It’s My Birthday, I’ll Kill as Many as I Want To


Dream: Ninja from Die Antwoord was staying with us. He had to sleep in the same bed as me & Esther and it was really awk. He went home the next day when he realised we weren’t cool.

My buddy told me today I am a “big smily hippy” because I am like my fingerless gloves, which have big yellow smileys on.

I was outraged.

I’m dark and cynical and ultra-modern, I thought bitterly. She has taken my ironic references at smiley-face value. These smileys in fact reference the rave revival we had about 5 years ago, and the 90s revival we are still labouring beneath, I wanted to shout in her face.

But I just smiled at her. Like a hippy would.


Dear Connan Mockasin,

I wish my favourite weirdo pop stars would stop having an r&b makeover. First Ariel, now you. Surely you can show your love of Prince in other ways, like by pretending you are your own girlfriend or something? Works for me.




Sometimes I think that our genes change so much between generations that we are technically different species from our grandparents. I’ve heard of airing sheets (my Grandad even insists that his are ironed before he sleeps on them), but today Grandad told me that he likes to go shopping in the afternoon, “once the streets have aired a bit.”

I simply have no idea what this means.

I came back from work to find our brand new Smart TV switched off. This never happens.

Me (in a worried voice): “What’s going on?”
Esther: “The HD makes everyone look like they’re in the room, so I panicked and had to turn it off.”


Esther watches Murder She Wrote nearly every day. The best thing about it is the fact that it’s sponsored by Viking River Cruises. Their adverts are historical revisionism at its most glorious. Over-pensioned ex-CEOs sip Californian wine while cruising the banks of European cities in ships which are somehow meant to commensurate the spirit of raping, pillaging and  genocide with a peaceful, sozzled retirement.

The curse of the unfillable underpants: I read about a guy who proposed to his girlfriend on live TV, but she turned him down because his penis was too small. He’s now making a documentary about it.

I wonder if like how some women are said to be wives and others lover, some penises just aren’t husband material.

My Birthday (and, I suppose, Valentines Day)

I can’t decide what to wear to work. So I have a full blown tantrum about it as I’m about to leave. I march up and down the kitchen doing Jimmy Savile ululations and Heil Hitler salutes. I think I’ve got physical Tourettes.

I’m never sure if you’re meant to tell people when it’s your birthday. Yesterday, I didn’t tell my writing group, and today when Facebook had made them aware of it they acted shocked that I hadn’t told them.

I’m determined not to make that mistake again.

So every conversation I have today, I blurt it out right at the beginning, so there’s no confusion or accusations of subterfuge later.

I go to the reception at work to book a room out.

“It’s my birthday,” I say.

There’s a silence and the two receptionists look at each other. “Many happy returns. What do you want?”

“Erm, nothing expensive, some chocolate would do it.”

“No, I’m not going to get you a present. I meant what do you want help with.”

Esther agreed 2 weeks ago to come to see Her at the cinema today. When I get back from work, she has a face on her.

“I don’t want to go.”

“You said you would.”

“Why can’t we wait for it come out on video?”

“Because I want to see it now.”

After some hefty glowering, she negotiates.

“If you’re going to make me go, we’re not getting the bus, we’re getting a taxi.”

Once we’re there, she starts up again.

“Cinemas are dying. We could be sat in our cosy, warm bed watching a film instead of traipsing through the rain to sit with a load of strangers.”

“Oh shut up,” I say. Well, no I don’t actually, that would be scary.

We file in and go to get some food.

“It’s my birthday,” I say to my friend on the stand and he gives me free popcorn and choice of icecream. Indiscretion finally had a perk.

I’d forgotten how annoying cinema adverts are. “I wish I could mute them,” says Esther. We always do that at home. I’d almost forgotten they had sound. They’re like people- so much less effective when  gagged.

There are hardly any people in the cinema, but we still manage to be just in front of a couple who fill the quieter scenes with the mucus sounds of snogging. I’m sure I can feel the seats rocking too. I keep wondering how much is too much and is it morally right to stop a couple kissing on Valentines Day just because you aren’t?

In my old age I have become allergic to tweeness. There are moments in the film where I nearly go into anaphylactic shock but then I see one of the hideous/brilliant futuristic high-waisted trousers they’ve made Joaquin wear and I start to deflate. We’ll never wear those, I think, though I’d like to try.

Well, it looks like I won’t have to wait 50 years:

So here’s my A/W 2014 prediction, folks: hipsters tucking their beards into high waisted chinos.


I’ve got whiplash from my birthday tantrums. Tantrum Whiplash.

Did you know it was my birthday?