Those Pesky Time Flies


"A late 20th Century torture device"

Esther found out that the Japanese earthquake has made our days a few micro seconds shorter FOREVER because it made us spin faster on our axis. Now she can’t stop thinking about this lost time.

“What if the next earthquake knocks us completely off our axis and we go spinning out into space?” she quivers.

“Well then, I guess we’re all fucked” I reply. No, I don’t actually because she’s the boss and such a quip would be considered insolent. Instead I comfort her with logic.

“That will never happen, I’m sure they would tell us etc”. At this point you conspiracy theorists will be sniggering at my naivety. As I have already told you, I think the man is misunderstood, and I enjoy the feeling of his/her big overprotective/oppressive arm round me. Oh how I wish I’d had a big brother to wrestle some sense into me. And to compare penis size with/ experiment with mutual masturbation. You know, the usual time-honoured family escapades.

“How many micro seconds are there in a second?” she asks

Google tells me there are 1 million.

“Oh, that’s rubbish” she mutters. “I don’t give a shit anymore”.

Real life always disappoints. Nobody discovers their junk is worth millions on Antique Roadshow. You don’t get model scouted on your way to Tesco. Getting high only leads to plummeting lower. Weird stuff that does happen is never the amazing things, always the mundane or sinister or depressing.

Thus, Lisa has become too scared to walk Devo in the cemetary in case the Polish man proposes. She has been forced to take affirmative action to point out to the overfriendly Pole that she is a taken woman.

He found her on facebook, and last week she agonised over a message that would put him straight. “I have a boyfriend” was all she could think of saying.

Unfortunately it only made him defensive. “I have a girlfriend too, of course” he wrote back. “Why should that stop us from meeting and talking?”

Lisa and Esther decided instead to avoid the park around the time he usually bumps into them.

"Goddammit, why isn't he looking at your beaver?"

I got really jealous the other week that he fancied Lisa and not Esther. “Why doesn’t he want you too?” I asked. “Maybe you’re not attractive enough” I thought. Fucked up as it sounds, I keep needing to know my girl is pretty to other people in order to have proof of my own attractiveness.

“You’re weird” says Lisa when she overhears me.

“Fuck off and get counselling” is Esther’s understandable reply.

A few days passed, and the girls managed to miss the Polack, thinking that maybe he had got the message and has backed off. Nipped his European openness in the bud so to speak, slapped a restraining order on his free spirit.

Today though, he finally caught up with them. He went aggro, singing raucous Polish songs to himself and throwing sticks at their heads, yelling “You should have safety helmets, hahaha”. He had replaced the behaviour of a lech with that of a sociopath.

“At least he had to stand further away to ‘accidentally’ throw sticks at us” Esther reasoned.

Is it better to be murdered than raped? Better to offend strangers than to have to pretend to be their friend? Better to throw sticks than to invite ridicule?

Adam Ant once went to his local for a quick pint, only to be bullied by chants of “ridicule is nothing to be scared of.”

When he could take no more, he slunk off home and returned with a gun in his hand and a righteous glint in his eyes.

Poor Adam. He’s just like me, but famous. He likes to rant and get naked, and he can’t take any flak.

He’s welcome round mine any time. I really want to ask him how to apply eye shadow convincingly.

Today I dared myself to walk round Topman with a pair of purple glasses with flip-up shades, flipped up proudly. I managed a quick circuit of the men’s bit, then fled down the stairs, pretending to multitask on my fone so I didn’t meet anyone in the eye.

This is phase one of operation ‘pompous, public and proud’. More to follow. Ridicule is nothing to be scared of. No pain no gain. Or, as Rihanna sang, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me”.

"I meant it metaphorically"

 

Don’t Dys My Body


Jan 5th


"Where did I put my slinky?"

My therapist (how American) issued me an ultimatum this morning: Either I do the homework and commit or I take a break. Story of my life. Why can’t I just float along like a fat baby in a basket?

I have Body Dysmorphia you see- this means I hate my neck and think that I am generally a freak. I’ve developed lots of ways to deal with this, such as:
1. asking for reassurance from Esther 50 times a day (does this coat look alright? What about if I have to undo it? What about with the hood up?)
2. getting drunk,
3. lying to myself that I need a wee so I can stare into the bathroom mirror at work.
4. Wearing clothes that cover up the parts I hate: shirts and scarves for my neck, hats for the 365 Bad Hair Days I have.

I’m having Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which is all about making you do the stuff you’ve spent years working out intricate rituals in order to avoid.

So, we wrote down all the unhealthy stuff I do to feel better, and we are going to do the opposite for each bad habit, one at a time.

First up is to walk to work 5 days a week without distracting myself (no ipod) and without doing anything that makes me feel comfortable (hiding my neck with a scarf, checking myself out in windows). It sounds easy to anyone who doesn’t do those things, but it’s really hard if you do them without thinking, and when you don’t do them, you feel hideously ugly.

So, I walk to work exposing my lanky giraffe neck and grimacing against the onslaught of buses and cars all rubbernecking at my rubber neck (or so it seems). By the time I get to work, I’m sweaty and knackered, and want to go home.

I was meant to be doing this for 5 days in a row, but I just can’t make myself. I want an easy life goddammit.

She my therapist is leaving me for another neurotic.

Altogether Now, sing these new lyrics to the chorus:

“Neurotic, Neurotic

Don’t put your hands anywhere near my body”

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.

How to use your kitchen to help you choose a retro slang phrase for the day:


"Actually, you look more like cauliflower"

1. Lay like broccoli (Pretty Woman)

2. Make like a banana and split (©Vienna Famous 2010)

3. Like butter wouldn’t melt

4. You say potato, I say potato. This one only makes sense when spoken in different accents

5. You got any dough?

6. Peachy

7. You’re the apple of my eye. No darling, that’s a cataract.

8. Apples and pears. Does anyone actually speak cockney, or is it a myth made up for tourists?

9. Now we’re cookin’ on gas. A personal favourite, obviously predating the microwave.

10. My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard (Kelis). Sorry I don’t speak innuendo…

11. I should coco(a)

12. Honey pie

13. Something’s fishy around here

14. The milk of human kindness. Semi-skimmed? (See no.10)

15. Sweet like chocolate (Shanks and Bigfoot)/Sweet Like Tropicana (Dizzee Rascal)

Just you try it!

16. Let’s play hide the sausage! No, I have never used this one.

17. I’m gonna make mincemeat out of you!

18. Egg on your face, big disgrace (Queen)

19. Hey honey! Yes, sugar…?

20. Chocolate Rain

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"

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

 

Journal of mental illness


It has taken me 15 years to realise that the nest of vipers that constitute my thoughts are not normal or healthy and in fact other people seem to be able to get through life being happy and confident without being plagued with doubt .
Over the past 2 years I have diagnosed as a ‘mild obsessive compulsive with social anxiety and depression’. This is starting to make sense.
I am currently being referred for Body Dysmorphia Syndrome, and this will be another label for the mess in my head.
I have tried antidepressants (Sertraline), counselling and a beginner course in CBT. The drugs made me feel numb and then worry about feeling numb. The counselling was kind of good, I got to confess all my guilty thoughts but they always came back and so I seemed to always be epxressing the same feelings every week, no matter how well I became at articulating them and rationalising them.
CBT has had the biggest effect because it has made me dare to do things that I hadn’t realised I was avoiding. But my therapists were trainees and were learning on the job.
My main problem is that I feel hideously ugly most of the time, apart from when I feel absolutely gorgeous. I have no middle ground, and I never forget what I look like. Other people can live in the moment and just BE, but I am unrelentingly self-conscious, I never give myself a break.
I think it started when I was bullied at primary school for being a swot and taller than everyone else, and for not really caring about what was cool….
to be continued