Mirror Mirror on the wall, who is the most fucked up of them all?

"Mother versus Memory Foam"

This week I have had a headache because our bed is too comfy. I have wanted a soft mattress for ages and now I have one, my spine is dissolving into it.
Last night we watched ‘The Kids are All Right’. I wish I was gay and funny. But instead I’m bicurious and uptight.

It’s nice to know that everyone goes through the same shit (yes I like seeing other people in pain, it makes me feel better).

All relationships go through the same stages: the sexy honeymoon; the cooling off bit where sex gets less but comfort grows; then the long dry years where all your neuroses re-take hold and you start to be repulsed/angered/numbed by your other half because they remind you of yourself.

Julianne Moore has just stopped being lesbian and faithful and shagged her sperm donor:

“sometimes, you know, you’re together for so long, that you just… You stop seeing the other person. You just see weird projections of your own junk. Instead of talking to each other, you go off the rails and act grubby and make stupid choices…”

Esther has become a fairground mirror reflecting back my own shit scary junk. I nearly cheated on her because I thought being with someone else would make me feel good.

I don’t like fairgrounds or mirrors. I remember when Desperate Dan was once kicked out of a Funfair because he was too strong, and was winning all the prizes. On his way out, he ripped off the ‘F’ so it just said ‘UNFAIR’.


"I'm a little self righteous"

Last time I went to the fair, it was the pikeys that flock to Endcliffe Park every year. A rash of robberies and underage pregnancies follow in their wake. I went there and was persuaded to go on the Dodgems by a friend. I don’t like competitive rides, unless I am going to win.

As soon as we climbed into the cars, a horde of gypsie boys descended and filled up the other cars with expressions of gap-toothed relish. For the next half an hour, I was rammed, smashed, shunted and kettled by the feral children, while I tried to smile it off as my knees smashed again and again into the steering wheel of the kid-sized car. Finally it ended and I climbed off with shaky legs. The children of the corn had disappeared into their holes. I had bruises for a week.

‘Pike-strike’ they should call it; a flash mob of free swinging knobs, hammocked in the finest tracky bottoms their cousins could afford.

Oh well, it added to my hard-done-by martyr complex. I can feel justifiably angry because I am one of life’s victims. Hehe.

Dreams? Eat My Shorts

"Bollocks! Real life is gonna be rubbish after this!"

Dreams are complete dickheads. This morning I dreamt I was reunited with my bag, and I was marvelling at how everything was still there untouched. I felt frickin’ amazing, like when you can fly. That’s how much I love stuff.

I had to work at 9 for one hour (‘That’s not a job, that’s a hobby’), and then afterwards, I came home. Esther was still in bed.

“No!” she moaned, as I bounced in the doorway, invigorated by exercise, “I’ve only just got back to sleep. Go away!”

Resigning myself to either being bored or having a cheeky nap, I climbed in next to her.

The next thing I know, I was in Primark and was looking around for a nice cardy, when suddenly I could hear Rihanna singing on the next aisle. I couldn’t see her because the dressing gowns were in the way, but I knew it was her. She sounded amazing.

“WOW!” I though, I always miss these public appearances. She was singing ‘Love the Way You Lie’ but without Eminem. I was getting really into it, it was what people completely unlike me would call “Fierce”

But just as she was getting to the warbly bits that singers always do to ruin the song live, it went all wrong and out of tune, and I woke up and realised it was just a fat chav girl singing along to Primark.fm, and in fact I had fallen asleep standing up. Then I told Esther about it.

Then I woke up and told Esther about the dream and about telling her about it.

So not only was the dream annoying, the dream within the dream was a douchebag too. This wasn’t no 4 level Inception funhouse.

Yeah thanks a lot subconscious, you candy-snatching cretin.

"Ooh, your unconscious is schreckliche, baby"


"Dear Tracy, try harder next time. The sheets are still white for God's sake"

“I can smell dog poo” said Esther this morning as we sat in bed. She sniffs the air. “Oh no, I think it’s my breath”.

Me and Esther are rubbish at personal hygiene. Our bedclothes haven’t been changed in weeks. They’re full of biscuit and cake crumbs from months of elevensies and afternoon teas. We have had 2 duvets since it started to turn cold last September. The top duvet is covered in mud stains and hair from goldie.

We have been cultivating a comforting aroma of bums and feet. When I get a waft, it feels like home.

Every morning, Esther wakes up drenched in sweat. It must be the side-effect of her anti-depressants. She wakes up in a pool of cooling body fluid and has to reach out to the drawers next to the bed to grab one of my t shirts to replace hers with.

She always chooses my clothes, but I secretly love it. It’s kind of like a teenage fantasy: not only to have a girlfriend, but to have one who validates your existence by wearing your clothes. This fact separates her from the purely imaginary partners I desperately conjured into existence. Wearing my t shirt proves that she’s real.

Normally we sleep with at least one body part touching. Usually it’s a foot or hand or side of belly. However at some point Goldie climbs aboard and drives a big wedge between us, pushing our legs sideways off the bed.

Around the bed radiates a crumpled pile of clothes from nights out and workdays mixed with fresh washing that hasn’t been put away. The stink and stains gradually travels across to the clean stuff as we trample on it to and from the bed.

I‘ve always been astounded that people can be bothered to have a shower or bath EVERY day. I just wait until my smell stops being comforting and starts to smell like death.

"Esther, I can feel a poo coming out"

I have a problem at the moment: my bumhole stinks of rancid cheese. Every time I go to the toilet (and I ALWAYS sit down), I leave a cloud of off-milk aroma which I sadistically can’t wait for Esther to walk into unawares. I went to the doctors but I had showered the night before, and she couldn’t smell anything. She even inserted her gloved finger up my bumhole and sniffed it. After the initial shock, I quite enjoyed the feeling.

It is there, I’m sure. I think it is either Thrush or the fact that I was veggi for 15 years and now I’m a rampant carnivore. I might have to bottle the stench and make my doctor sniff it.

But what really stinks is the idea of COMMUNITY.

"Love and mutual understanding bring us together"

We were watching DIY SOS yesterday. We turned on halfway through, and it was about a boy who had been badly injured and his parents wanted to do up the house for him. It was meant to be a heartwarming tale of how a community pulls together in a time of crisis.

It made me seethe with rage and tremble with nausea.

The boy’s school friends had organised some faux-American school prom which raised 8 grand. Everyone had rallied together and done the Christian thing, thereby dispelling the pessimism of Thatcher: “there is no such thing as society”. What a rosy picture this is, like some Socialist Realism poster set in suburban Rotherham.

Reasons why I can’t stand this BS:

1. If it had been me in hospital during my school days, the only motivation to help me would have been when the bullies got bored of having no-one to harass and wanted their victim back. Freaks, geeks abd assorted weirdos do not become instantly popular in these situations. My parents used to say that come the revolution, our neighbours would trudge to our house first and hound us with pitchforks. On a similar note- “He was an angel” parents always blub when some shitty bully-boy dies prematurely. Like hell he was, he was a nasty little oik, and although he didn’t deserve to die, you make me sick with your retrospective beatification of a local cunt.

2. This vision of community did not include any non-white non-working class non-chavs. It seemed to say “Britain is still Great if you’re white in a blue collar”. This is the future dreamed up by Nick Griffin.  (It’s also the inverse of that imagined by Islamic fundamentalists). This steaming pile of semen is the so-called “Big Society” Cameron/Clegg want us to join.

3. What was more is that if you missed the start of the programme, they refused to explain what had happened to the boy for the rest of the show. I refuse to invest my emotions until I can get vicarious pleasure from knowing all the gory details. I’ve heard so many sob stories (reality TV is obsessed with rags to riches stories) that it takes some “cruel and unusual” affliction to make me feel anything. My heartstrings have snapped and can no longer be yanked. Like an adrenaline junkie, we seem to need more and more horror to feel the upset we should. Why else would Saw be onto it’s 45th film?

We are all sick fucks.