How to be just like me

Play football – lots of football. Run madly and chase everything and never stop. Tackle people, but stay on your feet and don’t dive in. Get in good positions. Shoot with your left foot. Pass the ball and try not to waste it doing silly things – and if you can’t go forwards, don’t worry about going back or to the side: better that than losing it. Celebrate all your team’s goals – but especially your own. Shout, “come on boys!” and, “nice ball”, things like that. Play for two or three or even four hours non-stop, and when your body says, “I can’t take it any more” say, “sure you can” and carry on. Get stuck in. Get cut and bruised. Score lots of goals and talk about them later. And have sore legs in the morning.

Don’t drive or walk – and certainly don’t take the bus – cycle everywhere (unless you’re going more than twenty miles or it’s pissing it down). Bike as quickly as you can, hardly ever change gear, and try and race people. Go through red lights. Weave in and out of cars. Do it non-handed for miles on end. And get grease all over your legs. Also, ignore all traffic signals (especially those that say “No Entry” or “One-Way”).

Play squash. Play for two hours at a time, and dive full length on the floor, and run, run, run. Wham it as hard as you can. Angle it off the walls. Laugh lots and occasionally squeak one out in the corner, and then giggle to yourself when you and your opponent change sides. Get into really long rallies and then crack up in hysterics so that you’re barely able to hit the ball. Slam into walls with your shoulder. Play with your top off. Sweat.

Make people think that you’ve got a beard – but what you’ve really got is forgetfulness. Hardly ever look in the mirror so that you don’t know what’s going on on your face. Have food on it sometimes, like Mr Twit. Every 4 to 6 weeks, just as your moustache hairs are starting to tickle in your mouth, buzz it all off and start again.

Eat egg on toast like this: two eggs, two slices of toast, generously buttered – with real butter – and one with marmite on it. Then add some salt and pepper. It should be delicious and well eggy. One egg just isn’t enough.

Also, enjoy fish and chips more than anything – but only ever eat them when you’re in Yorkshire, and baulk at the idea of buying them in The South, or for more than four quid (£2.30 is about ideal). Eat them sometimes just before you play squash or football (an hour is about right) and then play really well and credit it to the grease. Have them with bread and butter (or margarine/spread is fine in this case) and tomato sauce if you’re having them at home. Salt, of course – but never, ever vinegar. Unless you’re sharing with someone who swears by it, in which case it’s fine. Think often about the fish and chips you used to eat with your gran in South Elmsall.

Drink herbal tea, or green – but no caffeine, no coffee, no black tea. Shun fizzy pop and alcohol, but occasionally have a ginger beer or some shandy if you need to get in the party mood. Get slightly tipsy on about three sips of very weak shandy, much to the disbelief of the people you are with (they will think you’re putting it on).and limit yourself to three pints. Feel a bit sick later.

Do the washing up, sure – but always leave a little bit at the end. You won’t know why you do this, but you will feel compelled.

Wear your sports socks over and over, only washing them when they’re in dire need. What’s the point in making them clean when they’re only going to get dirty again in an hour’s time? The same applies to shorts and t-shirts. And only buy clothes when you really, really need them. Ensure that at least 80% of your wardrobe is blue. Try not to own a big coat.

Limit your possessions to the bare minimum – ideally what you can carry, but if you’re quite stable then what you can fit in the boot and back seat of a car is fine. Never keep paperwork, unless it’s receipts for things that might break, and try and have a clear out every few months. Owning a computer is useful, because then you can keep all your pictures, CDs, movies and writing on it. Give stuff away or sell it if you don’t need it. In this way, you’ll keep a very clear mind. Possessions weigh you down.

Make everything a competition. Get jealous about your partner’s exes and sexual history – but not so much that it makes you unpleasant. Sing lots, but never well. Start things, and have grand ideas, and be way better than average at almost everything, but never great. Admire your muscles in the mirror, and feel grateful that you don’t look or act your age. Lay naked in the sun when the opportunity arises. Enjoy your penis, but often forget it’s there. Walk barefoot. Have lovely fingernails. Mostly ignore your parents and never, ever telephone anybody, even though you have loads of free minutes on your mobile. Spend too much time on the computer, and make sure part of that time is spent just clicking things that don’t need to be clicked. When you hear something interesting or new to you, think to yourself, “I’ll look that up on Wikipedia/Google when I get home” – but only achieve this 12% of the time. Draw like a nine year-old. Throw rocks in the sea. Pretend nothing ever hurts you, unless you want some attention. Have no reflexes and tell people it’s because you’re one of the undead. In fact, make up lots of stories, even when people ask you simple questions, and then become puzzled when they say they don’t know where they stand with you. Smile lots, but don’t get too excited: it’s better to maintain a sort of equilibrium because what goes up must come down and all that. Feel sorry for the plight of your fellow man, and often think you should do something good for the world. Tell people you’ve never seen E.T. The Extraterrestrial. Tell people The Rocky Horror Picture Show is your favourite film. Enjoy carrying really heavy things, and also falling over (if you fall over while carrying something really heavy, and it falls on top of you, laugh lots and then think about it for years to come. Have a history for crashing cars. Rarely worry about things. Feel slightly uncertain in all your relationships, and wonder if it’s something to do with your upbringing, and just do the best you can. Talk about your feelings, and don’t keep things inside, because even though it’s difficult and challenging at times it’s probably much better in the long run. Type lots: just whatever comes into your head. Enjoy hammers, and tools of any kind. Feel more and more like a man all the time. Be overly critical of poor grammar and spelling (even though you make mistakes at times). Take terrible photographs (anybody can take good ones). Make sure that at least 50% of what you say is said with your tongue firmly in your cheek. Have really long baths, and watch movies in the bath, and always have a cup of tea with you when you’re in there. Believe that you can do anything you want.

Be sort of lazy. Have loads of potential but never fulfil even a tiny bit of it. Sort of drift through life without achieving very much. Make happiness in the moment your priority – but occasionally feel a pang of jealousy when your younger friends buy houses and land amazing jobs. Have loads of time of your hands, and sort of fritter it away.

Make love about four times a week. Take the dominant role and try and put your partner first. Pay really close attention to how stimulated you are, and try and put orgasm off for as long as possible – and always wish it was longer. Have a good time, and be quite dirty. Be faithful, and loyal, and true, and hardly ever flirt knowingly. Be very kissy and cuddly and affectionate. Grab boobs, and love them. Try and get your partner to make love in public places, even though you know they won’t do it. Watch all the porn under the sun and then lose interest in it. Be vocal; people seem to love that. Never feel anything but total adoration for your partner’s body and what they can do with it.

Eat cheese. Eat fish. Avoid meat, except for one frivolous time every two or three years. Know that you should be eating lots of vegetables and fruit, and do to some degree, but mostly live on toast and cereal. Dig samosas. Go out for Indian and All-You-Can-Eat Chinese (and eat pretty much all you can eat). Grab bargains when you go to the supermarket (half price, but one get one free, reduced at the end of the day). Eat salad and bananas in the summer; eat root vegetable soup in the winter. Every now and then buy a 500g bag of dates and eat the whole lot in one sitting; do the same with Bombay Mix also. Mostly avoid sugar, milk, processed foods, cheap shit, desserts, etc – but not in an obsessive way. Be a bit of a supermarket snob, only going into Asda, Morrison’s, Somerfield or the Co-op for small things or in moments of desperation (don’t even think about Netto); Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Waitrose is fine, and M&S for the occasional little thing (always be shocked about the price of food in there). Give up eating McDonald’s when you’re about 23. Prefer bananas that have just started to get black bits on them. If you want a treat, get 200g of Medjool dates. Mostly buy fizzy water, and also smoothies. Dig Marmite, and giggle when you give it to foreign friends and they start to be sick. Don’t waste food; that’s a sin. Eat loads and loads and loads.

Watch movies. Watch comedies too – preferably British comedies, although have a soft spot for My Name Is Earl. Don’t have a TV though; download stuff off the internet. Hero-worship Derren Brown and fantasise about becoming his apprentice, or at least flirting with him if you should ever meet. Adore The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Feel a pang of disappointment and distaste whenever you think about the third series of The Mighty Boosh. Tell as many people as you can about Snuff Box (but be careful when acting out the restaurant, “I know: you raped me!” scene at parties). Enjoy horrors and rom-coms. Generally, though, think most movies are cheesy and stupid and shite.

Often have your hands down your pants. And also down somebody else’s, if you are able.

Drink the spring water when you go to Glastonbury, and get blissed out, or peaced out, or giggly, or high, and believe in all that stuff. Believe in God, too, and occasionally talk to Him/Her/It, as though He/She/It is like your best friend (try to void conversations of that nature, though, unless you really feel it). Meditate way too infrequently, even though you know it’s good for you. See signs, and have occasionally visions; things like that. Visit saints, and when you do get all swept along and think, “what am I doing with my life? This is awesome. I should be doing more of this God-stuff” – and eventually learn to just let that feeling be, and then go back to your normal, wasting the day and not doing very much of import at all life. Believe in reincarnation, synchronicities, manifestation/the power of the mind, ghosts and angels, psychic powers, faith healing, miracles, fate and destiny. Mostly act as though none of that matters.

Use loads and loads of toilet paper to wipe your arse. Have about three shits a day, for some reason. Good ones, though.

Look down on people, and always find a reason to think yourself better than them. Don’t feel particularly good about this, and always try and be nice. In real life, at least.

Abhor smokers, and think them the scum of the earth. Tell them off when they do it places that they shouldn’t (unless they look mental and/or psychotic). Tut when you see people throwing litter too – and occasionally pick it up for them, because you remember how much you threw when you were a child. Hardly ever feel negatively towards anybody, though, and feel bemused at the amount of anger some people carry inside themselves. Try not to associate with people you don’t really like. Be bemused also at people that do, and then go away and complain about those people, and get upset by them. Believe that friendship is defined by the quality of your relationship with another, not merely because you happen to know them, or are too lonely to be without them. Be grateful and content if you have at least one person in your life at any given moment that you can express yourself to, and have fun with. Mostly, though, just have people you play sports with, but hardly know. And feel satisfied with that.

Apply for jobs, suddenly feeling that you'd like to do this particular thing. Love the interview. Don't care if you get it, just believe if it's meant to be it'll happen. Get a job, do it for a little bit, and then get bored. Quit after a while, or get fired, or manufacture something that leads to the same end product, it's all the same really. And then start the process all over again.

Believe that the things you endlessly type will be interesting to at least seven people, and that they will read them and understand them, and maybe take something from it. Never ever stop to think that this might not be the case. Or, even if you do stop to think that, just carry on anyway.

Marvel at your own genius. Why not?

25

London, eh? Four a.m. I’m biking through that city, Camden down to Marble Arch, and just as the time I was desperately hunting Twixes in downtown LA all I can think is, this world is doomed. Oh, the poor people! What happened to them? What are they doing out here when they should be tucked up warm in bed sleeping soundly and smiling in their dreams? And why do they look like zombies, or retards, or retarded zombie retards? There’s something just not right about this. Once upon a time they were bright-eyed babes in their mothers’ arms, crouching in dirt and curiously nudging beetles and worms…and now this. Sadness is the word that springs to mind.

Elsewhere, however, I win another three Mercy matches – two mighty tussles that took all I had – and I’m starting to think my self-appointed unofficial world champion title isn’t entirely unjustified. I mean, who is there to challenge my might? You? Well, come on then. Oh, what’s that? You can’t – you’ve hurt your little finger, maybe next week, when it’s better? Well what about you then? You fancy it? You do? You’re gonna do what? Let’s get it on then. Ah, didn’t think so. And you? No? And you? And you?

12

My girlfriend, she sure can be a moody so-and-so – and I find myself really hating it; if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a woman being miserable, snide, emotionally blank, saying she’s fine when she’s obviously not, withdrawing her love. It really, really gets to me. Wish I was one of those blokes who was just all into themselves, and left their partners crying out for attention and affection, and did his own things, telly and sport and pub, etc. That might make things easier.

She’s young, my girl; maybe that explains it. I dunno, I can’t remember what it was like to be young – but aren’t people just all into themselves at that age, and all up and down, remnants of teenage hormones, no real awareness of others and the needs of others. She can be pretty selfish at times too, and that bothers me as well. I watch her mum do everything for her, and she does nothing in return, and I’ve seen the way that I’ve given and given, and how she’s given so little in return. Is it youth? Or is it her? And does it really matter? ‘Cos aside from these unsaid things here – which I don’t feel I should or could say out loud (maybe if I had some real live friends), I do really like her – I’ve chosen to be with her, and things are going really well, and I can see myself being with her for a long time, should they continue in this vein. Just that certain things bother me, and I want to write them down.

One of them is blowjobs: maybe that seems daft but, man, when we first got together she was all over it, sucking and swallowing with gusto, loving it, making me feel great. Now, it hardly ever happens at all, and what I once got in a week is stretched over a two or three month period. Maybe that’s the female equivalent of the guy who buys you flowers and dinner and stuff, and then once he’s got you he stops. In any case, it makes me sad.

Another thing that bugs me is how lazy she is, how she can sit around all day doing nothing, reading trashy books that she doesn’t even like, watching trashy TV on youtube, reading magazines. She’s got so much talent, and she says this and that about using it, but to really get anywhere with talent you need to make an effort, put some work in, and I don’t see her doing that. She could be such a good singer, and such a good songwriter – but at the minute she seems content with playing crummy little gigs to friends and family, singing almost karaoke versions of other people’s songs, and being a superstar to a very small circle of drunks and nobodies. She wants to make something of herself, I know she does – but how can I support her in this? I think she’d better than that, but at present she refuses to get off her sometimes-growing arse. Meanwhile her mum runs around like a blue-arsed fly doing everything for her, after working twelve hour shifts, and that just bothers me more.

Her mum’s like this saint, and she’s done a really good job with raising her three daughters, giving them everything, giving overwhelming support and encouragement, even when she herself might be deflated and tired. But at the same time I think Perlilly’s been spoiled, got so used to having things done for her, and got so used to being loved and adored at the drop of a hat, that she finds it difficult when that doesn’t happen, when that doesn’t come from me. And so she gets mad when I don’t fawn over her every little thing, when I don’t drop everything I’d doing to pay compliment her on her performance or her latest haircut. She knows she’s been spoiled too, but that doesn’t make it much easier. But do you think I give a monkeys about hair? It’s just the thing that sits on top of your head! Sure, you go to a woman (when she’s just had it done) “that looks great,” and they’re happy with that, and you move on. But to be obsessed with it, to primp and preen – to be looking at me lovingly, and then to realise, oh, no, she’s not looking at me, she’s looking past me, at the mirror, at herself – that’s not of any interest to me. Yeah, I guess she’s pissing me off a bit at the minute. I guess I should explain.

She went to Leeds last week to get her hair done; the three weeks before that had been bliss, practically honeymoon-like, non-stop lovey-dovey and cuddles and happinesses. Then she went up there, for some God unknown reason, and had a Mohawk done, and had it died extreme blonde – which I’m not keen on – and I feel like she’s come back a different person. Nothing. No affection. No lovey dovey. No cuddles. Did something go on for her up there? No, I don’t think that. Did she get mad because I didn’t immediately ask her how her hair went, when she called me up in the middle of the only decent writing I’ve done in ages? Well, yes – but surely not for, what, four days now? But something’s gone on, and I don’t like it one bit. I wish the old her was back, mad hair and all; I wish I just got to see her how she actually is, beneath all the dye; I feel like I don’t recognise the person that’s lying two feet to the right of me. And that’s a shame.

But let’s talk about the good things. She’s a lovely girl. She’s bright, she’s funny, she’s got bags of potential. And just maybe, if the things I don’t like in her are as a result of her youth – well then, I’ve bagged a totally awesome human being ‘ahead of time’ (a bit like, what’s that thing called they do on internet chat rooms? That’s it: grooming). She’s got so much going for her – emotional intelligence, calmness, smarts, beauty, humour, talent, creativity, sex, and more – that, really, I shouldn’t complain, and should feel lucky. And I do. Just some days…things bother me – her foibles, her sniffing-round ex, her pettiness and moods – and then it makes me wonder. Makes me wonder what the point is. Makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be better off elsewhere. Makes me wonder if I love her.

And that gets me on to to a whole different subject: love.

I wonder about love; I always do. I wonder sometimes, do I love Perlilly as much as I loved Sara, my ex? It doesn’t often feel that I do – but what I have with each of them was different. Is it love just because it is passionate and tempestuous, and up and down and characterised by needs and wants? It certainly feels that way at times – and it certainly feels that that’s the kind of love we’re supposed to hanker after, if we believe what we see in our media, which is our primary teacher. I think that’s what I had with Sara – and, correspondingly, it was probably the love I had with my mum. Wanting. Never getting enough. And being criticised and told off. That’s what my mum was like, and that’s kind of what Sara was like, and maybe that’s why I think that was love. But know I’ve broken that and found someone that doesn’t make me feel like a bad person, who doesn’t criticise or nag, and I’m wondering what that is exactly. Perlilly is probably just what a person would be on paper if you had to jot down a list of traits in an ideal partner – save the absence of blow jobs and moods – and I do have to say to myself, in my moments of doubt, that I’d be mad to let her go. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with her; what’s the problem? The problem is, I guess, that I don’t feel that wanting, that needing, that desiring that somewhere I’ve been taught to want – except, of course, that I do when we’ve been broken up. But then is love something else? Is this constancy and harmony, respect and admiration and loyalty, something altogether more subdued and tranquil than the grand passions we see and hear about in our movies and TV programmes and books? Is love still wanting to hold hands after fifty years of marriage? Is love wanting to rush your partner into bed the moment you see them? Or is it somewhere in between? And how would you know anyway? I mean, does it even matter? What if love was just choosing someone of good character, that you enjoy spending time with, share a few common interests, and commit to? And watching it grow and grow over the years? Can you even see love in the beginning, or is it something that comes with time? It’s a sort of complicated matter! And one that I don’t know the answer to.

This, however, I do know: that most of our times are good; that she’s a darling person, trustable and honest, fun and intelligent and nice; and that I wouldn’t want to be without her, that I feel we have a future, that I like her lots and do, indeed, love her too. And sure, well, there are things that I don’t like to – no doubt, there are many things about me that she doesn’t like also – but the question doesn’t really seem to be: how can I iron those out? Or where can I find someone who doesn’t do those things? But how can I tolerate them, and accept them while still maintaining my happiness, and how can I get it into my thick head that people really are different, that no one’s perfect – certainly, I’m not – and that’s just the way it is? That, really, is the question that I need to answer – and the one I’ve probably been looking to answer for a very long time.

Maybe when I do that I’ll have understood a little bit more about this mystery called love.

And then, later that night, we meet in town and she tells me all about it. She tells me what’s been bothering her, why she can’t express it, and we talk about ways to manage the situation more easily in the future. Suddenly, connection is restored, and in an instant I’m thinking what a wonderful woman she is, and smiling, and everything is better again. The next day we make love – for the first time in about a week – and that seems to cement the whole process; we’re back together; we laugh. Hopefully she can remember next time, just to say me, “I need some time alone, I need to work a few things out, I’m not feeling great but it’s not you, I hope you’ll understand. I’ll be back to see you when I’m feeling better, and I’ll talk with you about it then, when I’m ready, but in the meantime I just can’t. But, please, it’s not you, I love you, I’m sure it’ll be all fine soon” – and then I won’t be left dangling.

And may I be able to find the presence of mind to do the same the next time I’m in a nark. But she really is a wonderful woman.

Cheers!

Rory

Batman review

Went to see Batman the other night; strange film. There was a point, probably about two thirds through, when I was thinking, I’m loving this (I think it was just after the woman died and that other bloke got burned) – but then, by the end, I’d become so utterly confused and overwhelmed with all the myriad goings-on I’d forgotten all about liking it, couldn’t remember any of the good bits, and was just thinking, how the hell did this get out of the studios without somebody saying, man, we gotta cut this shit down. I mean, I’m no professional – I’ve recorded a few of Perlilly’s songs; I’m a fairly decent amateur producer – but surely there can’t be any argument that that film was about forty-five minutes too long, and that all that stuff about Two-Face, the hospitals, the ships was pure excess. Sure, they were good ideas – but, for God’s sake, just ‘cos you’ve got loads of good ideas doesn’t mean you should stick ‘em all in one film; kill your babies, you know what I mean? Shame, ‘cos like the last James Bond before it, what could have been a really good modern action movie was spoiled by endless dragging it on when a good, snappy climax woulda left people wanting more, and not looking at their watches slash falling asleep like I was. Oh well.

It seems like there’s a real revised trend in movies these days for dragging ‘em out/making ‘em long. I blame Lord of the Rings. Now I’ve only seen the first one of those and, man, was that a tiresome experience! I swear, I thought it was gonna end like seventeen times – and then on and on it went, and by the end of it I was just pure sick of the thing. Same deal with those insane – and insanely terrible – Pirates of The Caribbean films (although I don’t think I’ve seen the first one; at least not without falling asleep; I’m told that ones not too bad). But I’ve no idea how they were so successful, so bewildering and all over the shop were the plots. And so drawn out. And it’s not even that I’m averse to long films: my favourite film of all time (The Good, The Bad and The Ugly) is well over three hours long and I could probably watch that every week for the rest of my life without getting bored. But I just don’t think the modern film makers seem to know how to do it.

Maybe the problem is this: a film like TGTBTU is a slow-burner, beautifully shot, interspersed with brief moments of action; these modern films like The Dark Knight are pure action adventure thrillers – and it’s just too much to maintain that level of emotional excitement for two, two and a half hours. And then they just keep piling it on, and trying to get it to build and build, and…why doesn’t somebody just say, stop, save it for the sequel, enough already? At least that’s what I would do. And, interestingly enough, I read the other day that that’s exactly what Tim Burton did when he made the first two modern Batman films twenty years ago: the studios and scripts wanted more characters (Robin, Two-Face, etc) and he and his writers said, no, we’ve got plenty, anymore will just clutter it up, and they chucked it in the bin. Oh, if only for a bit of wisdom like that!

So, if it was me, I woulda ended with Harvey Dent just being a half-scarred, burned-up bloke – ooh, fodder for the sequel, we like that – and ditched all the hospital/ferry/hostages in masks, criminals as hostages crap (what the hell was that about?) and cut straight to the chase; ie, made for the showdown a damn sight faster than they did. Hard to believe that Rotten Tomato users have given it a rating of 94%. Blinded by the hype, and by the critical success of the first one? Probably. It’s just so hard to believe that so many people can get paid so much money to make a film like this, and nobody at anyone time goes, but it will be a thousand times better if we just ditch all that. Or maybe it was only when they’d finished shooting that they realised they’d shot a load of extraneous crap, by which time, hell, who’s gonna say, you know that fifty million dollars we spent blowing up hospitals, etcetera – well, it was sort of a waste ‘cos we’re cutting it all out?

The Mist, on the other hand: now there was a film I found surprisingly enjoyable, given that all anyone talked about was the ending. But I liked it the whole way through. Apart from the shoddy CGI in the tentacle bit. Teeth I thought was a hoot as well.

And that’s me doing my film critic bit. Cheers!

August the First

So it seems like it was just two weeks ago that I sat down, frustrated, and wrote about how I couldn’t write, how it was too hard. Then I wrote, and finished two stories within a few days, and was feeling good. Now, though, I’m back; I’ve another story to do, to get back on schedule with the book, and it’s all getting too much for me again. Nothing’s happening. I feel overwhelmed. And though I come to the computer every day and think about doing it, I end up frittering away my time in other things. I’m a procrastinator. A waster. And I’m wasting my time.

I sent off some sample chapters of my hitch-hiking book a few weeks ago, and though some publishers and agents were quick to get back to me saying it wasn’t their cup of tea, one did show some interest, and ask for more, and apparently love it. Except, after reading the whole of Part One, and saying how well it would fit with their stuff, they said they’d already got an American travel narrative planned for 2009 and maybe if mine was more Mexican they could something, but otherwise…and that just filled me with sadness. I’ve been sitting on this story over six years; I finished Part One nearly two years ago. In the meantime, every man and his dog is putting out their travel adventure books and I’m seriously worried I’ve missed the boat. I mean, it’s twelve years since I went to New York. And, somewhat significantly, it’s ten years ago today that I had my life-altering epiphany in that Montana diner, around which the whole thing sort of hinges.

Ten years.

That sort of blows my mind. And fills me with sadness. And makes me want to cry.

I feel like a madman sometimes for wanting this. But I suppose I’ll have to carry it through to the bitter, bloody end, one way or another.

August the First, 1998 is the day/event I’m trying to recreate in my current short story, and it’s not going well. It’s not going well, probably, because it doesn’t sound like Raymond Carver, doesn’t have the hallmarks of the modern short story. Also, I think it’s harder to try and summon something up based on truth, rather than making it up as you go along; maybe I should stop doing that, I don’t know. And maybe it’s not as bad as all that; Perlilly read it and said it was really good, and I suppose I ought to trust that. But somehow I’ve given way to taking the easy way out – of losing myself in ridiculous facebook word games (about the only thing I’m good at) – and it’s just got worse and worse. Hopefully, though, I can just have a good old moan here, feel better, and then get it done; s’usually the way.

We’re quite a few paragraphs in, though, and I don’t feel any better yet…

What I really want to do is shout at something. What I really want to do is roll around on the ground going, “motherfucker! Motherfucker! Big bags of boiled fucking hen shit! Arse! Cock! Dickwad sucking bitch cunt whore!”

That’s what I really want to do.

Listen: I’ve got a brand new combine harvester and I’ll give you the key. We could go for a ride; we could go plough over some gypsies and use the children’s broken bones as wind-chimes, stand by the side of the road and sell them to passing drunken Indians (those dumbasses will buy anything) and then with the proceeds we’ll head on down to ye olde Tesco’s, buy a little bread and cheese, and picnic it up in an old man’s hat, swim with geese, smother ourselves in olive oil and roll in feathers and pretend we’ve just won a pair of Leeds United season tickets but watched them blow away in the wind without a care in our green-blue ears. Would you like that? Would you like to join me? Or would you prefer to sit around all day buttering toast and sweating into a cup, as if that’s gonna halt the plight of the rain forest/win you an Olympic gold at this summer’s games? I mean, I mean, I mean: the choice is yours.

Your brown-haired lover isn’t welcome here in my toothbrush any more! You’ve got a skidoo for a father! Your little tiny barn dance twin sauce hassle left and cornucopia of dribbled monkeys, forsooth! I claim umbrage for Constantinople; you, therefore, are not allowed to lick my shoulder. Come and have a goo if you fink you’re lard enough! Oh, fish tank! Oh, Carmen’s hairs! Oh, bubbles and chiclets in Mexico’s final countdown! This brown love of ours will never cease to amaze me; do please wrap me in your arms, and smooth my hair, and in whispers assure me that all is well, and all be well, and take away this pain of drain in brain, Wayne. If only Mercedes could come in and blast away at my little tooth! Then we’d be laughing.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Good night!