Dear Dr “finger up my”…

I like to think that I have an open mind. I like to think that I can understand most people and their odd ways. But I am starting to doubt this. Mainly because WordPress can tell me the search terms that people Googled to reach my blog.

I’m starting to get quite scared. First of all there are the perverted ones. Granted, some of my entries have a sexual theme. But really?

Some people know exactly what they want:

no clothes katy perrys bum in a shower

aroused walrus,

penis in the emporer’s new clothes

constipated push hard ejaculate

pirate erection
saggy tit sex

and the evocative

doctor “finger up my”

Christmas is fast approaching. For those people who have everything, here’s some tips:

rastafarian clothes for dogs

or perhaps a “masturbation chair” and some “masturbation mutual books” for the full experience of “mutual mastrubation in our bed room”

and lest us not forget a fresh supply of

ugly slaves

Then there are more personal cries from the heart. This ‘beautiful’ poem brought some freak here:

me & your mom never dreamed you’d be so beautiful…in all of the times we tried to imagine every last detail of who you would be,thru all of the nights we spent quietly thinkingof how we would feelwhen we first looked at you,we patiently waitedand silently wondered.we hoped and we prayedand we tried to imagine…but we never dreamed you’d be beautiful.

Probably the same person who demanded of Mr Internet

“i feel poorly who gonna cheer me up”

and “box don’t lock”

and the touching appeals for:

fat bastard prosthetic

emaciated old man

very fat chav woman

down syndrome midget

Celebrities also get a look in:

Bjork eating own cardigan

cher lloyd ugly face

winona ryder and the penis

and old JC:

jesus reborn hitler

chocolate jesus and vienna

So, this goes out to you, freaks of the interweb: yes I’m talking to you guilty as sin security guard with the beer bellies and beards calendar  . Whatever your kink, you can find it in my blog.

I can’t get no sleep

My favourite time of the day to travel on Sheffield’s glorious buses is around 2pm in the groggy lull between lunch and school run. On this particular occasion I was roused from my torpor by the sing-songy voices of two women who chatted in the finest Queens English behind me:

“I’m bored” a boy moans loudly.

“Treat every moment with the utmost sincerity” comes the reply, uttered with enough volume and flounce to filter down into the handful of grimy ears on the bus.

“One tries to be sincere…” muses the mother’s bff wistfully.

“Yes, but occasionally one forgets…” she entreats

I twist my head involuntarily to see the faces that spawned this rancid pomposity. Largely unremarkable, both women are noticeable only for their pert posture and earnest eye contact. Buoyed by starched cotton and principles, they manage not to slump into their seats like the rest of us. As they leave the bus, I get a whiff of something I’ve not smelt for a long time- cleanliness.

"This is what I found when I Googled "utmost sincerity""

My day at work continues this exercise in diversity. I overhear a conversation between an earnest Mentor and a mole-like Autistic boy with a voice like the post-op transexual taxi driver on League of Gentlemen:

“I want to change courses. I’d like to do Criminology and that”

“Oh yes? And why is that then?”

“Well, I like Midsomer Murders. And I like CSI”

“Oh really?” (The Mentor is desperately thinking of how to inject some reality into this dream. I’m guessing mainly so that he don’t laugh in his face).

“And I’m interested in crime like murder and rape”

Other students are starting to look round at them now. The Mentor makes a last ditch attempt to steer the convo away from inadvertant pronouncements of megalomania. After a silence, they talk about the weather and everyone goes go back to their work.

When I have a moment at work, instead of eating or drinking, I log onto my newest obsession, Facebook Scrabble. I have found it the only anaesthetic that completely blocks out my bad thoughts. The simple task of shoehorning letters into squares acts like a blanket muffling everything around me. I have started to dream about it. Last night I woke up around 5am to the sound of a drunk girl on her mobile somewhere in the streets below.

“It’s a dead end. Listen Amy, this is not the time to be having this conversation. Shit, it’s another dead end”

Eventually she found the right way and disappeared from hearing. I remember now that I was dreaming in white plastic letter blocks. I was overjoyed when I realised that I had a really good word score when I used Vanessa from Eastenders‘ real name- in my dream it was CROZIER or LUCKIER or something. Oh lord, what am I becoming?

I am disturbed from finding the answer to this by the sound of the cat in rictus, telescoping her chubby body in and out to make herself barf. After two or three loud hiccuping burps, there’s the sound of a fat chav gobbing- it’s out, and I lie there thinking ‘oh god, any minute now it’s going to stink’. Because I still can’t be arsed to move, I sniff the air tentatively every three seconds until I catch a whiff of something. Before I know it, the light’s on and I am upright with toilet roll in hand, searching the floor.

For such massive upheaval, there are only two tiny patches of chunder. As I crouch over them, the smell hits me. I realise now that shit doesn’t just become a stinking thing upon exit through the anus, it wallows for hours in the mucus of the stomach, fomenting and brewing (“a hard poo’s a-brewing” as Bob Dylan sang). What I am picking up is young shit, as yet unformed by the piping bag of the sphincter. Retching, I throw the heavy tissue clumps into the toilet and flush with vigour.

Now for some sex. Esther still hasn’t woken up despite all this, but now I’m wide awake. As I flop down, my hand somehow ends up on the upper reaches of her pubes, accessible because she has had to cut the elastic band off all of her knickers to let her swelling cake-filled belly fall out. It turns out I am a feeder. Normally though, the feeder is thin because all they want is to indulge their ballooning partner. Think Jack Sprat. With me though, I stave off my guilt about perpetual snacking by getting Esther to eat the same as me. This also serves a second purpose: I don’t have to decide for myself what to eat- whatever she allows me to give her must be ok for me.

As I remember the sick, my sex part shrinks. I may be sick, but I am not turned on by it. As I listen to strangulated cries of drunken men singing, I release a series of absurd cartoon farts. They are the best kind, that sound ridiculous yet strangely don’t smell. Esther chuckles in her sleep, then wakes, and we tuck into the unwanted remainders of a Tesco Classic Chocolate Selection (reduced from £6 to £3, effectively duping us into believing it is more than a cheap version of Roses). What is left in the expanse of the disappointingly single-layered box seems like a feast at this time of night:

2x milk choc turkish delights,

2x orange cremes,

and 2x plain chocolate toffee (my personal hatred is reserved for these teeth-destroying rocks of pain, but I eat them anyway with a grimace).

Esther turns the TV on and flicks between BBC News and Sky News, watching the same 2 articles (death of Anwar al-Awlaki; Jacko trial) reported different ways: while Sky is all out sensation, the BBC is deadly serious, although they seem to be loosening their impartiality to compete. What you end up with is sexy newsreaders with straight faces.

"Doctor, Doctor, there's a child in my bed!" "Don't worry, you're just having a little stroke"

Dr Conrad Murray‘s face is undergoing a procedure on TV- mummification. As more and more damning revelations stream out live across the world, his face is lengthening and hardening into an Easter Island grimace of hopelessness. What surprises me about all of this is how most of the court time is spent in awkward silences, stutters and paper shuffling. This isn’t like the movies, though the accents help with the illusion. When I got Sky TV it was because I thought it was the ultimate in voyeur TV: Courts, houses and legs would all be opened up for my delectation. But it seems that the British version is still uptight about most of these. Would Court TV work over here? Would we really want to see a succession of scrawny boy racers and benefits scammers being chastised in bloodless English?

I’m sitting on the toilet now, and I hear Lisa and Dom come in downstairs. This usually has the effect of making me instantly grumpy- some sort of Pavlovian response to a stimuli that I can’t even remember. Something to do with being an only child, Esther would say. “No’, I tell myself, ‘I won’t give in to the grump’. A ridiculous jingle comes into my head;

“Challenge each emo-shun”

it goes, sung in the hyper-sedated voices of  a chorus of American life gurus. As I descend the stairs, I sing it over and over in my head. I enter the kitchen, closed off to prevent Devo from destroying the house. So far so good. As I say hello to Lisa, who has stolen my seat (keep calm), I notice that she has ‘re-appropriated’ one my favourite of Esther’s tshirts. I’m starting to lose it now. Rage or depression is never far from my door.

Instead of letting the fuckers in, I sit down and turn Scrabble on.

Classical Art Stiffens My Part

"Can we get a Smeg, ma?"

I remember the day I discovered smegma. I was horrified. Why was my foreskin suddenly stuffed with scrambled egg?

Later that day, I poured my heart out to my dad.

“Why doesn’t anyone write songs about or make films about it?” I asked in shock. “People need to know about it!”

“Because that would be fucking disgusting you freak-boy” my dad should have said. Instead, he just shrugged and humoured me. “I don’t know, Vienna” he muttered.

I had a sheltered childhood. Feeling too guilty to buy porn, and living in a pre-internet age, I had to rely on a copy of Grey’s Anatomy to get me off. I suppose I must have a good imagination because those black and white drawings of cadaver’s private parts were probably the least sexy pictures in the world. I would have done better to have read The History of Art. Actually, come to mention it, I progressed from Grey’s onto Greek and Roman sculpture (“Look, you can see their [stone] boobs” I told my neighbour excitedly. He kindly kept his thoughts to himself). Then I became obsessed with this painting:

Bear with me- this one needs a little explaining. I wasn’t interested in Venus, she’s too “ooh look at me”. What floated my boat was the way the girl on the left’s hot sticky breast is pressed against the boy’s chest. I liked to imagine I was him. Nothing more, that was enough. Simple pleasures.

If only I could meet a real girl one day, I prayed. Someone who looked like a Boticelli angel. Just like Miranda from Picnic at Hanging Rock:

I may pretend to be a suave, educated chap, but I have the sexual age of ten year old boy. Which fits with my toddler’s size bum (allegedly). And no, you Daily Mail readers, that doesn’t make me a paedo- it makes me the child.

"Where's my cardboard cutout penis?"

Incidentally, there’s a massive print of Boticelli’s Venus hanging in Lisa’s bathroom, and as I sit down to wee, I am taken back to that happy time when women were 2 dimensional and didn’t have a voice to reject me with. She’s still got it, that 600 year old painted angel.

Not tonight, Esther

There’s been a sudden role reversal in our relationship. Last week, Esther came back drunker and later than me (I had to be up in the morning).

She plonked herself on the bed and said “I feel like killing myself”.

I mumbled something soothing sounding and prepared to go back to sleep.

“Will you have sex with me?” she demanded as I was nodding off.

I thought for a moment. “No”. There was a startled silence.

“You always get to say no, why can’t I?” I added, turning over and lying down again.

“I suppose so.’ A few seconds later, “Will you go down on me?”

“No!” I say, irritated that I’m not being allowed to fall asleep. “You’ve just said you want to kill yourself, I’m not exactly in the mood.”

“It would make me feel better” she says.

I grunt and try harder to fall sleep. After a while, she slumps onto her pillow too.

Then again, the next time we got drunk. I felt on edge and knackered. “Have sex with me” came the demand when we finally got home.

“I’m not in the mood” I admitted. I really felt nothing apart from fatigue with the world.

“Suit yourself” she replied. “I’ll have a wank instead”. I couldn’t even be bothered to try and watch. After a few seconds of wriggling, she gave up.

“I can’t be bothered” she complained. “Of course, you realise it;s going to be a LONG time until the offer comes around again?” she adds, so the consequences sink in.

“I know” I say, inwardly thinking ‘Dammit”.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to think my libido would never die, that future archeologists would find grooves in the lid of my coffin from an eternity of erections and have to work out what caused them. Because they would have nothing better to do.

But it seems that the numbness I sometimes feel has spread below the waist. Depression is sometimes animorphised: Churchill had his black dog; Donnie had his Darko; Elwood P. Dowd had his Harvey (a Pooka in the shape of a 7 foot rabbit); Natalie Portman’s raunchy Black Swan.

"He was pure gold: a real a 20 carrot kinda guy"

But with me, it;s more of a fungal infection or plant infestation. Instead of the companionship (in the sense of the camaraderie of a suicide pact) or wildness of an animal, I feel like I’ve just gone a bit mouldy. Like I’ve got a bad case of Thrush. I feel like the Man From U.N.C.L.E. only instead of an exciting/shit-scary clandestine spy group called T.H(e)R.U.S.H(ians) I have a silly little weed called candida that’s taken root in my nether regions. (The girl from Pulp was called Candida- I wonder if her nickname was Thrush?). It feels damp and a bit soggy to me, like some moss has grown over my skin and muffled everything a bit. That slimy twig used to be my willy (“Nothing’s changed there, then” Esther would say). I don;t want to take anti-depressants again- they are just slug pellets to keep the beasties away. I need the Council to come and spray me down with a toxic dose of weedkiller, pesticide and fungicide. I need smoking out; fumigating; bleaching, lancing and re-potting.

Erm, I’m a bit lost in the analogy now, not sure what any of that means. I need to go and water my knees, they’re drying out.

"Oh shit, how long was I asleep for?"

Enoch Powell, genial host of X Factor

Existentialists are getting younger these days. Last week, I overheard a little girl skipping along in the park next to her dad:
Little girl: “Sometimes I think I want to kill myself”
The Dad remains quiet.

I love laughing at clueless old people. They make it so easy. I’m sure they have a chuckle about clueless young fools like me too.

My Grandad, watching X Factor: “That Enoch Powell is a bit hard on the kids!”

Yes Grandad, Simon Cowell is making them all sing a musical version of ‘Rivers of Blood’ next week.


Am I the only man (man? ha!) to have a phobia of eating bananas in public? How on earth do you stop it looking like you love cock? Normally, I like playing around with the idea that I’m gay. Especially when it makes Esther mad. But I want to be a sex object when I want to be, not inadvertantly and for someone else’s pleasure. It must be wank being a woman (so to speak). How do you ever escape from the eyes looking staring, winking, probing?

Anyway, back to bananas:

For a start, you have to unpeel the fucker like a giant yellow foreskin.

Then how to start eating? Do you go for the tip, or snap it off to make any watching pervs wince? Some of the giant genetically modified ones look like porn cocks, absurd in girth and length. They make me feel really inadequate. Everyone’s got it in for someone. In these instances, I’ve got it in for the fruit. I want to demolish it to teach it a lesson. The only thing size does is make you first for the chop.


Freud said “everything longer than it is wide is phallic”. But then he was a man. And men apparently can’t get over sex. Rumpy pumpy, hows your father, beast with two backs, slap and tickle.

Yesterday I went round the Manchester Met Fine Art degree show.It was all so-so. Not enough superficial shock and one dimensional sensationalism for me. My hopes were briefly lifted when I saw a little booth “Adults Only: Contains Sexual Material” written outside it. I quickly pushed through the heavy black curtain into the clammy, confined space to find a middle-aged man craning over a small table. Seeing me, he scarpered. The table said “Sorry we have run out of pictures, more coming tomorrow”.

Dang it.

Another piece I saw had a girl recreating key looks from the last 50 years in a periodic table of identities. The passport size photos ranged from 60s Hollywood starlet to 2010s Abercrombie and Fitch nonce.  What a shit age to live in, I thought. I showed the picture to Esther.

“Cindy fucking Sherman” she said with a sneer.

This piece is titled "Feinin's prosthetic body after Cindy Sherman' photograph, "Untitled #255"". I just think it is funny.

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"


"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.