Twitching and planking

It’s been an ornithological kind of week.  On Wednesday morning, I stumbled across a flash mob of retirement folk on the sidestreet near the cemetery, pointing their massive telephoto lenses accusatorially at a tree which unleashed a flock of birds as I approached. As they high tailed it over the rooftops, I asked what the devil was going on.

Waxwings,” he said.

“Care to elaborate?” I said, slapping his arse.

“From Scandinavia. We got an alert on the pager network and headed down here.”

Then they all got back in their Volvos and vanished like posh pixies.

“I may be from Sweden, but casual sexism is simply unacceptable”

On Thursday, I spotted another suspicious bunch, this time of beauticians, standing and pointing at hundreds of geese honking overhead in classic V formations. It really was very exciting, so much so in fact that I let my mask of enigmatic urbanity slip and babbled “Geese!” to one of the women. Social hari kiri indeed, I shall have to hunt everyone down who heard/saw me and kill them.

I’ll have to get the cat and dog to teach me since they seem have been schooled in military tactics, probably part of that distance learning course in world domination I keep finding when I open the laptop. They’ve tried everything to get me up in the morning, experimenting for maximum efficiency. Their favourite so far starts with the cat planking on my face and the dog hissing “J’accuse!” and pointing at me from the side of the bed.

“Planking cat”

As soon as I’m out of the duvet, I get a heavy pet escort down the stairs, the waddling fat cat in front leading the way and the thuggish fat dog behind making sure there’s no messing around.

If I knew how to play chess, I’d play the Sicilian Defence and enlist the help of the scary monkey puppet from the middle floor. He was laughing and dancing behind Dom in my dream, but he only liked the other me, the one that was in the nice warm room and in on the joke, not the real me that was watching through the window. I hate it when me and I fall out. If I could convince the monkey that I was the other me, then maybe I’d have a chance, but I look nothing like him.

Oh, why wasn’t I born an aristocrat? I SO WANT TO BE POSH. I’d give away ALL my money and possessions just to be rich. You listening, evil genie monkey?

Sadly, most of my friends are some kind of Marxist, unaware of my right leaning posh sympathiser ways…it would be fun to have a posh synthesizer though…Here’s my first attempt at a Posho Pop melody:

“wot wot, totes, wot wot, totes, Oomska!, Oomska!, wot wot, totes!”

Most poshos are clean shaven. That’s a deal breaker for me. I’ve got to have some wispy stuff to hide behind. And you don’t see many with shaved heads.

Now I am officially BALDING, I like to think about hats and the stirling service they provide. I have yet to find The One, though. I have many hat mistresses who fall in and out of favour, but none are fit to be permanently betrothed to my scalp.

A crazy guy in the park nicely summed up the circular nature of hat fashion:

“Are flat caps coming back? In the 1950s, not that I remember them, no-one left home without a hat. Then in the 1960s and 1970s no-one ever wore a hat. Then in 1985 I saw a man with a baseball hat. Cilla Black, you know, the singer, used to wear one.”

I’m glad I wasn’t around in the Hatless Years. I especially like that his pop culture knowledge predates Blind Date, and he knows Cilla instead for her angry cat impression. “What’s it all about, Alfie?” she yowled to Michael Caine’s unreconstructed neanderthal. I hate bad boys coz I wish I was one…

Nail Hannon from The Divine Comedy looks like my schoolfriend, Mike. His moment of greatness came early, when he  stood up on the second day of school and announced himself to our newly formed friend group; with his arms outstretched, he proclaimed


The next day after I’d gone home and looked it up (this was 1992 PG, the Pre Google age), I congratulated him on the delivery and timing, and he smiled his sage smile and gave me his glasses to wipe. Ah, those were the days. Those were the days.

I joined the wrong Mile High Club

Saturday 12th March

I was going to behave like a normal person
But then I got high
I was going to look my friends in the eye
But then I got high
I woke up the next morning still in the sky
And I know why!
Because I got high, because I got high, because I got high…

I got so high that I felt like I was in a hypergalactic supermarket (or a supergalactic hypermarket) and I’d lost my mummy.

At one point I suddenly became phobic of my own voice and was mute for the rest of the evening, batting my eyelashes and blushing whenver people looked at me.

When I was about 13, I needed a wee while I was in town with my dad. He took me in a public toilet and stopped to smell the air.
“Can you smell that, son?” he asked.
I sniffed, and besides the ammonia and farts, there was a herby stench. I nodded.
“That’s marijuana, that is” he said with pride. “I used to sprinkle it on my coffee in the morning” he reminisced. “Lovely”.


Tuesday 15th March

Esther has just told me that it’s MY FAULT that we don’t have sex! Ha! My fault!

“You’re not getting any sex until you’ve had counselling” she proclaimed.
“You never want sex anyway” I sneered, wise to her game.
“I’m all better now, I can have sex whenever I want, but you’re a complete neurotic!” she stated. “And you’re getting worse”.

A small, well aimed A-bomb whistled down through my emotional cortex. As a mushroom cloud obliterated my thoughts, Esther went back to smoking her cigarette.

“Can you have this conversation later?” demands Lisa. “When I’m not here”.
We nod. But to be honest I prefer to have a witness so that Esther can’t later deny having said some pivotal, game-changing statement that rocks me to my core.

“You just think sex is a way of boosting your self esteem” says Esther.
“No I don’t”. Do I? No, that’s what cakes are for. I see it as a way of shining a spotlight on as many insecurities as I can at once: penis size, lack of co-ordination, inability to talk dirty, getting stuck in my own clothes.
“And you’re very unattractive when you’re mentally ill!” Ouch.
“You’re ugly when I’m mentally ill!” I want to reply, but then I would just be confirming her point that I have a problem.
I need a shrink.

Why does the 82 bus have carpet on its ceiling? Is it to make the next fall from an embankment more pleasant? So when it’s upside down on a train track, at least you get somewhere to wipe your bloody shoes before you crawl to safety?

I hate running for the bus because I know it must be full of people like me who are gagging to laugh at some nerd who is running for the bus and failing. It’s like I can see myself from inside the bus, and I look bloody funny. I sort of wither at that point and the bus pulls away. The me on the bus gets to work on time. What a wanker.

Last week I watched Let Me In (2010), a pointless American remake of Let the Right One In. But I fell in love.
The vampire girl, Abby, is so beautiful that I would kill for her. I would die for her. I would give her my last rolo and my last drop of blood.
She is everything that makes me weak at the knees: power, self-assurance, innocence, vulnerability, and fucked-upness.
If only life was like that- instead of being an ugly loveless freak at school, I could have been an ugly freak who got the girl. The weird, psychotic girl who kills people and drinks their blood.
She is my current obsession. I always feel guilty about my obsessions so I say to Esther, “She has an amazing face”.
Esther knows what this means and plans her counterattack.
“Yes but I bet she’ll be ugly when she’s older” she states
“Yeah” I reply, to prove my faithfulness.

"Don't look at me, I'll make your face ache"

Things that are too perfect make my jaw ache. Nancy in the last Elm Street film is so beautiful that I almost can’t look at her. She makes my jaw ache.

I ought to go and see the doctor really. I’m sure all that energy should be going to my private parts instead.
In a seminar last year, I tried to get this idea across to the other students, to see if I really was a freak. “Someone so beautiful that it’s too painful to look at them” I explained.
Everyone else went quiet. “Err, not really” someone muttered.
“I know what you mean” one girl said, “I feel like that when I look at Jason Statham”.
This takes a second to compute.
“Each to their own” I reply.
The girl left my course shortly after to get married to a farmer. I imagine Jason Statham manhandling a tractor while she grapples with udders in the next field.

"I've got a brand new combine harvester"