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!

 

 

Boring and Ugly Crimbo Special: 1st Anniversary!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


22nd December

I’m not sure I’m getting the point of The News. I’m sure it’s meant to be sad and gritty, but all I can think about is clothes and how good people look when they die young.

The Stephen Lawrence enquiry has revealed some great 90s clothes collected as evidence. With a 90s revival nearing the end, I am still in love with the clothes I would have been wearing back then had I been cool.

What an outfit! Jazzy jacket, sparkly cardi, pink polo shirt and high waisted acid-wash jeans. When I look round today and see all these draw-string grey tracky bottoms, v neck t shirts and silly bobble hats, I despair. Think about it people- do you really want to die dressed head-to-toe in Primark?

 

24th December

A relationship is a relay team, and each couple passes on their own make of baton. Ours is misery and irritation. All last night and this morning, Esther has had the full blown grumps.

“What’s the point? Christmas day is just like any other- we’ll get up, eat till we’re sick, walk the dogs, watch TV and go to sleep”

The thing is, when I think about it, that’s true. Coz Esther doesn’t work, this isn’t a holiday or a treat for her. It’s just another day.I cling onto hope when Weasel and Kung Fu, Esther’s parents, ring up and invite us for coffee.

Surely she won’t dare ruin their day too?

Of course she will- that’s her sacred role in the sisterhood.

We go for Eggnog Lattes in Starbucks with them and Lisa. Weasel has promised to buy a winter hat for Esther. She gets out the brochure for her to choose from.

Weasel- “Choose your top 4 from here”

“I don’t want one” she petulates (this should be a word- I’ve written it, so now it is)

A look of weary resignation flits across Weasels face. Lisa rolls her eyes.

“Give it here then” Esther chides, snatching the leaflet from Kung Fu’s hand, and without seeming to look, scrawls numbers next to  pictures.

“You didn’t even look at that!” says Lisa in horror

“Yes I did; white’s the best colour, so I chose the whitest then numbered down from there”.

We are clearly dealing with a genius here, for whom simple tasks like this are odious and best treated with contempt. She is Big Bang Theory’s Sheldon in foreshortened female form.

"Whosoever invented this should be flayed alive!"

Well you know what, now it’s time for my go with the bastard baton. It always changes from red to green in my hand though- from misanthropy to jealousy when passed from a middle to an only child. a week ago we paid £15 for the runtiest tree we could find. It leans over drunkenly like my erection.

Now, on Christmas Eve, the trees that were for sale at the bottom of our road have been abandoned. Lisa and Dom can take their pick, and choose one 3 times the size of ours, for free! In what universe are the poor allowed to triumph over the rich with such smugness? What’s the point of having ostentatious spending, if other people are going to get the same stuff for free??

I know I should be thinking “It warms the cockles of my heart to see the Tiny Tim’s of the world smiling”

But instead it’s “I want a tree that big! Maybe I should have two trees, then I’ll win!” Winning in my mind is a vague concept, something to do with the unhindered accumulation of stuff. I guess it comes from the entitlement of being the golden child backed into a corner by a real world full of grasping hands.

Suffice to say, when we both got home we had snapped the baton in half and carved each others faces with it.

Esther- “I’m not going to wrap your presents…”

Me- “Why not?”

Esther- “Coz I hate wrapping presents. I can’t be bothered”

Me- “Well, we can put them in plastic bags at least…?”

Esther- “I can do what I like. You can do what you like”

She stomps upstairs for a snooze.

“Don’t go to sleep” I call after her plaintively

“Why not?”

“Erm, because we can go and watch Christmas TV…?”

“I’m bored of TV”

“We can…tidy up?”

This isn’t going to work. She grunts and disappears. Why can’t I think of anything to do anymore? My excitement is draining away. What’s the point of anything?

I trudge upstairs to bed.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Boring, Ugly and Ill as Sin


DEC 26th


Ugh. So ill today, like I’ve been drinking STRYCHNINE. My stomach is bruised. One nostril whistles like an icy cave on a mountaintop.
Esther goes to do family things, and I stay in bed. “Have you got money on your phone so I can text you and say ‘Baby, what are you doing now?’” I ask.
“Hmm” she replies. As well as being rubbish at Public Displays of Affection (PDAs), she is incapable of Text Affection (TAs).
I think ‘right, now I am going to find some real porn. This will cheer me up’. Halfway through a shower scene I feel really sick and have to go to sleep. The sound of sticky balls slapping against bumcheeks haunts my dreams, like some feverish jungle drumbeat that goes faster and faster as I am burned alive.

"Please can we at least hold hands?"

Esther goes to her parents for a family meal. After a couple of hours, she texts saying, “This is horrible. I want to come home”. This is as near to a TA as I’m likely to get, but I must not get excited. I text her back some alibi “I feel poorly and I need you to come back”.
An hour later, she’s back. “Jesus” she says, letting out air, “That was like being with the Royle family, only it’s not as fun if you’re actually there.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Mum went crazy because she couldn’t find the special spoon she’d got to serve the trifle. She screamed ‘I can’t have any lovely trifle if I don’t have that knife’ and couldn’t be consoled”. Time to leave.

"I don't know what you're smiling at, you've just ruined pudding!"

I’ve just finished All Families Are Psychotic by Douglas Coupland. I don’t think I want to read anything by him ever again because he depresses the shit out of me. If you can’t be American, rich and happy, there’s no hope for any of us.

A sample:
Wade thought about his father. What would the world have to offer Ted Drummond, and the men like him, a man whose usefulness to the culture had vanished somewhere around the time of Windows 95?

Slit my wrists now please.

And:
I believed the script I was handed. And then one day in the early 1980s I hit a red light in North Vancouver and ding! I understood that I was now forever in life’s minus columns and the plus column was over.

The only thing that makes me carry on reading is because it sounds exotic to a lower middle class British suburbanite like me.

Hmm let’s see what would happen if we transported it to, let’s say, Rotherham or Stoke on Trent. Here’s how the novel starts:

Janet opened her eyes. – Florida’s prehistoric glare dazzled outside the motel window. A dog barked; a car honked; a man was singing a snatch of Spanish song. She absentmindedly touched the scar from the bullet wound beneath her left rib cage.

Here’s the grime remix:

Tracey opened her eyes- South Yorkshire’s grey smog hung thickly outside the dirty double-glazed window of the Sally Army hostel. A dog yelped as its Big Issue vendor owner kicked it; a car revved and ‘music’ that made her bowels move penetrated the room; a crazy man was shouting the names of God’s favourite meals. She absentmindedly touched the half-eaten scab from the Tenants Super can slash beneath her third belly fold.

I have been floored by this LIVE AID ’85 documentary
I am actually crying now because I miss the optimism of Bob Geldof, who really believed that he could change something about the world with some bands.
Why can it never be recreated? Because we no longer have the optimism. We have gone from a ‘WE’ decade to a ‘WHO AM I’ epoch, a ‘WHY?’ era.

The Darkness, Jamelia, Dido, Travis and Ms Dynamite. They sure knew how to pick ’em for posterity!

Note to self: It’s one of the Mysteries of the World, Rowan Atkinson’s transformation from sexy bastard as Black Adder to sexless geek Mr Bean. Perhaps I too can go from the latter to the former?

We take poverty, disease and misery for granted. We have become ‘compassion fatigued’, brought up by the generation that had the last sense of purpose: a viable future. Our inheritance is apathy. There’s bad shit out there, but we can’t do owt about it. May as well get fucked.

I feel cheated. Did I ever believe in anything?
I used to love animals- but only to collect books about them like a colonial hoarder.
I used to believe in vegetarianism, and I was brought up to feel deep empathy for animals, our house was full of them. But I don’t feel that anymore. I can stuff my face with meat with only a tinge of guilt, not enough to put me off.

I feel love for every single band that sang at live aid. Such decadent faith and belief would be instantly cut down by the bitter chavs of cynicism now.
Fundraising has been hijacked- the ‘Live Aid effect’ is one of many styles available to ad companies to flog iPads or car insurance or Nokia phones.
People cared about the Falklands War, about the first Iraq War, about the future, about other people. Now we don’t give a flying fuck. We’ve still got some people who act all earnest- socialists and feminists and Tories. But underneath, everyone is status-driven but blank, vacant, inert like some suavely-jacketed potato. Bollocks.

The only answer is to refuse to answer, to say ‘no comment’.

80s pop is life affirming. Noughties pop is bitter, angry and botoxed.
Compare:

With:

One’s fun to look at and fun to hear, the other is kind of traumatic to watch, (though) fun on the ear. The cartoon shizzle injects some black humour into a prison-rape-murder movie. Don’t girls just wanna have good clean fun no more?

Right.

I’ve just taken 2 ibuprofen and 2 paracetamol now, so the wet cheeked inelegant gushing part of my illness should soon subside, and I will be able to feel no sadness or joy. I will become how I am at my natural state. Merely existing.

As I try to sleep, I can hear the pets snoring (Linda a high pitched nasal snort, Goldie an almost human ‘pufff’). I can hear Esther letting out long breaths of pent up worry.
I am left with the memory of 2 things from today in this darkened room. The sight of a skinny teenage boy with an unusually large and girthy cock, fucking a teenage girl in a shower where the water isn’t running. She looks like she’s sat on an uncomfortable fence waiting for the bus. I think I lost a bit of my soul watching it. The balls go ‘slap, slap, slap-slap, slap-slap, slap, slap’ against her arse and the camera zooms round from a balls-eye-view to a front view of this girl who is kind of unsure where to look. ‘Right’ she seems to think, ‘I’d better make out that I’m really enjoying this’ and she does the whole eyes closed, gasp routine. I get bored and fast forward the video-suddenly they are out of the shower, sat on the toilet and his huge cock seems no nearer to coming. Jesus. Why choose this location? It’s like fucking in a bus shelter or a bank queue- and all I can think is ‘why isn’t the shower on?’ and ‘Does straddling the toilet make either of them need a poo?’ These are non-places (Auge)- they look the same everywhere you go, they are purely functional, where we spend most of our time, but where we spend the least time personalising.
The sound of slapping testicles mixes in my head with the slow-mo footage of starving Ethiopian babies, their stomachs swollen in the ridiculous illusion of obesity, and their tear stained faces covered in dirt and flies. “Give me your money,” shouts a dishevelled Bob Geldof, slamming his hand down on the table.
Slap slap slap. Should I groan now? Ok, ‘aaah’ ‘oooh’. “Fuck this, pick up the phone now and give me your money” Bob growls.
I want to cry for the loss of innocence in both films- the faces in front of the cameras look strangely confused, as if asked to perform something embarrassing in front of a stranger.
What would Bob Geldof be like in bed? An angry young man, pummelling away until he’s satisfied, cursing you as a capitalist whore? Paula Yates could have told us.

"Wouldn't you like to know"

Not a Cure for insomnia: turned the TV on to watch Medium- about a woman who every time her heads hits the pillow is transported to some psycho’s head and has to save someone from certain death. A walking advert for staying up all night. We may all want to be good Samaritans, but if we were forced into the role permanently, we’d go apeshit in a short while.
The 80s had Miami Vice- the Noughties had Misfits. Is one more honest or truthful than the other? Was Miami Vice escapist fluff, and Misfits (and Inbetweeners) is the gritty, shitty truth of our times? Are they merely signs that we’ve plummeted from a time of sexy optimism to one of bitchy pessimism and sarcasm? Or that feminism and identity politics have deflated the masculine ego in culture, and it’s no longer believable to be so happy and full of yourself? Life is shit and you’re a chauvinist pig if you don’t think so?

The pain is lifting like steam from piss…

 

Answers on a stolen postcard please, I’m currently indisposed.

 

Delete as appropriate: Boring and/or Ugly 11


Dec 22nd

Another nookie-less night. In the morning, Esther says, “I was horny last night from watching The Walking Dead. But then you showed me your bum boil.”
I ignored the necrophiliac overtones, and just thought ‘Goddammit’. It’s really sore you see, and I wanted a second opinion ‘Does it look normal? Is it cancer?’ The window for sex was slammed shut in my face. Can we play doctors and nurses?

We trudge down to Lisa’s. She is flustered. Just before we arrived, Dom was in the bath and Lisa had just picked her spots in the formation of

(1) a unibrow,

(2) a beard, and

(3) a moustache.

Quite fetching, don't you think?

Then Dom’s manager, Barry, knocked on the door. Lisa had to answer with her bright pink facial hair, let him in and make a cuppa. Then she scurried back upstairs.

Xmas shopping for the insane: Lisa and Esther’s grandma wants them to buy her some ‘Round-to-its’. Apparently they are plates that you buy when someone says ‘I just haven’t got around to it’. So far, the search has come up blank. Whoever gets this prezzie is going to be thrilled.

Esther cut my hair last night. Now I look like a gay US marine. Every time I take my hat off, it’s to the internal soundtrack of ‘he’s in the army now’, serenaded by Muscle Marys descending from helicopters into the arms of winking Naval officers with pert salutes.

Devo has started to demand Lisa to vacate his favourite chair next to the radiator. He goes up to her, and walks in a circle and sits down. First of all, she got up to let him out. No, he was still there. He had climbed on her chair and made himself comfy. She pushed him off and he did his dance again. She stood up to get him some food and he hopped up again, curling into a tight ball. “He wants my bloody chair!” she realized. It’s the best, warmest seat in the house, and if you get up from it, it’s gone.

We popped into NatWest today to ask why I’m not a millionaire yet. Esther had a rare glimpse of belongingness in the bank while she waited for me with Goldie. A downs syndrome woman came over and grinned ‘it’s a doggy’ ‘She’s a bit shy’ replied Esther. ‘She’s a bit shy’ echoed the woman, and giggled. If only all conversations were this easy, then I’d be able to socialize properly.

Dec 24th


It just said on the news that to combat snow, trains will be fitted with skirts, which they can blow warm air underneath. This sounds like some middle-aged CEO’s dirty dream to me. How kitsch. It’s the last remnant of a faded masculinity that was happy with a flash of knickers. Today’s bloke demands hi-def tits n ass as the *bare* minimum.

Risque circa 1962

The girls go to collect the turkey for Roney’s butchers. It’s massive. It won’t fit in the freezer, so they try to put it out in the garden in a big plastic box. You don’t need a freezer in this weather. “But what if someone nicks it?” says Esther. “Let’s put it in the shed!” Weasel and Kung Fu (their names in babyspeak) are Esther and Lisa’s parents. They stride purposefully into the garden, parent mode turned up to 11.
“No!” shouts Lisa, “There’s dogshit everywhere out there, watch your step!”
The main problem with dogs you see is that every morning without fail, they need to be let out into the garden to empty their bowels. 365 days a year. That’s a lot of shit, and the longer you leave it to pick up, the more daunting it becomes. Surely something will eat it all? Nope. It sits there forever. Nature is wank.
“Well I can tell Devo is getting all the right minerals,” says Weasel, studying the rancid piles.
Esther’s family are natural physical comedians. I would pay to watch them. The simplest things take on Kafkaesque complexity.

“The door’s frozen shut” says Esther, “Let’s prize it open.” She puts her boot on the wall and pulls. Only after a second pair of hands join in does it finally jar open.

“Right, now we need some bricks to put on the box” shouts Esther.
“Ok”, then the frustrated sound of straining muscles happens. “Gnnnnng!” Weasel groans, her teeth clenched in effort.

The best example of anyone ever making this noise is Arnie in Total Recall when he get’s sucked out onto the surface of Mars and his eyes pop out…

The teeth-clenched straining echoes down the terrace. “The bricks are frozen to the ground” she shouts and laughs in an out-of-control way. They are starting to get hysterical.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” says Weasel, once the turkey has been defeated. “Yes. Commit me” answers Lisa.
Her mum heads upstairs to go to the toilet “Don’t let Devo up your bottom” yells Lisa after her.

Boring and Ugly 10


Dec 17th

Esther spies the letter to Marina over my shoulder. “That’s shit” she scowls. She’s just jealous. At least my letter isn’t to Bob Mortimer like hers would be. She used to think she’d bump into him on the street when she lived in London, and they would fall instantly in love.

"Ooh look, there's a big issue in there"

We get to Lisa’a and find a Big Issue on the table. “You two can’t afford to buy the Big Issue can you?” I say incredulously. However, the latest issue of Look or ID often finds its way here. Priorities you see.
“It’s not ours, we don’t know where it came from”. Says Lisa with confusion. “It’s like god thinks we need it or something”.

Esther and Lisa were shopping in Rotherham Tesco for their grandma.

Esther has to go to the loo, and as she sits down in the cubicle, she hears two women talking rapidly in Urdu (or something).
Suddenly an angry Rotherham woman’s voice came from the other cubicle “Speak English for God’s sake!”

The women outside fall silent.
“I’m just talking to my sister, I can speak in any language I want, thank you!” The braver sister replies.
“Come on, let’s go…” says her sister diplomatically.
“No. I want to see who said that” she snaps, settling down for a wait.
Esther started to panic. They’re gonna think it was me! Shit, I’m going to get it when I step out, shit shit!. Her cheeks got redder and redder as she braces herself to face their wrath. She opens the door, and peeked out.
“It wasn’t me…” she quivers at the two equally red (with anger) faces.
“I know love, just go” says the angry sister.
Outside, Lisa was waiting. “Let’s just get the hell out of here” Esther said and they scurry away.

"Can I come out yet?"

Dec 20th

“Isn’t it nice to be sat in from the cold, with a cup of tea and a biscuit” says Lisa wistfully.

“So, life’s alright then?” queries Esther.

“No, I wouldn’t got that far”.

“Life’s shitty shit” shouts Dom.

“At least no-one’s watching” says Lisa. “We can relax. For now at least.”

Apparently, last night Dom returned home from a gig at 5am. “I’ve got a present for you” he slurs at Lisa. “What?” she says excited. Lisa loves gifts.
“A prostitute’s lipstick” he says, brandishing a tarty pink tube. “I picked it up just before I got in the cab”.
“Isn’t that what every girl wants?” he adds “to look like a prozzy?”
Lisa acts disgusted, but the next day she comes downstairs: “Do you like my lips” she asks coyly “I’ve put that lipstick on”. I swallow some bile.
“Can you catch AIDS from lipstick?” she asks, realizing what might have come free with the present. Let’s see; Herpes, gonorrhea, syphilis, crabs…a whole menagerie of alien bodies.

Coming Soon: Boring and Ugly- The Xmas Special

BORING ET UGLY IX


Dec 15th


I work as a Mentor for University students. Some of my students have Aspergers or Autism. Sometimes during a session I have to go to the toilet because I feel like I am going to laugh, scream or fart. It has that effect on me.
One of my students said a couple of gems today:
“Amy Winehouse complained about the Rocky Horror Picture show and got it banned”. It took me a while to work out that she was talking about Mary Whitehouse, who is about as far away from Winehouse as poss.

Mary Whitehouse

A short while later, she started talking about how gay people a treated by religious faiths. “It says in the Kerrang that gay people should be stoned to death”. I had to bite my lip. I know Kerrang is quite hetero but…She meant of course The Koran. I fled to the toilet to cackle into a toilet roll.

This reminds me of the old lady who misheard the news and thought that Pavarotti was responsible for killing Princess Di. She was outraged when he arrived at her funeral, flanked by beautiful women and openly flaunting his freedom. “It’s disgusting!” she shouted at the TV as he flounced into Westminster Abbey. “He shouldn’t be allowed”. It was only after it was explained that it was not one fat opera singer, but a multitude of photographers (Paparazzi) that had killed her did she calm down.

My mother rang. “Do you like the blog?” I ask. She has subscribed to it, and gets updates whenver I post something new.
“It breaks my heart” she says. “Everytime I read it, it breaks my heart”.
“And dad, does he like it too?” I ask.
“It breaks his heart too” she says.

Esther and Lisa’s mum keeps saying she wants to go back in time and try again because she failed with her daughters. Oh, the curse of being a Disappointing Daughter. “They fuck you up, then you break their heart” says Esther.

I had a dream last night that I found a sausage in my pocket. I was confused and a little disgusted. I woke up to find my hand down my pants.

Artist's impression of the Australian disaster

Dec 16th: What’s so great about the First World anyway?

A boatload of Iraqi and Iranian people have drowned off the coast of Australia. “I can’t believe that in this day and age, people can drown in shipwrecks while people watch”, says Esther. I can’t believe that people still watch Bruce Forsyth.

 

It seems that everyone is on the move, trying to find a solution for how shit they feel.

  1. The students have been rioting about the cost of education.
  2. The nationalists have been flocking to their party conference.
  3. The Tories are going to pull the rug out from everyone on benefits.
  4. It costs 70p for a Snickers from the vending machine at work.

It’s all going to pot.

“What would it be like if we averaged out the wealth and life quality of everyone in the country? What would we be living like?” muses Esther.

“Horrible” says Lisa, “Most people live like shit”.

“And there will be posh people saying ‘Thank god I don’t live in a one-bedroom house in Hunters Bar’”

There’s always someone worse off than you. The wheel of fortune swings round; for there to be shiny happy people at the top, there must be cursed suckers at the bottom. Usually immigrants and Jack Fulton shoppers. As Josie used to say on Big Brother 10 “Whenever I feel down, I just think about that woman who had her faced ripped off by a chimpanzee, and I feel better”. I wonder who the faceless woman thinks of?

"What part of a tree do naturists come from?" "The nudibranch"

I woke up with the word ‘Nudibranch’ in my head. Probably because it sounds rude. I’m going to slip it into conversation with Esther today.

confused.com

Lisa bought ID magazine yesterday. She saves up every so often for this tome of alt.culture.  “There’s a boy in there who looks like a really beautiful woman. He’s very confusing” says Esther. Wow, he does. He can go on my ‘would do’ list. Bastard.

As I flick through the mag, Esther asks “Has it made you feel shit enough yet?”

“Not yet” I lie, and continue to the end.

Popular culture is designed to make you feel shit about yourself, and to think that the only way to feel better is to copy what the beautiful people are wearing in the futile hope that you too will be transformed. So you buy make-up to smile like Eva Longoria, and shampoo to swish your hair like Penelope Cruz, and perfume to smell like Beyonce, and crack to feel like Lindsey Lohan. Or is that just me?

May as well be called 'krack'

“They’ve found a new type of slug now called the Ghost Slug, and it’s tiny and it’s white, and it sucks earthworms dry” says Esther with relish. I shall exoect to se a documentary on Channle 5 next year.

I’d like to discover a new species. But I guess it’s just another attempt to become immortal.

Imaginary scene in the future: “What’s that weird bug over there?” “Oh that’s a Fame Beetle (Viennae Celebratus). Weird little fucker isn’t it”.

The start of a new horror franchise...

 

Unsent Letter #1


Dear Kristin Stewart.

When you come to your senses and realise that you like normal looking boys who are roughly a decade older than you, please ring me.
Until then, don’t bother.

01142253333 (you may have to leave a message)

Vienna x

Dec 5th: Clumsy Seduction #2.


"I kneed you to need me"

Esther admitted last night that she felt like going off with someone else again. She was on a nympho tip. It sent me a bit crazy in an inelegant way.

Life imitates blogland. After a bottle of wine and some shots, it occurred to me that I wanted to kiss one of our friends because she liked my blog.

While Esther and Lisa piled into Spar, we wait in the taxi. She is talking to me but I’m not listening, so I cut her off. “I find you attractive” I intone in a strangely serious voice. Rita blinks. “I…find you attractive…too?” she says, following the Psycho Code of going along with whatever a nutter says until you can enlist the help of others. The girls come back with more booze and she breathes again.
I sit with Esther and Lisa in Rita’s room. It seems only logical to say “let’s have a foursome”. “What’s in it for us?” says Esther “there’s only one of you”.
Dammit. Who does this ever work for?? Calum Best and a case of rohypnol?

Later at the house, Rita is talking to Dom, the newest and soberest addition to the party. I become bored. Mid sentence (again) I lean forwards and plug her mouth with mine. She pushes me away. Oops. After a brief stuttering apology from me, she continues with her story.
I shouldn’t bother really should I?

I go to the toilet with Lisa. “Everyone says you’ve got a small penis” she says. “What?” I gulp.

“Dom and lots have people have been talking about how small it is” she says matter-of-factly. I can feel my self-esteem dribbling down my leg.
It sounds like I have missed out on a focus group about my manlihood.
“I’m a grower not a shower” I say, reluctant to expose my cold-affected member just yet.
The good thing about alcohol is that it makes you grow sometimes and I relaise it looks a bit more respectable now.
“Is this small?” I say, letting it dangle before her, pushing it out for the most favourable evaluation.
“Well it’s a lot smaller than Dom’s”
“What, this!?” I say thinking ‘actually this is quite big compared to how it usually looks’. I’m starting to feel very small all over.
“Dom’s balls are much bigger too” she says.
So not only do I have a small cock, but miniscule testicles too? God has been good. Why am I only finding out now?
Lisa gets bored and exits.
I put myself away, and file out of the toilet. Gutted.

A grower

Penis story #1:Full body cast.
Being at art school meant that you never knew what you’d be asked to do. It became known that I liked to get naked, and so Dora asks me one day to be the model for an all over body cast. “Sure” I say.
I arrive at her house and I’m ordered to cover myself in Vaseline. I come downstairs in the tiny dressing gown she gives me, and sit in the armchair. “Right, take it off” she says, as she begins to dip her modrock (NOT a euphemism) in water. As I sit there starkers, thinking “Christ what have I got myself into”, Famke walks in. “Hahahahaha” she sniggers at my glistening body. Famke’s parents are naturists, and she vividly recalls seeing her dad’s morning glory on its regular route to the toilet in the morning, and mysteriously wilted on its return. Europeans eh?
Dora starts on my legs, wrapping me with wet plasters which set gradually. A devious plan hatches in my head, and I somehow get Dora to plaster my arms before my bits. This means that I am simply not capable of doing them myself. Oh no.
Dora starts to lather me up, and despite me straining to stay decent, I become tumescent. She giggles. Not my favourite reaction. As she covers it, it raises up like a zombie from a horny grave, needing more and more plaster to be layered on it to keep it in place. Famke walks in, and laughs again. Never work with animals or penises I think.
After about an hour, I am covered up to my neck, with a small but well proportioned erection sticking out halfway down. I wait for it to dry, and reflect on my life. This only takes a minute, so I move onto the nights TV.
Later, the various bits of me were broken up into sections. Apparently my stiffy was passed around college in amusement for the next few months. I don’t know what happened to it- all that remained was my head when I next came to look in Dora’s studio…

Dec 7th
Esther brought up the small cock debate on the dog walk with Lisa today. “I was just being an evil bitch” says Lisa, “But Dom’s still got a big ‘un”.
Before I new that there were showers and growers (about 6 months ago to be precise) I had kind of resigned my self to having a smaller than average willy. 1-3 inches soft, 6 inches hard. A very mediocre improvement. Still it seemed to do the job (but it’s mostly unemployed).
As a virgin, I had avidly read the problem pages of FHM while I waited at the barbers (“I was the only bloke in a college of 300 women” he would boast. He never said what that meant- so he learned how to apply fake tan like pro? ‘Look at you now, the only manicured metrosexual in the village’ I should have said. Is 15 years too long for a comeback?).
“My boyfriend’s penis is so small that I can’t feel it inside me” one reader said. “He just sits at home and cries about it all the time” she concluded. Oh God, I thought, what if that’s my fate? A sad man growing old with his light permanently obscured by his bush(el)?
It reminds me of that joke “My wife’s so fat…she killed herself last week”.
My party trick, around 6am usually, is to strip off and walk around showing everyone who’s still awake everything I’ve got to show. (Not much according to Lisa). So whether they like it or not, pretty much all of my friends have seen my willy. So whether I am small or not should be a moot point by now.

Maybe it’s ok to have a small cock so long as you’re not afraid to show it?
God, that sounds like Carrie’s voiceover on Sex and the City now:
“After all, aren’t we all just privileged cunts with too much money?” [meaningful silence]. Cut to credits.

"*Sigh* one day I can afford a nose job"

BORING AND UGLY seven


Dec 3rd
“You must never give a cockatoo an avocado. It kills them”. This is Lisa’s pearl of wisdom for the day.
Esther’s grandmother rang this morning to say she has had her shopping delivered. It seems to consist mainly of carrots and bags of salt. Apparently she asked all her neighbours for the same food just in case anyone couldn’t get it. They all got it for her.
“Devo was desperate for chocolate last night because I had a Gü™ mousse, and I looked up and he was frothing at the mouth in lust. I felt so bad I gave him a fingerful.” Lisa confesses. No it’s not a euphemism.
“Why is it that dogs like chocolate so much when it could kill them?” I say. “It’s just like our generation with drugs and booze. We love it but it’s lethal.” I add.
We are discussing the film we saw last night: She’s Outta My League. They had a rating system to measure looks out of 10. The hottie is “a hard 10” and the nottie is “a hard 5”. You can only jump up 2 points apparently. The nottie bags the hottie because he is a nice guy. Bullshit.

“I wanna be judged by them,” moans Lisa, after having picked her face red raw.

“No you wouldn’t” says Esther, “We’d be a hard 1.5”

“No” whines Lisa, “I’d be a sexy older woman
“That’s exactly what I don’t want to be: older and sexy and a woman” Esther says. “Plop” she adds.
End of conversation. Whenever she doesn’t know what to say, Esther says “Plop!” as many times as is necessary until the other person goes away. Once in this case.

"Don't go to the toilet, I need you..."

“I love you darling,” I say
“Get away from me you freak” Esther says. She reacts violently when she thinks I’m being clingy.It seems this is most of the time.

 

Dec 4th
I was walking past some shops the other day and I thought ‘wouldn’t it be weird if you got sucked into the head of each person you walk past and see the world through their eyes. Like this lonely asian man delivering takeaway, or the cheery chavvy woman who belatedly answers the door’. But then I realised, oh yeah that’s what empathy is.

"Look at them all laughing at us!"

I only went out with my first girlfriend because she looked like Isabel from Belle and Sebastian. Well you would, wouldn’t you. And because we were the only people left when the Leadmill lights came on at 2am. But like all fantasies (and vampires..hmm), she disappeared in daylight.

She slept in her knickers and it never occured to me to try to get into them. Well it did, but I was too much of a nice guy (girlspeak for ‘loser’. Too much of a clueless virgin is nearer the truth) to get hot and horny with her. I thought, if she wants it, she will let me know. High five, Germaine Greer.

"Nice One"

It was only relatively recently that I realised rape fantasy (Note to Self: tread carefully), or at least enjoying the muscly advances of alpha males, is a crucial part of a typical woman’s sexual fantasy. That I didn’t try to have sex with her just told her I was a brother not a lover.
Once, we were walking down the road holding hands and she said “Look, over there! Those firemen are laughing at us”. I searched the landscape for emergency service hilarity and came up blank. She was a mess. I spot people laughing at me all the time, but they are actually there. I think.
Anyway, we met up after she had been away for the weekend. I had been thinking of her longingly every other second. It turns out that she hadn’t. As my hand brushed her back, it stiffened, like an arachnophobe feeling the tickly feather feet of a family of spiders.

“I went to my parents and I didn’t thinkabout you once the whole time I was there”.

Marvellous. Back to the barren world of the undesirable singleton. Oh joy. Another 6 months till someone takes pity on me.
Was it all a dream- would I wake up, dribbling onto Isabel’s lovely photo-face as I clutched ‘The Boy with the Arab Strap’ to my skinny, lovelorn chest? Was it fuck.

Back Once Again with the Ill Behaviour


"Eat me before I eat you, boyz"

When bored, some people like to add up their ages to find a collective amount (“OMG, we’re 103!”). I like to imagine our social circle is one person, and after a visit to the psychiatrist, this is our combined diagnosis:

Man in the Mirror

This bipolar patient has acute Obsessive-Compulsive urges, coupled with megalomaniacal narcissism, which is barely tempered by lurid self-loathing and body dysmorphia. Patient X cannot perform the simplest social functions without experiencing severe panic attacks: stuttering, ruddy cheeks, panting, startled faun eyes. However, under the heavy influence of illicit drugs and alcohol they become a social epicentre, until that is, they physically and mentally abuse all those around them, and are either sent to bed or more usually pass out. The kindest outcome would be to put X down, but until they can afford a flight to Switzerland, we will continue their steady diet of industrial strength anti-depressants indefinitely.
Signed: Nurse Ratchet

 

i'm only coming out when everybody's gone

Esther demands that I clear up the context of her cheating, so she doesn’t get painted with the Evil Bitch brush.
Imagine yourself a kind of prisoner. You are too scared to go out during the day, because people will judge you and your agoraphobic scuttles into dark corners and visible panic attacks will make you a laughing stock (or so you think).
So, the only escape you have is getting so drunk you can’t feel the fear. Now imagine that lifestyle- and how you would feel month after month of the same routine: sleeping in out of boredom, then hours spent preparing yourself for some hasty trip to the shop and then chain smoking and napping to kill the time until it’s dark and you have a valid excuse for getting drunk. Now imagine drugs get added to the mix and you find that you can make this nowhere time, when all bad stuff is suspended, last all night and into the next day. You would wouldn’t you?


This is how social phobics live. The less you do in your life, the lower you feel. Functional people who commute to work and earn money feel like they deserve to go shopping or have an after dinner drink with mates. They are buoyant on a stockpile of social capital. Even if work is shit, you get to moan about it with like minded jobsworths. And at least you dare to go in the first place. A treat isn’t a treat unless it rewards something difficult. Thus drinking becomes the reward for the treacherous act of merely living.
Oh boo-hoo you’re thinking.
Imagine what you’re most scared of. And imagine seeing it crowding past your window every day. Most phobias can be controlled- don’t like poor people? Move in to that gated community. Don’t like pesky kids? Stay in during the school run. But if you’re scared of THE REST OF THE WORLD, then there’s really no escape.
It’s life or death for the social phobic. Fight or fly. Time to face your demons and say “Can I have small packet of Cutter’s Choice, blue rizlas, and extra slim filter tips please?”
The words pass out of your fear-stiffened lips like a mantra, one that you’ve rehearsed many times before the saying of it, just so you don’t make a mistake and get eaten by the smiling demon behind the till.
It’s like an episode of Buffy where you realise Sarah Michelle Gellar has disappeared to Hollywood to make her fortune in dull romcoms, taking with her the acidic one-liners and immortality that made the world safe, leaving you face to face with a whole heap of trouble.

brain off bum on