I shit you not!


Friday 27th 

Esther is convinced that the besieged President of Syria is actually the Lemur King of Madagascar. Every time he comes on TV she giggles, and even when the revolution reaches its climax and he faces a firing squad of rebels, she’ll still giggle and say “Zee Fooosa is coming”.

Saturday 28th

Jumble sale haul: one pair of black leather gloves; one mustard suit jacket; one blue marl Cotton Traders shirt; one 1960s copy of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, complete with 1980s Halifax Building Society bookmark on page 100.

"the brave new world of shoulderpads"

Experience gained: jumble sales require more than one free hand, and more logic than a hangover allows.

Observations:

(1) I am scared of Christians. As I waited in line for my decaff coffee at the jumble sale, I glanced sideways and noticed with horror a primary school wall full of  posters asking “WHAT DO YOU WANT TO THANK GOD FOR?”

I would have liked to have though it was meant in the sense of “Oh no, what did you have to go and do that for!?”, but sadly not. Each diligent tweenie had answered with the same unimaginative combo of parents, pets and Playstations. I have the same feeling for god botherers as I do for spiders- If I know one is in the same room as me, one of us has to leave.

(2) People are stupid. Like when you want to overtake someone and they do a big song and dance about stopping, oh so helpful, so you are forced to say thankyou despite the fact that you were about to just walk past them. Yeah, thanks for making life harder for both of us, and demanding that I congratulate you for the privilege. Fuck you and your feeble logic.

(3) Be careful what you wish for. Following last week’s revelations about my desire for animal molestation, I nearly got shat on by a heron. There I was stood in Endcliffe Park minding my own, when a gallon of shit rained down from the trees-

"It's raining hen?"

…and I looked up to see a feathery grey arse and an oversized beak 50 feet above me, the smug bastard. If only I had stood a bit to the side, I would have been showered in the stuff. Dammit, I always miss out.

"you pillock!"


Life isn’t a cabaret, it’s a panto


Thursday 19th Jan

I went to see my first panto today.

How have I lived thus far? Marx was looking in the wrong place for the plebs’ heroin stash- fuck God, I have found their opiate singing, dancing and making dirty jokes at the Liverpool Playhouse.

Relationship problems, cake addiction, and my accumulated belly-button fluff were all collected at the door, and I sat down to enjoy the penis jokes, transvestites and Alice Cooper covers unencumbered.

The audience were a motley crew of disabled children, saucy scouse grannies, and teenage boys. Cinders’ luck reversal was soundtracked by a strangle gargling that rose in pitch and speed as the visual gags reached their punchline; the funnier the gag, the more the the autistic child sounded like they were speaking in tongues. At other times, a child yelled

“REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND”

as if expecting life to conform to the functionality of Sky+.

When Buttons was visited by the Fairy Godmother during his darkest moment, as she snowed glitter down on his upturned face I had to suppress a skull-melting sob.

"Here's a time-lapse photo of me during the performance"

Friday 20th Jan

This week’s visits to the Megatron were relatively uneventful, apart from mocking the consultant’s traumatic hospitalisation. I hadn’t seen her for several weeks, instead being lead down to the machine by whichever 17 year old airhead was on the desk. Now, the ME suffering woman who had taken the ‘Before’ photos of my shedding head at the start of treatment had returned.

“Did you enjoy your extended..break?”

I said, not quite sure why she was away so reluctant to use the word holiday.

She grimaced.

“Not really. I collapsed and as I fell over, I broke my ribs. I was in hospital for 5 weeks”

“Oh lord!”

My dry delivery had made my unfortunate use of the word “break” accompanied by my grin seem sadistic and cruel. I tried to apologise, but she fed me to Megatron and disappeared.

It is strange to spend 12.5 minutes twice a week doing absolutely nothing. Normally I am so afraid of silence and boredom that I read, watch TV and play facebook scrabble simultaneously. I find it very hard to do nothing. Maybe I should try and meditate, I think. Hmm, have I ever tried tensing every muscle in my body?

Starting with curling my toes, I work my way upwards, clenching, flexing and straining from top to bottom. I don’t know how Chippendales do it, but I simply can’t clench my buttocks and work my thighs at the same time. After a few seconds of straining, I let go of everything and feel awash with calm. However, I didn’t think about how this might appear from the outside. The booth they have built to house Megatron has a door with no handle that refuses to stay closed, so anyone passing by could look in and see what looks like a man having a seizure under a weird machine.

Next, I try to empty every thought from my mind. But I seem to have a peanut butter jar for a brain because no matter how hard I try, I can’t scrape out the crusted on nutty thoughts from round the edges.

Finally time was up, and I re-emerged upstairs in the cloud forest of the salon, child beauticians looming out of a fog of atomised product and singed perms. Still no sign of hair, but at least I got a little exercise.

My exes are all different species. What of it?


Esther is an unrepentant dyslexic, among other things. So I was amazed when she obsessively got into online scrabble, seeing as how she is allergic to reading and refuses to look at books that don’t have pictures in them.

One has to be careful with Esther though; any encouragement is thrown back in your face as another example of you telling her what to do, and she digs her heels in like a petite stubborn mule even if it’s something as vital as eating or having a bath. So, I sat back and watched gleefully (carefully hiding my smirk when she looked round) as she clicked away for hours and was even winning against people who can read and spell.

Only later when I accidentally congratulated a win did she fire out her anti-literate strategy: “I can’t see words so I just shove letters together until it works”. Her game plan was trial and error, a steadfast refusal to write words.

Today I made a similar mistake; lording it over her is a sure fire way to feel her contrary wrath.

“I’ve just got a 33 pointer against you” I crowed, before realising I was being too gleefull “Oh no, you won’t want to play if I am winning all the time”
“You’re only winning because I’ve given up Scrabble. I’m bored of it” she says matter-of-factly,
“How dare you!” I say, outraged and deflated
“Well don’t you think it’s strange that we are evenly matched, then all of a sudden you are winning”

At these words something popped in me and turgid romance gushes out like a ruptured sewer;

“Oh yes, we are evenly matched aren’t we” I murmur, leaning over to kiss her cheek, “We’re perfect togeth- OW!”

My cooing is cut short because she has the soft flesh of my hand in her tiny vicious mouth and is chomping down hard.

“That’s just what Sid The Duck used to do to me!” I manage to gasp, remembering the scraps we had when I put the heavy ceramic food bowl into my family’s duck cage at night.

Every time without fail, his beak would find the fleshy bit joining thumb to hand, grip it in his vice-like protuberance and twist like a Chinese torturer. Finally, on one glorious day, I realised that if I made a fist I was immune, and would thrust my balled-up hand in his dickhead duck-face and mock him, “See how you like that, you water-repellant wazzock” etc.

Anyway, Esther, having released my digits, was indignant with my allusion;

“Don’t compare me to one of your…animals” she mutters darkly,

“My exes, you mean?” I say filling in Esther’s loss for words.

There was a time when I went around telling everyone (well, one loud-mouth ‘friend’) that I’d lost my cherry to a guinea-pig. The transformative power of this mythology means that I can no longer remember if it’s true or not. What happened that day when I’d lost my shirt, and the short-legged furry one was running amok on my clammy midriff? Only a regression therapist could tell me. And why do guinea pigs have such clearly-marked buttocks?

Anyway, the rough-housing I experienced at the hands of cute animals has moulded me. Apart from Sid The Duck, there was Flossy the angry spinster rabbit who added to my pre-school misery by nipping my ankles relentlessly as I tried to eat breakfast. In the end, I had to run into the living room and swaddle my feet before she set upon me. There was also Bert the even angrier  Netherland Dwarf rabbit who nipped regardless of anatomy, accompanied by a honked war cry that triggered cold sweats even when heard through a brick wall.

Perhaps my adult life has been about distancing myself from such domesticated danger; and yet I miss it. I have to work hard to make our current pets bite me- and sometimes I do.

Like all dogs, Goldie yawns when anxious, so I take this opportunity to shove my hand in , savouring the gentle clamping when she closes her mouth, and the confusion in her haunted eyes. The ultimate thrill however is getting Linda to nip the end of my nose. This only comes after a sustained campaign of scrunching her head and tickling her chin; at first she loves it then randomly the worm turns and she latches onto the nearest exposed flesh- my schnozzle usually. The agony and the ecstasy indeed.

It seems I have a fetish for domestic violence at the hands of pets- have I finally found a niche not served by the internet….?

Lisa’s Fuzzy Logic


Lisa came to tea tonight. Not out of choice, but because she was scared of being in the house, sober, when Dom’s BFF Geoff (or should we call him BFG? He is very tall) comes round later to feed them because their cupboards are bare. Before we set off back to ours to cook (shove everything in the oven), Lisa asks;

“Would it be weird if I brought my own plate”

“Of course it would. Why?” replied Esther suspiciously

“Because it’s the right size for my belly” she ‘explained’

It turns out that as part of her new diet, she is only eating things that will fit on a tiny plate she was given for Christmas. Her other new year resolutions have the same fuzzy logic. Esther and Lisa have decided to become artists. Last week Lisa proclaimed;

“Yesterday I started my journey through art…”

“Your what?”

“My journey through art. Well, I have started the book on Modern Art that Dom left in the toilet to read when he poos…”

“Of course that’s what you meant…”

Today I ask her how the journey is going;

“Oh that’s stopped now”.

It turns out that she was sat on the toilet reading when Dom shouted out in panic

“Your not reading that book again are you?!”

“Yes”

“Oh no…Don’t look at it- put it down NOW!!”

She thought maybe there was a dismembered whippet somewhere that he didn’t want her to see, then she realised that the page was covered with something sticky and brown. Nausea coursed through her,

 “Wh-what the hell is this stuff?”

“Erm…I sneezed on it. Don’t look at it!”

Thus began and ended her artistic education, at the whim of Dom’s emissions.

 

I’m not asking for much…


Week 1, 2012

Hello 2012, I’m viewing you from my phlegm-festooned bed where I have been holed up all week in a state of not-quite-well-enough-to-move. I’m also 872 pages into The Passage by Justin Cronin, a post-apocalyptic vampire story and I’m starting to forget who I am. Have I got ‘the virus’? It’s so long since I’ve been out of the house, or even opened the blinds, that everyone could be dead.

I’ve got end-stage cabin fever.

The edited lowlights of my week include:

Building some kind of wattle-and-daub structure on my bedside table using tissue and mucus. How colonial.

Spending quality time pinioned under my fat bastard cat

Talking like the transexual cab-driver from Royston Vasey.

Being so bored that I plan to write a sweet children’s story featuring guinea pigs to alert 3-6 year olds of the horrors of sexual infidelity. It’s going to be called “Weet-Weet and I will Come”.

God has seen it fit to Spotify my scalp. Each pulsating boil, when squeezed, makes me sing a range of genres from torch song to scat.

Listen to the little strumpets!

I seem to have become a figure of ridicule in this house. The other day Smee showed us a video of a poor boy whose video was ruined by his bully of a brother:

At first of all I laughed and then I realised that Esther and Smee were looking at me as if to say “That’s you that is”. Now every time I get justifiably annoyed they say;

“I can’t believe you’ve done this”

in a mocking voice. Some things just aren’t funny.

And now ever since I expressed my jealousy of a boy who was knocked off his bike by an antelope, they are bullying me about that.

They came home from the pub last night talking about rampant attacks by guinea-pigs and how I missed out.

I just want animals to touch me, any which way they do it is fine by me: a nibble, scratch, or lick will do.

It’s like a few autumns ago when Esther and Lisa kept getting hit by falling acorns, I did everything I could to make them fall on me but nothing happened. I shook the trees and threw sticks at them, but as with life in general, the more you want something the less chance you have of getting it.

Then finally my wish was granted and a corker lamped me on the top of my bonce. The feeling of elation lasted until a week later when Esther admitted that she’d done it when I wasn’t looking. I felt cheated.

As I write this, Smee is passed out downstairs and Esther has her hungover head shoved under the pillow. I’m the one who needs looking after- I can’t believe they’ve done this!