteousness, a studenty beer-fuelled bravado. You may as well call for some Nazi showers to be installed in No. 10. Lovely.

I know how Willy feels. On New Year’s Eve I was told I was the spit of William. I am sure that I have some blue blood in me. I almost bought a Croquet set from Netto the other day. But there isn’t any grass in my garden. And it was bleedin’ £30.


These are 2 pretty young people thrust into lives of duty and seriousness. People will hate them for their privilege and symbolism, but it’s not their fault.

But why do they have to sing about his mum/her mother-in-law? Surely that’s off-putting? God Save Our Gracious Queen is a crap song and a sickly sentiment. Jerusalem, that’s a good ‘en, a nice foot tapping melody and some dark lyrics from William Blake, Pete Doherty’s Great Great Grandad . It’s the Europe’s Final Countdown of hymns.

He’s chosen a good ‘un. Beautiful, ambitious, conniving- she has the same personality as Posh Spice, but can deliver on her dreams. She is the Pauper Bride who used to plan her wedding aged 8. Fuck Katie Holmes and her ‘I used to have posters of Tom Cruise on my wall’. He’s a paedo and she is his child bride. Kate Middleton has come good. She has sold her beauty for a piece of blue iced cake.

I do agree that the older ones need to fade away now- ugly and awkward and unpopular. Prince Phillip has suffered from Foot-in-Mouth disease for his whole adult life and is surely a case for euthanasia.

The Royal Family are just as fucked up as us plebs: divorce, adultery, bigotry and baldness. They are an upper class Shameless and I love them for it.

I wish that every time I was kissed, people cheered. I wish I looked that hot in a dress. I wonder if Harry Wales and Philippa Middleton will fuck tonight, as their newly wedded siblings suffer brewers droop and stifled libido under the pressure of being so public? I bet they fucking will- he’s a dirty boy that Harold. Nazi uniforms, puffing delinquently on roll-ups, and glowering with red cheeked mischief. Just like everyone’s kid brother surely?

Now I’m going to go and style my hair like Wills in the hope that people will double take as I walk the streets.

"I'm keeping a lid on my male pattern baldness"

Here’s to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (what no Prince and Princess??). Young Love caught up in some ugly politics. Forget all that and giggle as Harry tells William what he’s missing as Kate glides up the aisle (though Esther reckons he’s saying “She shouldn’t be wearing white, should she bro”). Thrill as William mouths “you look beautiful” as Kate arrives at his side in her ridiculously sexy dress. You lucky bastards.

Oh no, Esther’s getting some ideas now. How can I top this??

"Back off bitches, he's mine"

Up the chocolate highway with Jesus

"I died for your skins"

My parents have sent us a Green and Blacks Easter Egg. My mum chose it because it is mega-thick and was the only chocolate egg that could survive Royal Mail intact. It got here safely, but as I was reading aloud the packaging’s claims about how difficult it was to crack, Esther grabbed the TV remote and with 3 heavy blows, she smashed a hole in it and was gorging herself on shards of inch thick chocolate.

We made short work of it. This was on Maundy Thursday.

Tesco has been pushing Easter eggs relentlessly since February and I hate this new policy: everyone buys them in while they’re cheap but never has the self-control to leave them alone, and they end up having to buy more.

“Every little helps” does it? Not if we’re talking puppy fat, you bastards. Have you ever noticed that all the offers are on the food with the nutritional value of a sugarmouse.

"Who you calling fat, you cake whore!"

Tesco is also responsible for my regular slavery to Esther (aka my only exercise).

At the bottom of our old hill, Esther used to complain that the only way she could keep up with me is if I carry all her bags. So, torn between a tediously slow journey or looking like a laden donkey, I choose the latter. I just hate waiting. And I like donkeys.
When we moved to our new house, I was downhearted to realise that we lived again at the top of a hill, although a smaller one this time.
Although Esther promised me that this hill wouldn’t be a problem, every time we round the corner she pretends her bags have become unbearable and then strides up with a cat-got-cream expression when I take them off her (every time). If I didn’t think it was so cute, I’d call her a chauvinist pig. Or a smug sugarmouse.

"So long, sucker"

On Easter Sunday, we were down at Lisa’s house (sitting in the same chairs we sit in every day, hollowing out what little padding they have until soon only our precise bottoms will fit into the dusty hollows)…

"Yep, this one's definitely mine..."

We were talking about the gangs of rampant men we had just seen on the dog walk: packs of check shirted, shiny shoed, gel-hardened men roaming the streets in search of cheap and slutty thrills.
Suddenly Lisa mused “It’s like Jesus. Everyone gets drunk and then finally on Sunday they are reborn and go walking the streets”.
Yes Lisa, just like Jesus.

Go Go Guilty Pleasures

"Yay! I've just won an all expenses paid, around the world Guilt Trip. I hope I get a tan"

When I wake up, I always turn to Esther and say “What have I got to feel bad about again?” I am suddenly flooded with unknown dread, as if the brief respite of sleep is always shattered by some terrible realisation that something terrible has happened, and it’s ALL MY FAULT!

This called Guilt. It is useful in some social situations e.g. when you have killed someone or punched a pregnant woman in the stomach.

However, it is not useful when it originates from something like ‘I acted like a normal person last night; how could I have been so stupid’, or ‘I spent too much money last night- I will never afford cakes again!’. This is a big old gnarly pearl grown up around some imaginary spec of dirt.

This kind of fake guilt needs to fuck the fuck off.

So I wake up and get this sinking feeling and because I only use my own brain in dire emergencies, I ask Esther for the source of my angst.

This angers her, and she says;
“You should feel really bad about feeling bad”
Which spins me out somewhat- oh lord it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy! Double jeopardy!


I let my befuddled mind wander to Disney’s Prince of Egypt on TV. Are they really singing this-
“pick up your twig boy,
you’re playing with the big boys now”?

I think being an adult is about wanting to run to mummy when things go wrong, only to have that song play like a fanfare in your mind: “it’s all your fault boy, you’re playing with the big boys now”.

"oh lord, I'm having a baby!"

Every time I look in the mirror, I have a Quantum Leap moment: who the fuck is that man there? I can’t believe I’m not the boy I feel (snigger).

The best thing about life is being silly. Being a big kid. Messing around. Making animal noises in the comfort of your own home; sniggering at single entendres; eating Midget Gems. And telling stupid jokes.

Last night, I had a joke-off with Stevie, Jonas, Dom and Jake. Stevie won by a country mile. And she dealt the mortal blow to our collective egos: “we should make sure we have at least one funny person with us next time”.

I get jokers block- the one liners I bug Esther with deserted me. Pissy pants.  Dammit, just give me a day or 2- I’ll be back…

"I'll be back- with a sense of humour"

Boredom, Rotherham and other places of interest

Today we had Lisa and Esther’s 2 nieces and 1 nephew around.

After about 30 mins, during which she held up her new mobile phone and played every nasty tinny 2-bit ibiza ringtone on it in our faces, the oldest niece Holly shouted

“I’m bored”

and again, when no-one responded

“I’m bored

On the third time, I overheard Lisa giving her some advice.

“Just think, you’ve got another 80 years of boredom left” she, going the way of brutal honesty rather than comforting misdirection.

However, it was doomed to failure because no child can ever imagine being old, while no adult can ever forget being a child. Our bittersweet ‘you’ll learn’ grumbles pass straight over their heads and only make us look jaded and cruel, like faded sunflowers using their big wrinkly faces to ruin the sun for smaller, more youthful and prettier sunflowers.

"Stop stealing my limelight, you bottle-blonde human bean"

We keep getting post for the previous tenants, a Dickensian couple named ‘Scragg’. Having a boyfriend called that is surely reason enough to demand at least a double-barrelled married name, if not a “I’ll keep mine as it is thanks” type post-feminist stance.

They were obviously highly functioning members of the bourgeoisie, who displayed their class guilt with ostentation. Most of the mail is from well-meaning charities. This week, the envelope demands “Send Someone a Cow“.

Lisa picks it up, and looks horrified. “I’d hate it if someone sent me a cow” she says.

“Mind you, you could have it butchered and sent back in pieces. But once you’d seen its face, it would be a different story…”

When I was making the guilt-ridden transition from fully paid-up veggi to pescatarian, before the inevitable lazy belly-flop into bloody meats of the world, I used to have one rule:

Never Eat anything with Legs.

This meant I avoided prawns and shrimps, and didn’t even glance at the higher invertebrates. Now I think my motto will be:

Don’t Eat it If You’ve Seen It’s Face (or Been Its Friend). 

"Gah! I can't do it!"

Every Wednesday, Esther and Lisa are driven, kicking and screaming internally, to visit their Gromy (Rotherham speak for ‘grandmother’). Their unofficial job is to dust and wipe every surface in her museum-clean house, while she watches over them, interjecting-

“You’ve missed that bit!”


“I don’t do it like that, I do it like this. But you can do it how you do it. But I don’t do it like that” before snatching your cleaning equipment of them and doing it herself.

and Lisa, being a youngest and unaware of mortal danger, might pipe up with “well, I want to do it like this…”

To which Gromy exhales “JESUS WEPT!” before she storms off to the kitchen.

"The messiah, he had a little cry-a"

Today I have been airing the varicose veins on the back of my calves. And disguising my bloated middle with an oversized “FILTH” by Irvine Welsh t-shirt stolen off my dad. It has just occurred to me that it is offensive to police officers. But I have worked out what to say should I be stopped, strip-searched and told off.

“I like the police right now”, I will say with the smug confidence of middle-class citizenship, “so if by the end of this conversation I no longer like you, it is your fault”. This will make them feel bad about using their strong-arm tactics on me.

Right, now time to make them come get me…

Stupid and Guilty as Sin. Nice clothes though.

I had this conversation with a fellow stalker in my dream last night:

Him “Who are you stalking?”
Me “My ex. Who are you stalking?”
Him “My mum”

"my level of humour"

My mum has just posted me Trev and Simon’s Stupid Book. Someone on BBC2’s poncey Late Review show might say they are the dada to vic and bob’s surrealism. One day they’ll reply to my letters.

The scariest thing is what someone has scrawled on the inside back cover…set 4 years in the future, it claims that Eric Cantona is a serial killer, and is written in the scrawly blue biro of a psychopath:

Hello, this is Crimewatch UK on the 25th January 1999. Now, do you remember a footballer called Eric Cantona? Yes, that’s right. He’s the one who murdered 11 people after being sent off in a match. Today is the 4th anniversary of that incident which took place when Crystal Palace played Manchester United at Selhurst park. We have made a reconstruction of what happened from the radio commentators Trevor Brooking and Mark Bright , who were two of Cantona’s victims. Listen to this and judge for yourself.

If you wrote it, get in touch.

Trev and Simon offer some timely tips too:

How to solve the problem of deforestation:

  1. Write to an MP
  2. Become an MP
  3. Become a tree

You know what, I’m fed up of feeling bad about the world’s problems.

Global Warming= my fault. If only I wasn’t vain enough to need hairspray, and if only I wasn’t too lazy to turn everything off at night.

Insects trapped on the bus= my fault. But recently I have become so apathetic that all I can do is watch the fly or bee hammer itself numbly against the glass, while feeling a dull sense of responsibility. It’s my fault coz I have noticed them and the only way they will get out alive is if I do something. I almost want to squash them to put them out of the hell of being trapped forever on a Stagecoach bus. But then I would have blood on my hands and would feel like a dirty killer.

Poverty= my fault. What else explains the guilt I feel when I see a Big Issue seller? It still doesn’t make me buy a magazine though. If they put more fashion in it and made it glossier, then I might consider it.

"I did actually buy this one. I was in my Gaga phase"

There are so many Big Issue sellers in Manchester that my grandad always gives me a copy he bought as a “a free pass” through the city- without it you will be asked over and over again to buy one. Once I get on the train, it goes straight in the bin.

I’ve written a song about this weird sense of middle-class guilt I feel all the time (having some upward mobility and the ability to read and write means I ought to really help out the ‘less fortunate’):

I bought me a big issue
Coz I feel so guilty
I smiled at the security guard
Coz I know his life is hard

Middle class guilt
It drives me wild
Middle class guilt
Coz im so mild

Third world poverty
Makes me come over all wobberly
Corruption and controversy
Oh lord I feel so bad
For all the Hot Wings ive had
Buddhist or eco warrior
That’s how to stop it botherin’ ya
The guilt is the gift that keeps on giving
It’s the delicious pain of western living

Middle class guilt
It drives me wild
Middle class guilt
Coz im so mild

I got bored halfway through and couldn’t be arsed to carry the lame joke any further. Still, I’ll settle for Top 20 in a faraway galaxy (where bad jokes are good ones). Just need Jedward’s home number to make it happen.

Lisa “it’s really annoying how you go for a partner because you want your kids to look nice. Dom’s got much better lips than me. But what use is that to me?”

Me “Esther, you didn’t choose me for that reason did you?”

Esther “yes I did actually. You were nice enough looking and you had good clothes”

I am mortified for some reason. So, I play devils advocate: “So I spose you go along looking at what’s available, thinking “I want THAT face bearing down on me in bed, and looking up at me from the a cot””

“That’s disgusting” says Esther. “But true”.

But we have decided we are not going to have children until we are mentally healthy enough to hack it (like that’s going to happen). For now, picking up Goldie’s poo and sick is enough. At least she won’t grow up and swear at us, or bring stray dogs back for orgies.

"I hate you shitface"

BAD as in BAD

"do you want a cup of tea? can I caress you?"

Arseholes, bastards, fucking cunts and pricks

This is what I was like in my dream. Everyone hated me because all I did was cuss all over the shop. Not like me at all. I was visiting some country mansion with a load of silver haired tourists.
In fact, the only person who liked me was this really cute young cleaner who worked for English Heritage. She followed me when I stormed out and we eloped.

But then as soon as she showed an interest, I stopped being an ice cold bad boy and became my usual room temp. self- needy and demanding: “you’re really beautiful”, “I love you”, and passion killer numero uno “do you really like me?”
I turned from a handsome, upright cactus into a saggy week old lettuce, pathetically dripping on the floor.

"place in a microwavable bowl for 2 mins before turning over. Serve with salad"

At least I’m not The Man with the Cold Meat Hands. Probably an urban myth, but I heard about this guy whose microwave had a hole in the door and for some reason he had to hold his food up through the hole while it was on. After a while, his hands started to feel funny, and he went to the doctors only to be told-
“You’ve cooked your hands. There’s nothing we can do”
Imagine having 2 cold dead lumps of meat where your hands should be. I imagine when you touch your own face it’s like being caressed by a dead man. It is the most disturbing thing I have ever heard, because it makes me realise that yes we are just lumps of flesh like the ones we fry and gobble down and that a simple cooking procedure would turn us from human to animal, from warm body to tepid meat.

Whenever I feel tired in the afternoon, Esther chirrups “you should be horizontal between the hours of 2 and 4 in the afternoon and 1 and 2 in the morning. This triggers the liver’s downtime”. This is the excuse she uses whenever there is a hard task to do after 2pm “I can’t, it’s liver down time”.

Apparently, Esther learned all her wisdom from Carol Kaplan, Cherie Blair’s “style guru”. Thanks Carol.

"Carol, I've stopped eating lemons, but I'm still not Queen"

Last night I couldn’t get to sleep because I was trying to work out a joke.

As Esther is dropping to sleep, I stifle a giggle but end up snorting with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she demands

“One guy overhears his friend on the phone.

He’s saying “three ohhh…ten, ten, ten…two fifteens…” in a breathy voice.

“What the hell are you doing?” the friend asks.

“Oh, my wife loves it when I talk thirty” he admits”

I can barely get the punchline out because I’m sniggering so much.

As I chortle away, Esther rolls her eyes.

“That’s not even funny” she says and turns over.

Summertime Grumps

Balls to summer.

Thanks to it, I no longer have a valid reason for not being out and about. I can’t complain about the weather and stay in, I am expected to expose my middle age spread to the neverending stream of pert, hairless and oiled bodies that flock like manicured shitflies down every inch of tarmac.

"100% genuine teenagers"

In the park today I saw 3 girls (as in ‘not legally women’) who were impossibly beautiful and the bastards made my heart and lungs momentarily fuck up. I am allergic to perfection, see.

Once I could breathe again,  I wanted to stamp my feet and shout “it’s not fair!”. I refuse to subscribe to that idea of beauty anymore. I watched the Model Agency and I thought: When I was the same age as those models I was a fucking moron- why should they be my ideal? Grow up, make some stupid mistakes, get some frown wrinkles and then I might respect you enough to want to be you. Down with youth- up with experience! I need to retrain my brain…

Otherwise my remaining 40 years on this earth are going to be crap.

What is the point of not being young? (note to self: I need to work this out before I go mad).

"Here's to the olds"

Having said that there was a sixth-former punk girl on the bus with orange hair, and she spent the whole journey rolling a fag in the most drawn-out, self conscious way possible. I find it heartwarming that young people still smoke- I thought they had died out and been replaced by sensible, gym membership, nice new clothes stepford youths who never put a foot wrong.

For the past 2 clammy days, a flab of students (their collective noun) has taken residence on the decking outside their house. They look like a Gaz, Baz, Daz and Tony to me. It is quite comforting to hear them whittering away inanely, doing what normal people do, while I lie here in bed in the middle of the day analysing them. But another part of me wants to run down and shout at them:

“Don’t you ever wonder who you are?! Don’t you ever doubt the you-ness of you?!”

Tony, Gaz and the boys would look at me with pity and cackle like hyenas as soon as I turned my backl. And so they should. I’m a fucking freak and I should be on a leash.

Yesterday I woke up and grimaced at the blue sky, and dragged my body to the walk-in wardrobe to work out what the hell could cover my elongated frame today. As I tried clothes on, I thought;

“No, that’s too scruffy”

and then a second later

“wait a minute- isn’t looking like a tramp good?”

Not having Esther there to reassure me, I had to eventually resort to exactly the same soiled outfit I had worn the day before. I need someone to spike my coffee with valium, dress me, and march me down to the busstop every morning. Any takers?

Speaking of which, here is my favourite song about busstops:

And I recommend this to anyone considering waiting for a northern bus:

“Avoid alighting on Ecclesall Road if you wear second-hand clothes”


Clit Lit Bit My Tits

Last night, I dreamed that Esther left the room and I quickly turned over the TV to a porn channel. It was some ‘lesbian’ sex (where 2 straight women pretend to do what men imagine gay women do). They sat facing each other, and slowly out of their shaved bits came a strange, elongated clitoris.
It looked rather like the ‘foot’ that mussels have:

"Ooh baby"

It was also like when you squeeze a blackhead, and the puss spirals out and out of your pore without ending or breaking.

As I watched, it felt its way around, and then began to nuzzle the flaps of the other woman, like a miniature leech or parasite, looking for a way in.

It wasn’t sexy. It was more like a nature programme. It was wild. In ‘The Kids are Alright’, the mums get caught watching gay porn because they can tell that the women in ‘lesbian’ porn are straight, and it’s a turn-off. And because cocks are ‘external’ so you know when men are actually aroused.

In my dream, the clitoris had turned into a mini-penis. And their vaginas looked more like seafood.

"wet and wild"

Because the clit is so small, I think the cock stands in for the arousal of both men and women: if a big donkey-dick gets long and hard and goes in and out of the seafood, they must both be having pleasure (we think). But 2 women together- all they can do is ram their bits together surely, where is the pleasure in that huh? We can’t imagine non-penetrative pleasure.

(And men are incapable of telling a faked orgasm. Am Dram starts in the bedroom…)

2 days ago, I dreamed that Catherine from CSI was made up of 2 parts:

"Dang it, my lower part as gone and dropped off again"

A torso and legs. She could lift her top part off, and only then were her genitals visible. They looked like a wound on her soft stump. And then, to stop me from looking, she put her top half on again.

Porn has traumatised me. I never wanted to see so much and so graphically what is best left to the imagination. Our privates are designed for function, not form, but porno insists on ultra close ups of sweating holes as if the closer the camera gets, the more it turns us on. I don’t want to disappear up a japs eye/uterus. I don’t even want to see the ins and outs. I want, if anything, to be seduced by haf visible curves, to fall in love with a body bit by bit. I want to LIVE this song:

Camp as you like

"at night, Katy Perry is replaced by a normal woman"

“It’s horrible what people do when they think that no-one’s looking. It’s perverted” says Lisa. She is talking about the circus elephant who was beaten with a metal bar by its trainer. I can’t stop thinking about what I get up to, alone, with baited breath, in the witching hours. Actually, I am usually hauling my slug like body out of bed the few feet it takes to reach our en suite toilet for a wee. And then back to bed to squeeze my legs down the bed past the dog’s slumbering mass. Perverted, huh.

Lisa’s fact of the week: “It’s terrible what used to happen to prostitutes. They’d get diseases that made their faces turn black and bits drop off. It didn’t stop the men calling though”.


I just heard a serial killer’s poem on the news:

“Poor old Melissa

Chopped her up in bits”

Apparently John Sweeney used to get stoned off his gourd and write poetry and paint pictures all about maiming his lovers. He called himself “a manimal – twisted, confused, and very dysfunctional”

“A search of premises connected to him yielded two sawn-off shotguns, a Luger pistol, a bamboo garrotte and a hoard of more than 300 vividly violent drawings and poems depicting bloody attacks on female victims and police.

One drawing entitled The Scalp Hunter showed a female skull hanging from a belt and an axe. A poem written on the back of a scratchcard read: “Poor old Melissa, chopped her up in bits, food to feed the fish, Amsterdam was the pits.” Removing correction fluid from a drawing, police revealed a gravestone with “RIP Melissa Halstod born 12th December 56. Died – “.

So what are we to make of the creative output of monsters? Hitler’s watercolours (and Prince Charles’s come to think of it); Charles Manson’s songs; Fred West’s tea cosies?

We can’t help thinking ‘the hand that did this did that‘ and imagining all kinds of bad shit. Vicarious living, that’s called. It’s what we do because life is too safe and controlled. We are bored of our creature comforts: secretly we want to pull the stuffing out of our leather sofas so the unfinished wood snarls at our thighs, we want to smash the TV and stick our shaky fists into the smouldering box. Well, I do anyway.

If that sounds like fun, may I recommend the Black Bloc, a jolly society for bored young people who want to smash the shops that decline their credit cards.

"Down with colourful clothing"

Lisa had a dream that Devo could talk. She said “Devo, what are you thinking?”

He cocked his head to one side and mimicked her back “Devo, what are you thinking?” in a freaky ‘I am your superior’ bitchy voice. She woke up with a cold sweat.

What would stick insects sound like if they could talk? Exactly like Woody Allen, I bet.

"Run for your lives!"

This 5 a day thing is getting me down. I’m so far behind, I will never catch up. It’s like failing a school test every day for the rest of your life. It eats away at my esteem. I feel like a fruit fool, a legume loser.

I am now on a diet. This means I eat fruit and watch my calories and you can find me looking miserably at cakes, and blanking chocolate bars as if I never knew them.

Low moments in my self image no. 1:

When Esther’s parents said I remind them of Frank in Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em. Here he is:

"Ooh Betty"

On top of this, my tutor suggested the other week that I look into ‘camp’.


I should have said “I do- Every time I look in the mirror, darling” and swished my minimal hair. I’m in good company…