Bite Me! Please!

"Oi! Don't blog about me or else!"

Last night I dreamt that my parents were murdered by a mob of arsonists who I had outraged with my blog. They included my fashion designer friend Viv, and a stony faced Thomas Turgoose, who loitered outside my house with a can of petrol and his anaemic face glistening in the moonlight.

I shall have to watch what I say from now on. But I think the horse has already left the building on that one.

I had the day off today. I spent the morning watching Rescue 999, and there was a boy who had been bitten by an Adder.

“That’s not fair!” I muttered.

“I bet you wish that was you, don’t you?” Esther said, adding

“I bet you’d like to get bitten by a bittern”

How does she manage to get inside my head so easily? Am I that predictable?

Anyway, it got me thinking what British wild animals I’d like to be nipped, gummed and snarled at by. Here’s my Top 5 (in descending order of likeliness):

  1. A Pony
  2. A Stag Beetle’s stag bits
  3. An Adder
  4. A Bittern (for pun’s sake)
  5. Esther. Well, any physical contact would do. I want a vampire girlfriend!

Bittern, yesterday: "Oh no you fricking don't"

Apparently, Lisa was stalked by a Robin in Endcliffe Park while she waited for Esther outside the Doctors. She found it sitting on the pavememnt behind her, giving her the evils. She moved away a few metres and looked back- it had moved closer and was sat in a tree next to her.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Esther returned.

“I was beginning to feel uncomfortable” she admitted.


Outside the Royal Hallamshire, there’s a massive plaque that shouts: ARS LONGA VITA BREVIS.

I looked it up. It means “ART IS LONG, LIFE IS SHORT”.

Imagine heading into the hospital to visit your sick relative, and here’s a sculpture laughing at the feebleness of life, saying,

“Ha! I’ll still be here when you and your puny offspring are plantfood!”

Perhaps it’s meant to be reassuring. We are all grains of dust giving the universe temporary conjunctivitis etc.

But doesn’t it make you just want to smash it’s laughing granite face? No wonder the NHS is going to pot, if these are the kind of motivational slogans being put around the place.

"Right back atcha"

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, 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"

I had a stroke, but you couldn’t reach

Here is a faithful record of the unfaithful dream that I had last night:

Our house was haunted. The sound of stiletto heels echoed down the hallway floorboards and I ran after them into the kitchen. But there was nothing.

"Oh Oh you're in trouble with Esther"

I became very scared, but then got distracted by finding a picture disc 12 inch by Shampoo from 2011. “Wow, they’ve reformed” I thought.

"How dare you surpass your 15 year love for me!"

Back to the goosepimples. I realised as I became more and more terrified that I was completely and utterly and clinically madly in love with a girl who wasn’t Esther. I felt a yearning like a koala for its favourite tree, or a chip’s desire to lie with mushy peas, or a sloth’s desperation for an extension on their essay. Intense.

Every atom of my being was involved in this sweaty lust and longing. Each pore became a mouth singing  ‘I love her I love her I love her’ like a million-strong microscopic boyband. Oh God, this feeling was worse than running out of pudding or some hellish comedown or even a year of Monday mornings lining up like happy slappers forever.

"Quick- she's falling in love"

I had the intellectual runs. Hot thoughts were spurting out of me like: She is the only person I’ve ever loved, the only person who makes me suffer a rapid succession of micro-strokes when I see her, starting in my eye and radiating down past my penis and into the ground.

But I can’t have her. I was mad with sadness, I started to melt like a microwaved snowman and I woke up with my face screwed into the pillow, tears mixing with the usual slobber in a pool that stuck my features into the expression of misery they felt.

Then I had to go to work and like with all dreams, the feeling faded and I found a packet of wine gums in my pocket and felt a bit better. Also my student told me about his visit to the Sistine chapel to see Leonardo Di Caprio’s paintings, which I greatly enjoyed. If only that was true.

But like my dream, it’s an impossible thing and I can’t waste my life wishing it into existence. And it’s a fatal mistake to take dreams as reality, as Marion Cotillard found in Inception