There’s Something Wrong with Esther…

"Damn right"

‘Esther’ thinks I have named her after the freaky murdering child-woman in The Orphan. I haven’t but when we watch it together, the similarities mount up:

  1. Born in 1976
  2. Practically a midget
  3. Old beyond her years
  4. Generally freaky and menacing
  5. Ageing under her makeup (her comment not mine…)

So it seems I have my own little dwarf psycho girlfriend. Luckily, I am too scared of her to ever stand up to her, so hopefully she won’t kill me off while she can still use me to get her things (makeup and takeaways).

When I was watching the film, I really wanted to have a sister like Esther. Unhinged, sadistic, Russian, Goth, a girl- all the things I wish I was. I’d love to go round just being intense and freaky, without having to pretend that I didn’t just desperately want everyone to love me. I wish I was a psychopath, but no, my parents did too good a job damn them. Instead I’m just a mild-mannered, empathetic soft-touch of a boy-man. I’m a meek little cleaner fish, servicing the jaws of a narky sharky and buffing up those teeth in the hope that I don’t make its jaws chomp down in anger. Pass me the scissors and I’ll cut off my balls- I’ve got no use for them.

"Why don't you understand preppy-chic?"

“I wish I was going to be castrated” says Lisa, “It must be lovely, getting packed off in a box without having to talk to anyone, going to have my balls chopped off”.
“Would you have a lobotomy if it would guarantee you the brain of an averagely mentally healthy person?” asks Esther.
“Above normal confidence?” qualifies Lisa, seriously considering it.
“No, normal”
“No” she decides. The a few seconds later “Oh, go on then”. Lisa goes silent as she she runs through the next few months of her lobotomised life. “But we would be different, we wouldn’t fancy our boyfriends or love our parents. We’d become mentally ill pretty fast. No, you might as well be dead”.

“What if the lobotomy made you look averagely attractive for your age?” asks Esther

“God no!” replies Lisa, “I’d only do it if it made me look 15!” She has definite ageing issues at the moment.

Esther thinks this through; “But you’d wonder why a 30 year old man was in the bed next to you!”

Paedophilic overtones aside, I still happen to believe that I am 15 inside, and I’ve spent 15 years trying to get out of this shitty body. It’s not that I’m young at heart, it’s more that I was crap at being a teenager and I want to go again. In fact, I refuse to grow up until I’ve acted like a brat and done all the things I think I should have done. The me inside is stuck with a torch and a toothpick, and when it flicks the light on, every inch of inner flesh has the words “IT’S NOT FAIR” scratched into it, in angry jagged little cuts. Get me the fuck out of this lumbering carcasse, and i will live out the impossible lives every Hollywood teen I’ve ever seen!

"The Me Inside Me"

On a lighter note, I was seduced last night. Esther was trying to get me to stop drinking and come home so she said:

“If you come home, I might have sex with you”

When my eyes glazed over again, she changed it to,

“Actually, I PLAN to have sex with you, so let’s go”

Truth be told, I am too far gone to those type of shenanigans, and I can only sit there like a deaf mute, watching people who can still walk and talk. But I don’t want to upset Esther, so I rouse myself and we cab it home.

As I go for a pre-sex wee on our ensuite loo, Esther attempts a strip tease next to the toilet. She lifts one leg up and slowly unzips her 90s block heel, before falling back against the wall. She’s not used to using her body for anything but snoozing and lifting teacups you see.

She tries again with her left foot, and the same thing happens, so instead she crawls off to bed where she can get by just lying there. So much for having things done to me- I have to do all the acrobatics (we’re talking acrobatics for people without any co-ordination or balance), and my body has only just forgiven me for going to the gym on Monday (yes, I know that’s nearly a week ago). Still at least my libido came gallumphing back and I got some.

One day, I will have the power of seduction. And I will sing this song:

"Like the shotgun need an outcome
I'm your prostitute, you gon get some"

The Rapture Rap

"I'll pencil it in"

I am really depressed that the world didn’t end. Not because I wanted to die, but because it just highlighted how shitty and mundane life really is. Of course the world wasn’t going to end- it just carried on exactly the same as any other day, the same drivel and dross. I sat in bed feeling like crap that Saturday evening.

I imagine it’s like what people who beat a terminal illness feel like- after the initial

“fuck me, I’m alive!”,

then comes the realisation-

“oh shit, if I’m not going to die, what the fuck am I going to do with my time??!!”

It’s like when you’ve got a work deadline and you tell yourself “I can’t have fun until I’ve done it, I haven’t got time for anything else”, once you have down it, you HAVE NO EXCUSE FOR NOT DOING STUFF! It’s like hell because all you want is a new deadline to stop you from tidying the house or washing your clothes or eating properly.

If I was an atheist living near the Bible belt in America, I would have opened up shop offering “a rapture experience” for Christians who want a Plan B when the world doesn’t end. I would lock them in a room and beat the holy shit out of them, then charge them their life savings to leave. They will receive a certificate saying “I fought the devil and won”, and a tshirt saying “Saved the world and all I got was this shitty top”.

"I'm gonna fracture your rapture"

Yesterday Lisa decided that she was so poor, she needed to sell clothes on Ebay, but having already sold everything she had to sell what was left: the weird, freaky and disgusting clothes no one would ever want. What followed was the most fucked up fashion show I’ve ever seen.

Dom was charged with the task of photographing the hideous outfits, and Lisa tried to disguise her identity by wearing a shiny red wig and hacking into the plastic curls to create some semblance of a style. I had to write down the outfits. Esther just had to sit there and not laugh.

Here are a few of the outfits we witnessed:

Red spandex leggings with baby pink granny cardigan

Stripy swimming costume with leather studded fingerless gloves

Stripy pirate long johns that seem to have a vagine, with a black and gold polo neck jumper

Esther muses “Imagine if we buy Look next week, and it says “Look at this girl’s amazing Ebay fashion” and there’s a double page spread of your outfits!”

Highly unlikely.

Dom and Lisa were spring cleaning my old laptop and stumbled across about 200 untitled audio files. They opened one up and heard my tuneless voice intoning

“I thought I was somebody

Turns out, I’m not”

“I’ve been ‘singing’ it all morning” said Lisa with excitement

“It sounded really profound when we first heard it” said Dom

I suddenly remembered that I had spent the Summer of 2009 skulking in the attic of our old house attempting to make music. I had a keyboard I found in a skip, a copy of Pro Tools and a microphone. While others have used these same ingredients to rewrite the rules of music, I used them to make aural manure.

"My single artwork. I still need a single"

As I played the list of tracks ranging from 2 seconds to 2 minutes, I became drenched in a cold sweat and thanked fuck that I had admitted defeat as a pop star. Esther finally admitted to me that I am “the worst singer in the world” and so I had a valid reason to jack it all in.

“We’re looking at pictures



Pictures are being looked at”

Went another snippet. And

“I’m going to sing till

I sound like me

I’m gonna sing till I sound like me






Repeated ad nauseum.

After a while, Dom said “It doesn’t sound profound anymore”

“I’ve been in the house too long” strained my voice on track number 199

“No shit” deadpanned Dom.

These files are the audio equivalent of projectile diarrhoea at the school prom, and I’m sure will be used against me should I ever achieve some modicum of fame.

Actually that’s a great excuse to give up all dreams of superstardom. Phew, I can relax now.

"I sentence your music to oblivion!"

Katy Perry ft. Gromy Gilpin “Rotherham Girls”

"I've even got better cotton buds than you"

I had a dream last night. We were staying round Katy Perry’s house. Russell was out flouncing around somewhere.

It was time to take a shower. Katy lead the way, avoiding the windows in case we were papped. Esther got in the first cubicle then me and Katy went in 2 next to each other. I did try to get some personal hygiene done, but what with Katy’s breasts and the fact that I only had bleach to wash with, it all got a bit too much. I ended up on my knees, scrabbling round for bubbles to lather with, and looking up at the buxom and fully lathered Katy, who threw her head back and laughed. How embarrassing. If I’d had a bar of imperial Leather, I’d have been able to stand proud.

When I woke up, I made a mental note to buy some more shampoo.

"The birds love me, it's nothing to do with the superglue on my clothes"

Every Wednesday, Esther and Lisa visit their Gromy (“Gran + Mummy” to make her sound younger) in Rotherham.

She has a budgie called Peter and a lovebird called Tay. Tay is a nervous wreck. Today Gromy made Esther and Lisa watch as she demonstrated all of Tay’s toys. She pointed each out in turn, and then went into a strange trance. She grabbed a toy and began pushing it into the cage. After a moment, she says;

“I love tormenting him with his toys” in a deep monotone, her hand thrusting the toy at the scared bird. Esther and Lisa had to bite their lips to stop from laughing hysterically. She sounded like one of the characters from Psychoville.

Gromy thinks she is brilliant with animals. She’s not. She sent her dog crazy by shouting at it as if it was a naughty grandchild. She treats pets as family members, who shouldn’t be acting like animals. When she talks to Tay, he quivers in fear until she goes away.

The girls are there to tidy her house. This involves:

  1. Hoovering up the skin flakes around the bed.
  2. Pretending to dust the ornaments. (“Shall I dust the teddy bears?” Lisa asks with a trembling voice).
  3. Going to the shop for her whisky and fags.

When they get back to safety of Lisa’s house, they huddle round a cup of tea and shudder. Lisa spends her evenings researching ways to avoid getting older. And snoozing.

“Apparently long faces are the worst for ageing” she intones in her ‘morbid newsreader’ voice.

“That’s a funny long face” says Esther to me, as I process Lisa’s doomful comment. I have to think for a moment whether or not I am pulling a face. Thankfully I am.

“You can shut up, you’ll be alright” snarls Lisa. “You’ve got a round face”

Having a long face is a curse. Imagine every time you hear a joke about a horse, you think it’s about you (Q: “Why the long face?” A: “Genetics”).

"Why the long face?"

Vienna and Esther go to Chester

"View through Teggs's hairy left nostril."

On Friday me and Esther traversed the Cheshire Plain to visit lifelong blood sister Govinda in Chester. We all got wasted on wine and had some good Govinda loving.

It was also a good opportunity to steal clothes from her vintage shop.

The train back was filled with odd characters.

There was the sour faced OAP couple who communicated in whistles and grunts, and sipped from bottles of Pepsi Max.
There were the genetically perfect couple who I couldn’t help staring at like good looking pieces of furniture. Shiny eggshell coloured SMEG fridges, or leather sofas the colour of aroused genitals. They were like the image of the ideal human couple that NASA sent up in their probe to search for other species- white, Western and symmetrical. He was the definition of strapping and handsome, with a chiselled face and bulging pecs. She had long never-been-cut hair and a perfect dimple on her chin, the kind of face that provokes an epidemic of staring onlookers.

"Excuse me, we are the perfect couple"

I point them out to Esther.

“I bet they’re really stupid” she says.

The boy’s phone rings and his ridiculously monosyllabic word-massacre makes her grin with triumph.

Every 5 minutes, a gaggle of pre-school sisters would toddle down the aisle. Once, the bravest one climbed up onto the seat overlooking the perfect couple.

“Come here and look at this boy” she ordered of her sisters.

“Get up on here and LOOK at him!” she demanded, as her sisters climbed up. They all stared in wonder at the scene below them before their concentration expired and they scrambled towards the wonder of the automatic door.

When the couple got off the train, Esther says:

“It’s not fair that they get to look like that. I bet they don’t use their looks to the full advantage?” the implication being that we would somehow rule the world if we were them. Assuming that if someone else’s strength is your weakness, therefore that your strength must be their weakness is the quickest and easiest way to restore your ego after a face-off with perfection. A whimpering illogical emotion gets replaced by the cold hard fist of logic.

The best overheard conversation of the day was an altercation between the conductor and some drunk football fans.

“If you haven’t got a ticket, it will cost you £16.20 from here to Sheffield” she warned.

“£16.20? Oh, I’m not paying that. No love, I’m sorry but that’s just stupid” he said, as if he had just seen the menu in a posh restaurant and decided to go elsewhere.

“So can I just check- are you refusing to pay?” she asks carefully, using official-speak for “you’re-in-trouble-boyo”, and dialling into her walkey-talkey

“Who are you ringing?” he asks

“The police. You’ll get arrested and given a £1000 fine.”

“Oh go on them love, I’ll pay it, but it’s not right.”

One of his friends chips in, “I bet the Jews didn’t have to pay on the train to Auschwitz did they?” he booms down the aisle.

“And they were going to DIE” he adds.

I can’t quite believe I’ve heard this.

“Let’s get the train to Sheffield-witz” he adds, as if dealing the final logical blow in the argument.

We get to Sheffield-witz and jump straight in a cab to Lisa’s, where have a cuppa and catch up on the gossip.

“Did you hear about that woman who was decaffeinated in tenerife?” asks Lisa.

"I'm more of a semi-decaf woman"

Just then a Chinook helicopter passes overhead.

“Do you remember when we went to that topless beach, and a chinook came over really low so they had a good ogle?” Esther asks Lisa, who nods.

“I bet we were gorgeous then” she adds wistfully. They have developed an obsession with signs of ageing. “I can’t believe we hated the way we looked when we were teenagers” they say, “I bet we looked amazing”

I feel grumpy because I actually was ugly as a teenager and I have the photos to prove it. “I bet those guys in the helicopter were really disappointed” I say, “heading to a topless beach and all they get is 2 sets of mini-titties. I bet they were gutted”. Ha, I think, I’m taking you down with me!

“Tits are tits” reminds Esther. “I bet they loved it”

"Fried Eggs"


"Wet n Wild"

Lisa “I’m trying to think of a porn film that would turn men off. Maybe a really emaciated old woman who is naked, and runs into a circle of men and wraps herself around one of their legs. But they’d probably just fuck her. Any woman can be sexualised. Even your grandmother would turn some men on.” I think about their Gromy for a moment, and shudder.
As long as there are holes in her body, men will put their willies in.
“The inside out woman?” says Esther?
“The downs syndrome transsexual” I postulate. It’s worse to go from a man to a woman than it is the other way round. Just think of the taxi driver in League of Gentlemen…

“Ah but disabled people are vulnerable, so that would be sexy. But what about those women to men transexuals who have their holes sealed up, and have their vaginal walls pulled into penis shape and grow beards and beer bellies?”

We need a test. I’ve heard about men being attached to a ‘strain-o-meter’ while forced to watch porn- suddenly they would be confronted by gay sex and their willy wouldn’t lie if they were turned on. I remember those Newtonmeters from school physics- some sort of pulley system?


Would I rather have sex with a genetic male who looks like a female, or a genetic female who looks like a male?

I’d just rather have sex, if that’s al the same to you Esther.

I think of the least sexual sexual thing. “The (human) egg with a face?” I suggest.
Esther snorts.

"Dip your soldier into my yoke"

Today’s argument is about David Hasslehoff. Lisa tells a story about how his first wife was obsessed with Michael Knight, his Knightrider character. When the series was terminated, she left him for a man actually called Michael Knight, and took the real KIT car with her. Gutted.

"The Hoff sex droid"

Then he got into sex and drugs and perms, before becoming some sort of icon of masculinity. A latter-day saint of rugged respect. But I refuse to believe that ‘The Hoff’ is an attractive man. He was chubby and gimlet eyed and stupid when he was young. Age has only emphasised those features. He isn’t effeminate and long-necked and goofy and swish like me- surely the measures of all real men?
“He’s manly and rugged” she states. “It’s about attractiveness not beauty” she adds when she sees my confused face.

Oh, are they different?

I get that feeling like the world has just expanded beyond all comprehension. A bit like zooming out from Google Earth. All my values and core beliefs-those bits that make me ‘me’- are suddenly simultaneously publicly embarrassed by their mothers.
“You’d prefer a real manly man, wouldn’t you” I ask Esther in jealousy.
She closes her eyes and goes motionless. What have I done?
“What are you doing?” I ask in trepidation.
Slowly she opens her eyes, a look of calm on her face.

“Destroying thoughts” she says.

Now I realise that I have seen this expression many times before and not realised what it meant. I have inadvertently witnessed intellectual genoside many times over.

Lisa Thinks Negatively. Therefore Lisa Does Not Exist.

Lisa “I keep finding knickers around the house that aren’t mine. But they’re nicer than mine so I put them on.”

This makes sense in her world.

“Whoever she is, I hope she brings more” she adds, having gone way past the jealous stage and onto the deep pragmatism of someone who the world just happens to.

"Why Have I Got Invisible Spunk On My Face"

Lisa tried to vote today, but some imposter had stolen her place. She waited around and eventually the ‘Presiding Officer’ came over and said “I can give you a Tended Vote. This means you can vote but your vote won’t be counted. We’ll just keep hold of it just in case”. Just in case what?
Lisa “I don’t mind as long as the other me voted for what I wanted”

The woman lets her vote, then looks at what she has ticked, before putting it in her pocket. Hmm.

"But My Car Is Invisible Too"

Next we go to the bank because Lisa has been locked out of her online bank. “Your pin has been entered incorrectly” it bleats back at her smugly. We look at each other. “Are we in a film?” Lisa asks suspiciously. Has someone stolen her identity? Does she no longer exist? This kind of stuff always seems to happen to Lisa. It’s like she was born the smallest sibling and was ignored and forgotten.about by her family, and the world is repeating this treatment over and over. But that just sounds paranoid. Turns out it was Dom’s card.
“What’s his card doing in my bed?” she says.
“Has he been having an affair with himself?” demands Esther. It is not entirely unbelievable.

"Love Is..."

Lisa is thinking of going back to university. The only problem is that all records of her having done A levels have been destroyed or lost, as she found out when she went to collect the certificates. She really ought to become a political activist- they would kill for her statistical invisibility. “Move through life, leave no trace” goes the saying. “A rolling stone gathers no moss”. I happen to love moss. Apparently if you put yoghurt on a stone, it grows. That’s something to look forward to. Anyway, being a free person with no state obligations isn’t so good when you actually want to be a viable member of society. It’s doing no good for Lisa’s inferiority complex.

The Glistening Pelt of Bin Laden

"Voulez vous allez a la Plage avec moi"

I spent Saturday night in the Washington, watching euphoric disco-kittens Glistening Pelt and riff poets Death Rays of Ardilla doing music stuff I wish I could do. I’d give my right arm to play guitar (with my my left arm?). I’d sacrifice my landlord to have a good singing voice. So Bill, if you’re reading this…

"sweet and creamy and uncommonly good"

Osama Bin Laden has been killed. I don’t know why anyone is getting excited; it’s like killing Robbie Williams- Take That will still carry on touring.

The news came at 4.30am. Cue drunken fools all over America, singing patriotic songs and pumping the air like jocks. For a so-called evil genius, Osama had a nice face. He looked like a Werther’s Original grandad.

The best thing about this news orgy is it has reminded me of the comedy of President Bush. “As I recall, there’s an old poster out West saying ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive'”.

It shouldn’t be too hard to recall, George, it’s in every single fucking Western ever. It is meant to be inappropriate for a head of state to show an emotion. They use words like “justice” when they mean “kick the shit out of”. Operation Son-of-a-Bitch has been going on for years now, and all the little yank foot soldiers have been given free license to act out their provincial aggression on foreigners.

"Who needs to read and write anyway?"

As my friend George informed me, you go straight into the army as an officer if you have a degree. I’m sure BSc Sport Science comes in really handy. All the so-called dumb school leavers are sent out to do the dirty work, sorry, to enact justice.

How do people release their anger?

  1. Dom sings about murdering bitches.
  2. Lisa is nice as pie till she gets drunk then she’s a devil woman.
  3. Esther, well she is just a vicious jaded cynic.

And me?I grind my teeth and try to stop myself grabbing strangers by the shoulders and shouting in their faces that they are judging me. I’m a crap psycho. I’m a walking time bomb but the clock has broken. I’m a lump of grump, a peevish slab of playdo pretending to be semtex.

Speaking of squishy things, I always get really hungry after I’ve had a poo. This really annoys Esther who claims it’s impossible. But I’m sure it makes room for more food, and I need to replace it. I’m off now to ransack the cupboards.

"The door policy is One In, One Out in my tummy"