Electric Buzzsaw

You absolute twit

2010-04-01T02:07:00.001+01:00

Yeah, I'm on twitter, like everyone else. If you follow me, I will tell you a joke a day; that's nice, isn't it?

You got no people skills!

2010-03-28T04:56:00.001+01:00

Let's put on a chauvinism!

2010-03-28T04:53:00.001+01:00

Liquid Soap update

2010-02-02T15:31:00.002Z

The BBC did an article on Liquid Soap. It's now been nominated for a Royal Television Society award, and apparently over 90, 000 people have visited the website. Which surprised me, I never really thought it would take off.

Did I mention that I wrote and acted in the second episode? No? Maybe because I've shut up about it after seeing just how hideous I look in it. Seriously, I do not know what I was thinking with that hair. Anyway, if you have no particular affection for your eyes, you can see my episode here.

More Howard Designs

2010-01-07T14:54:00.000Z

You do the maths

2010-01-01T19:15:00.006Z

Waterstones are good. They are very good at what they do. By which I mean selling books. Not only do they own shops that you can walk into to view the books, and bring them to a counter a purchase them, no no. They provide very special 'deals', forcing you into a life of debt.

They are devious these book sellers. I was caught out yesterday when I saw that they were selling the new Hornby for just £4.49. Bargain, I thought. Only on closer inspection of the book's sticker did it transpire that this price only became available when your total purchase was £10 or over. OK, a little cheeky, but fair enough. I found a suitable partner for the Hornby, (That Mitchell and Webb Book, for those who are interested) and went to pay.

Now by this point, I was already invested in my purchase, I was anticipating soon owning them, doing with them as I willed, whether that be reading them, or something far seedier. E.g. makeshift doorstop.

It was only when I went to make my purchase that it further transpired (or should I say, 'conspired' !?!?!) that I needed to have already spent £10 in order to receive the Hornby discount. I could have, and perhaps should have walked away then, lobbing the books at the distressed assistant, crying my outrage at such daylight robbery. But I was too far gone, already too attached to my purchases (It's Hornby for chrissakes!)

So in order to save myself £2.50 from the RRP, I instead spent £22 on books that I had no intention of buying half an hour before. They're good.

Maybe Later

2010-01-01T17:05:00.004Z

Sorry to everyone who was expecting a Makeup tutorial video this week. I've filmed it, and was in the process of editing it when I realised how it could be so much more awesome. So I've asked a fellow youtuber if he could provide the voiceover for the piece, and it's not for definite, but he may be able to fit me in next month. I think the potential collaboration is worth waiting for, so I'll try and resume the regular vlogs as soon as I can get round to it.

Also if you hadn't noticed, I've stopped posting my videos here (if you think this is a bad idea, tell me why), so go make a youtube account and subscribe to me or join the Facebook page to keep up to date with me.

Take care you guys x

Finding Howard

2009-12-11T15:28:00.007Z

OK, so as some of you who I speak to may already be aware, I'm setting a website called (atm) 'Howard Bingleton Solves Social Situations with Science'. Howard is a fictional character, and his website is a guide for surviving modern life. He knows not everyone is cool or sexy, and he's the first to admit that he's neither, but he argues there are rules you can follow, algorithms to prevent you making a tit of yourself (my words, not his).

Illustrating the website for me is Liz Greenfield, you can see her other examples of her work at www.lizgreenfield.com

Along with each article, Liz will provide an appropriate image of Howard to really spice the whole thing up. I'm very excited about it all, but we still haven't quite figured out what Howard should look like yet, so I'm posting some of Liz's sketches, with the hope that you'll tell me which ones you like, or seem to fit his voice. And beneath the images, here's a prototype article of what will be appearing on the website once it gets online. Please please please comment, and let me know what you think.

How to hug a woman

In your friendship with women, there will come a time when they will let you touch them. They are very specific about where, and for how long, but this is contact all the same. Women call this Hugging. It is not the petting zoo you might have imagined, there are strict rules to follow, and cries of sexual harassment if you don’t.

Many people hug, so it’s important to remember that it’s a convention, not a privilege. Accordingly, you shouldn’t view it as a chance to ‘cop a feel’, but instead, behave responsibly, and return the hug without implications.

The First Hug

The first hug is the most exciting and dangerous. It will tell you a lot about the woman, and how they feel about you. It will become a template from which all future hugs will spring. Get it right first time, and you’ll soon be hugging with no clothes on for minutes at a time.

One of the many rules is that you let the lady dictate the pressure, but it’s difficult to gauge this on the first hug, as it will last only a matter of moments, so it’s best to play it safe.

The first few hugs will be more a meeting of the shoulders as you lean towards each other, instead of any torso-to-torso intimacy. Let your arms rest on them, whilst applying only minimal pressure. I call this The Drape. It is relaxed and non-threatening. Remove your arms as soon as she begins moving away. Keep it simple, and without any excessive flourishes.

Words to describe actions you should avoid:

1. Stroking
2. Caressing
3. Lingering
4. Grinding
5. Tonguing

If you’re worried about your technique, practise on a large cushion. If you can hold the cushion without changing its shape, then you’ve got it right.

Key to knowing if you’re pressing too hard:

1. You feel her breasts flatten against you.
2. She screams.

2009-12-07T15:31:00.000Z

Latest Special K

2009-11-29T11:44:00.000Z

Special K: That's not my name

2009-11-25T14:41:00.000Z

I've been trying to upload this for like a week, and now it's here in all it's disappointing glory. Should have the next vid up in a few days. Enjoy.

For all you nostalgic folks

2009-11-13T17:36:00.000Z

New Special K

2009-11-05T20:05:00.001Z

Little update and more Special K

2009-10-27T13:00:00.001Z

I know, I know. I haven't made any real posts in ages; fobbing you off with extracts from la novel, and now videos from some shmuck called Special K.

I do miss writing the blogs, but I'm a busy boy these days. At the moment I am:

* Setting up an actual website, with content and everything
* Writing a radioplay
* Working on the novel
* Making weekly videos
* Other boring uni stuff
* Watching Grey's Anatomy

I might find some time to write something proper in the future of some alternate universe, but for now, this will have to do.

If you're new to this site, then take a look around, there's some good stuff in the archives I reckon.

Special K: Too Feminine?

2009-10-19T19:19:00.000+01:00

This one is a bit random, soz.

Special K: Is that my friend?

2009-10-12T19:49:00.000+01:00

New Vlog: Special K hates horny drivers

2009-09-28T17:35:00.000+01:00

This was a bitch to upload, being almost a gb, it took five hours. Which I had to do twice! I stopped enjoying it a few days ago, but hopefully as my computer skills improve, I'll be able to get these videos out faster. Just waiting on a new tripod so I can resume filming. Enjoy

Vlog Launch

2009-09-21T18:25:00.000+01:00

Hello friends, I have an announcement to make. You can now see me in animation. Wonder no longer about how handsome I really am, see for your self!

OK, so it's my first video, it's a little rough, a bit rambly, but I'm new to this. Even if my videos never quite break out of mediocre, there shall always be enjoyment in the title sequence, which would be nothing if it weren't for my exploited friends.

Irisz Heathershaw assisted me in creating the logo, and Stephen Barlow knocked together the jingle in under three hours when I arrived on his doorstep and demanded he help me. He would also like me to point out that I requested the solo guitar be amped up. It was just so camp I couldn't help myself.

I would like to sincerely apologise to them for making such impositions when they both so busy, and to express my deepest gratitude and awe for their work.

Sorry for neglecting you

2009-09-15T23:44:00.001+01:00

So I finally came back with another actual blog post, and not a cop-out excerpt. Allow me to apologise profusely to all ten people who actually follow this blog, really, you guys mean a lot to me. I was pretty dismayed to see that I only managed one post in August. That's pretty pathetic, especially compared to my fifteen in January.

For the time being, most of my creative juices are being expended on the novel, which is sometimes going well. Looks like it's gonna need another couple of months before I finish it, and that's before I even get down to editing the son of a bitch.

For those interested in any of my other creative exploits, I've ordered a lovely Creative Vado HD which I'll be using to start vlogging. Will this replace my blogs? Probably not. But I think the website that I'm setting up for my third year will. Stay tuned for more deets. Or follow me at my twitter.

Why smokers look so cool and how to stop them

2009-09-15T23:42:00.000+01:00

There’s something about the act of smoking that speaks to me of moral corruption. Perhaps it’s because I have always wanted to, but never dared. The teachers from school and parents, the institutions of guardianship, instilling their values so thoroughly, their voices loud with an unquestionable truth. Smoking is bad.

Perhaps this is why smokers appear so dangerous to me. If they’re willing to do that to themselves, where do they draw the line for others? All I’m saying is that second hand smoke is just a taster of what they’re capable of. These people habitually carry around the tools to start fires.

For them, smoking is freeing. It’s a gateway into a life of anti-authority. They’re aware of the overwhelming evidence which condemns them to a shorter lifespan. They read the block capital portents of misery and infanticide on every packet, and ignore them, becoming stronger with each tiny act of rebellion.

In truth, I’m jealous; I’m weak enough to actually feel threatened by a slow and tar ridden death. But perhaps this is what appeals to them. They are controlling their own death, deciding their fate. Leaving the door unlocked for that assassin, so they can greet him in their armchair, and rasp their goodbye. People have been dying from cigarette related illnesses for years. There’s a certain comfort in that, in the predictability of the symptoms, which can be traced and measured, related anecdotally to other smokers, charted against each other, graphing their own timeline, whilst sharing a hacking and face-purpling laughter.

It would seem the government has mistaken humanity's health concerns. Smokers share cigarette packet labels, these banners of mortality with a private revelry, buying cigarettes not by brand, but instead by effect: “Can I get the ‘Causes harm to unborn babies,’ please?” If we can’t appeal to a smoker’s health, then perhaps we can appeal to their wallet, displaying instead the price in wide bold letters, £5.45, and what this equates to in their life, such as an hours’ wage, or a Coldplay album.

If we take this further, each packet would come with a calculator to determine what else they could have bought compared to what they spend in a year. The results wouldn’t show the meaningless numbers, but instead precious items in a glorious and high definition display. I’m not thinking so much rubies, but Xboxs, cashmere garments and conservatories. Or for developing countries, twenty camels.

From what I can understand though, the real reason many people start smoking is because it looks cool, and there’s very little evidence to undermine this claim, because it does. All musicians and actors smoke. Fact. Or at least the cool ones do. There’s something very mysterious about a figure with a cigarette. They’re introspective, probably because their hands are occupied, they have no choice but to confront their thoughts. When I think of smokers, I think of an unshaven man sipping whiskey at a bar, staring into the middle distance. Unapproachable, untouchable. Or a writer pouring over a manuscript, squinting through his haze of smoke. These are images cast from film, but the reality is much less cinematic. We have to be aware that cigarettes are like berets, people who own them tend to have smelly breath.

And wear stripy blue and white shirts. And speak French. What I’m saying is that there are side effects. But then again, we live in a world of skinny jeans and high-heeled shoes, piercings and tattoos. In youth we constantly sacrifice comfort for image, looking ahead only far enough to realise the immediate impact, and screaming to our future selves, “Fuck you future self!” And our future selves, who stopped caring about the way they look the day they wore slippers to Tesco, who feel only embarrassed by the Chinese character tats that were once emblazoned on a chest taut with muscle, but now sag unreadable, beneath three layers of wool. They think about their young unruly selves, how they were such a different person, only connected by memories, and they moan back to the past in phlegmy rattling breaths, “Damn you past self, damn you…”

Excerpt 4 - David and the trophy cabinet

2009-09-02T13:05:00.000+01:00

In the university main house, in the hallway that visitors and prospective students are most often ferried down is a long wall smothered in framed photographs. Photographs from fifty years ago to the near present, of high achievers, and graduates, receiving various awards, medals, trophies and oversized cheques. In the centre of this hallway is the glass cabinet housing these accolades of student achievement, these embodiments of graduate brilliance. Valueless metal cups are inscribed all the way round and down with names that have lost all meaning, of dubious characters whose deepest impressions were left on these glorified containers. What promise these names must have once held, but where are they now? What kind of stories unfolded after these displays of heroic sport and grand intelligence?

Would there be the usual tales of marriage, children and the eventual divorce? From rising to the giddy heights of regional manager of a prominent paper company, to the mid-life crisis, that led to cashing in that old life in search of something new, young and dangerous. Or did these individuals live blessed lives? Was this merely the beginning, the first realisations of the kind of potential that they would learn to harvest?

I read the names, instantly forgetting them, as if they were the ingredients to recipes made up in the kitchens of talentless, yet enthusiastic cooks. They feel familiar, the kind of names you read in a phonebook, lumped together with thousands of others, all written in the same small and neat font. Impossible to distinguish from one another, they seem doomed to averageness. These impressions left on these unremarkable awards are just a blip in lives that quickly resumed normal paths, unexplained anomalies, but proudly recounted to future partners and offspring.

There is one recurring name, one name which draws the eye again and again, as if it were etched more deeply, and more conspicuously onto the awards: David Misen. It is my brother’s face that I see again and again, shaking the hands of the university principal and the heads of staff from various denominations of sport, English and philosophy. Everyone smiles in these pictures. They smile so broadly, it would seem impossible to link these smiles with the death of the most promising student of the university’s history. Looking at these pictures, no one could see anything but brilliance in that smile. No one could say that suicide made sense.

“Must be weird, seeing your brother everywhere,” says Natalie. She has crept up on me; I have no idea how long she’s been standing there – how long she’s been watching me watch my brother. How long have I been standing here?

“I’m used to it. There were plenty more of these at home.” Almost every picture we have of David is professionally shot, whilst he shakes the hands of important men. Men David earned respect from, even from a young age. I can’t think of any pictures that contain us together above the age of six.

“And what about you, are there many pictures of you at home?”

“I don’t think there is enough room.”

She smiles sadly at me, expressing not only her sympathy towards me, but my right to her sympathy. Natalie has an air of understanding everything you say, as if she’s not just hearing the words, and not just seeing what you want her to see when you express yourself, but also what you wanted to say, but felt too embarrassed to share. Somehow Natalie knows all that I want to hide, and simultaneously assures me that it is okay.

I wonder how well she knew my brother, and what she understood about him. Perhaps she knows something I don’t. “I had no idea David had left such an impression here. Though it doesn’t surprise me, it’s just…he never said.”

“I don’t think David thought too much of all this,” she points to the cabinet of applause, as if she thinks as little of it as David did. How well did she know him? How well did she understand him?

“It just makes me realise that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. Especially since he came here. We spoke occasionally online whilst he was away, but the last time I actually saw him, actually heard his voice was before he went away for his second year.”

“You only have to ask, David knew a lot of people, perhaps if you start asking, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“What I’m looking for? I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“Answers?”

Who gets social etiquette? - Not me

2009-08-11T16:12:00.000+01:00

I hate social etiquette; of course I respect politeness to a certain degree, but as a mainframe, as a body of rules driven in to me; overriding my ability to respond to questions in a reasonable and true way, it is a lot of bother.

Take for example those instances when something is offered to you, in British homes this is traditionally a biscuit. This may take the form of a custard cream, or a Hobnob if you’re really lucky. Somewhere inside me, on someone warped level, there is a belief that it is rude to accept this domestic gift, particularly on the first offer. It’s so minimal that it hardly exists, and yet it provokes this kneejerk reaction of “No thank you,” whether I fancied a Bourbon or not. What is this ingrained reaction? Is it some Catholic hangup, from the same group of people who made us think sex is naughty?

Whatever the case, once I’ve rejected the first offer, it becomes increasingly difficult to subsequently contradict your answer, for fear of being ‘awkward.’ If by their third offer you still haven’t agreed to that cup of tea, there’s no sensible way of changing your mind and keeping your dignity intact. By that point you’re too far-gone, they already know how things are going to play out, and the third offer is just a courtesy. They’ve likely resigned themselves to remaining seated – already mentally relaxing – knowing that they aren’t going to have to negotiate your bizarre demands of two dashes of milk, three quarters a spoonful of sugar, and a drop of vanilla honey from Mount Mainalo.

One of the worst case scenarios for not accepting a host’s hospitality is when you are asked first amongst a group, and not wanting to put the host out, you politely decline, only to feel an increasing amount of regret as every other guest accepts the offer, thereby making your sacrifice redundant. What’s worst about this situation is that it’s nearly impossible to forego your initial response; the level of embarrassment is equivalent to making a public apology.

In these cases we seem to be punished by our social laws, but experience tells us that they protect us as well. In the last instance the most you can lose is a digestive, perhaps a Jaffa Cake if you’re very unlucky, but what if you were to say yes, hoping to lead the pack by example, saying, ‘It’s okay to accept,’ only for them to turn their back on you, and one after another decline the offer; leaving you stranded on your island of gluttony and social exclusion.

Despite the guidelines that social etiquette provides, enabling us to get by without offending anyone, whilst simultaneously winning them over with our impeccable politeness, I can’t help but find some elements distasteful. I’m speaking of the general dishonesty and phoneyness that pervades social occasions. Such as the time when you receive birthday presents on your birthday, and you have to say things like, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” and smile sincerely, all the while reaching out to gladly receive, but at the same time displaying that tiny possibility that you’re not going to accept it, that it would be presumptuous of you to do so. And you wouldn’t want that.

WTF?

In what way is it presumptuous to expect gifts on one of the two days of the year where the act of present giving and receiving is not only warranted, but encouraged? God knows you’ll be annoyed if they don’t, however well you hide it, and I usually find the ones who are most obvious about their displeasure at not receiving presents are the same who act most surprised when they do.

I myself find it difficult to engage in this day-to-day pretence, of always being delighted by acts of kindness or generosity, especially as most of them are so predictable. Such as the mock row and fight over who gets to pay for dinner:

“No, no. I insist.”
“Well, I doubly insist!”
“It doesn’t matter, you paid last time.”
“But that was only for the two of us at a fast-food joint, it hardly compares.”
“Be that as it may…”

How easily I lose this fight. When someone makes an offer once, that is more than enough for me. Case closed. You win. Game over. Lights out. Short declarative sentence. See you later.

Excerpt 3

2009-07-29T19:59:00.000+01:00

When you’re drinking, it doesn’t matter whether you know the people you spend time with. You’re all just so happy to have company. We sit on a long couch that extends across the back wall of the upstairs room in the club. People talk over circle tables across from the couch. This is not a booth, this is not our contained world, we are connected with the other drinkers. I drain the rest of my beer. I need to be drunk. I need to feel connected. A guy sitting next to me starts to clap.

“Reeehh!” he says, and puts his arm around me. He takes a large gulp from his own lager, letting it spill over his face. He wipes away the dripping lager with his forearm and then levers his head upward to belch loudly; using his whole torso to create an impressive rumble that sounds like thunder from a distance. He turns to me and raises his eyebrows. Is he trying to challenge me?

“You alright, mate?” he says.

“Yes, are you well?”

“Fucking ace, mate!” he nods drunkenly.

I wonder what he means with his insistence of the word, ‘mate’. I wonder if he truly means to befriend me, and if he thinks that by calling me ‘mate’ he can convince me that we are already friends. I am not easily manipulated, and don’t appreciate when people are dishonest with me. Why can’t we be more accurate with our labels, and call each other ‘Stranger’ or ‘Suspicious Drunk’?

Kanye West says, “Let's get lost tonight, you can be my black Kate Moss tonight.”
“Fucking choon!” says Excessive Lad.

“We’re gonna hit the dance floor again,” says Fraser, “you coming?”

As much as I want to be away from Uneducated Troglodyte, I can’t stand the thought of re-entering that pit of sweating and oversexed bodies. “I’ll stay here,” I say.

“You sure?” says Daisy, surprised that I’d picked bonding with a male stranger over the euphoria of the dance floor.

My housemates leaves, but Meathead’s arm remains. Has this not overstepped the mark of masculine camaraderie to a come on? His friends seem to think nothing of it. They look as trashed as he does. His arm connects me, by association; I’ve now become part of his group.
I look around the room to see who is looking at me. I will meet their eyes and tell them that this is normal. Do I want to be part of this group? I want to join this group as much as I want Kevin to pant in my face. People can’t tell this though, there’s no way they can read my thoughts, but they can read my face. And what face am I wearing? I try to smile, but it probably looks unconvincing. People can tell a fake smile, there are a lot of facial muscles that don’t get used in a fake smile. I’ve read you can tell by looking at the eyes. I wouldn’t have this problem online; there is time to edit yourself, to present whatever image you choose. There are representative emoticons. Smileys. I will wear a smiley. Maybe people won’t notice, I’ll be so normal. Maybe too normal, strikingly normal. But someone has noticed.

She’s tall and slender, like a model. It’s times like these you realise that most girls aren’t built like models. Most girls are short and fat or tall and broad – bulky. She’s not a model at all, no ones looking up to her (besides literally), she’s a freak. She sticks out like a sore thumb on a row of toes. I notice her because she’s just come up the stairs. I notice her because the first thing she does is look at me. She looks at me as if she was looking for me, and now she’s found me, she’s not turning away.

We lock eyes, something I’m not usually good at. I find it hard to maintain eye contact with women because when you see them looking at you it means they can see you looking at them. She’s walking over now, and she’s biting her lip. She’s got something to ask me or something important to tell me and I can’t look away. I just can’t believe she’s still looking at me, and coming towards me, just as if we know each other. Do we know each other? Perhaps sometime from the first semester? Is her name Karen?

She’s crossed half the room now and isn’t changing course, it’s too much now. I break her gaze and look to the rugby players that I’ve somehow become a part of. I don’t want her to think this is who I am. I take Meathead’s arm from around my neck and place it in his lap. He turns to me, looking hurt. I just rejected him. He then turns to the girl fast approaching, and his mouth falls open stupidly.

She strides the whole way, and doesn’t break her motion until she’s sitting next to me. I continue staring ahead. If I keep looking ahead, maybe we’ll just forget that we were even looking at each other. She’s sitting so close to me, her hip is touching mine, and she’s cold, as if she were a dead body left to float down stream. She floated and drowned for so long, but then she finally shored and she got up and sat next to me. She could be dead or in my head, but Meathead saw her. In fact, he’s still looking at her.

“Ahrun?” she says, turning to me.

Our faces are very close now. I can’t smell her breath, but I’m worried she can smell mine.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I know your brother, David.”

“You mean, knew.”

“Yes, I knew him very well.”

I’m almost afraid to ask, and I already think I know the answer, “Were you his girlfriend?”

“Yes, at one point. Your brother had a lot of girlfriends.”

“My brother had a lot of girlfriends,” I say in wonder. Of course, it makes perfect sense. He was handsome, though not as handsome as me, and a genius, and a charmer. He was always the charmer. I guess I figured he’d be a catch, but he never told me about his girlfriends.

Meathead says, “Mate, do you know this bird?”

“Natalie,” she corrects.

“She knew my brother,” I say.

“Who was your brother?”

“David Misen,” says Natalie.

“Misey?” Meathead says back, his eyes becoming moons.

What the fuck does he mean, Misey?

“Lads, lads” Meathead says to his fellow Meatheads, “this is fuckin’ Misey’s brother!”
The rugby players all turn to me with the same mooneyes as Meathead. I am the brother of David Misen. I am the brother of a dead guy. The amount of awe is overwhelming, there is too much of it for anyone to say anything, only for them to breathe heavily and gape. I’ve had to become used to this reaction, no doubt they will now feel impelled to share their experiences with me.

“Mate,” says one of them, “your brother was a good player. He was a fucking tank. I mean, he was a fucking weed, but people just couldn’t take him down. It was like his feet were roots that went deep into the earth, he was always upright. At the end of every game his kit was always as clean as when he first put it on,” he licks his lips. “It was like people were afraid of touching him. Like they might break him. No one wanted to be responsible for destroying something so rare; there was so much potential in those bones, in that face. You could see it. And when people grabbed hold of him, their hands never stayed, like they got burned, like he was on fire.”

A hushed sense of held breaths falls over the rugby players, as if they think their words might break what is left of David. This is all that is left of David, the words of others. Even the music seems to have drop a few notches, out of respect, but more like it’s been muted by a filter that makes it sound like it’s on the other side of a wall. They do this in dance tracks.

“Why the fuck he have to go kill himself?” The players turn to me, looking to me for the answer to this question. And who else are they going to turn to. I’m his brother. I’m the brother of someone who killed himself. Only he didn’t kill himself.

What they’re looking for is family tragedy, so I’ll tell them what they think they know, “David was a genius, but he paid the price. He thought too deeply about things. Things that are best not thinking about.” Of course this untrue. David was the most well adjusted person I knew, at least in our family. Our family has a history of malfunction. My grandfather and two uncles committed suicide. My dad might have killed himself if he hadn’t have been killed first. History has a way of repeating itself, and when suicide gets into a family, it gets set on a loop. The same story, again and again. I always figured it would be me. I think even my mum thought it would be me. I’ve felt something from when I was about six. A very real desire, sometimes a whimsy to extinguish my life, or just a life. I become paralysed when I cross over railway bridges. What if I were to suddenly throw myself over? Half an hour later I think, I could be dead now. I can’t decide whether this is terrifying or liberating. It doesn’t seem so bad to not be living anymore.
Natalie says, “Your brother became very distant before he died.”

“The last time I spoke to him, he was happy,” I said, “then three months later we received a phone call to inform us of his death.”

“He became very preoccupied in his final months, he wasn’t his usual self.”

“Did he become involved with anyone? Dangerous people?”

“He was involved with everyone. Everyone knew him, and everyone loved and admired him.”

“David didn’t do this to himself. He couldn’t. He wasn’t able to.”

“You don’t think David killed himself?”

He mustn’t have killed himself. It’s important to me that he didn’t kill himself.

House Hypochondria

2009-07-24T01:13:00.000+01:00

House M.D is a hospital drama about solving medical mysteries. The ailments are almost always fatal and the patients are almost always saved from the jaws of death, or about 38 minutes into the 40 minute episodes. If we were to breakdown an episode, most of it concerns the specialist and expert crew of House’s (that’s Hugh Laurie) lackeys brainstorming potential suspects (it’s usually a tumour), whilst prescribing the wrong treatment three or four times, nudging their patients ever closer to death, as the time ticks loudly away.

It sounds like a good show, I know – that’s why I watch it. The intro to each episode starts with a new set of characters who seem healthy enough, or show only the mildest of clues that they may be ill – a cough, a twinge, a bleeding anus. So each episode is a guessing game of whose seriously ill. You see teenager reach for his prescription medicine, and you begin to think, this guy ain’t looking so good. But it’s usually a red herring, because his mum is now clutching her chest as she takes a sharp intake of breath. The onset of a cardiac arrest? No, it’s turns out to just be heartburn because who’s really got our attention now is the boy with cream coming out of his ears as he goes into a seizure. The point here is that, everyone seems healthy enough, and the person who hits the deck is never who you think it is. How is that these people, who exhibit little or no symptoms, are suddenly attacked by the most violent and often humiliating of viruses?

This show seems to be suggesting that this is how life-threatening illnesses make themselves apparent. Striking without warning and with maximum damage or a mysteriously bleeding anus (that one’s happened a few times, actually). This must be the worst show to watch for hypochondriacs, as it encourages the view that even common symptoms are indicative of something far more foreboding. I myself have fallen prey to this alarmist response to anything unusual in my body’s function. Every twitch of the eye, creak of the neck, every skipped heartbeat and bleeding anus becomes transformed into a death sentence, masquerading under the names lupus, Wilson’s disease and lymphoma (my medical knowledge has skyrocketed since tuning in). It’s become difficult to function since worrying about every hurty knee and itchy nipple (so far just temporary).

What’s scarier still is just how fast the patient’s health declines, and how it pushes the genius House to his mental limits until someone makes an off the cuff remark about another case that just happens to link to his, like, “the woman’s having twins,” or perhaps someone’s anecdote triggers a moment of realisation, shown through a big close up of House. With a face that says, ‘My god, it’s been there all along. It’s been staring us in the face this whole time, how could I have been so stupid? Wilson!’

Of course, most of the ailments are easily treatable, so that the episodes can end happily, but the bigger problem facing the team of specialists is the correct diagnosis. Throughout each episode they exhaust so many options, performing expensive tests one after the other. You get the sense that normal doctors are idiots, and if weren’t for this detective department that is unique to that hospital, all these patients would die, the reasons only becoming clear on autopsy.

So where can we turn? If you’re British, you’re lucky enough to have the NHS. What’s great about the NHS is its self-diagnosing facilities on its website. Now an informed database of symptoms and their corresponding illnesses can be accessed by those who looking for comfort in their time of worry. It uses a traffic light system to let you know how scared you should be. Green is ‘visit your GP.’ This is the least scared you should be, and yet you still need to see a doctor. There are apparently no symptoms where the website simply tells you to ‘Not bother, there’s nothing to worry about.’ I would at least expect a ‘Put an icepack on it you idiot.’ Surely a program with such a wealth of knowledge could afford to be more specific in such minor cases of health issues, such as ‘apply Deep Heat to area of pain’ or ‘make vertical incision along trachea.’

What should be next in this traffic light system is amber (it’s orange, really), but the NHS feels that anything more urgent than a skin rash is a serious threat, and so you are presented with a red page that screams at you to dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. And if the whole red page thing didn’t quite shout danger enough, they’ve also provided an exclamation point in an orange triangle.

The combination of shows like House M.D and the NHS’s hysterical advice page is enough to send hypochondriacs into a frenzy. I can understand the sensationalism of entertainment, but the NHS is basically asking for timewasters and really annoying ‘self-diagnosers.’

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my nipples are raised again, which either means I’m cold, or dying. The emergency services have been informed.

Liquid Soap Official Trailer

2009-07-21T18:51:00.000+01:00

Trailer found here.

Enjoy

The Best of Keyboard Cat

2009-07-18T14:42:00.000+01:00

I'm sure you're all aware of the wonderful keyboard cat, so I present to you the best three videos inspired by this phenomenom.

This is also absolutely genius, and must not be missed.

Excerpt 2

2009-07-15T17:50:00.000+01:00

This week is another excerpt from the novel. Is this laziness? I guess so, but I'm also writing more than I ever have and am just plain struggling to maintain this blog as well. This will probably be the case until the end of September. If these excerpts don't feel adequate enough a replacement then kick up a fuss and I'll try harder. Little context for this passage, Ahrun, the protagonist, is in a nightclub. Enjoy.

* * *

I see many familiar faces of students from different classes. Their names escape me. I knew them only last semester, and now we know each other no longer. When their eyes meet mine they don’t register recognition, because all they see is a stranger. This is not true of all students though. Some of them can’t shake the fact that we no longer need to speak anymore. One such catches my eye, his name is Kevin and he has acne. He nods casually at me, I nod back, thinking nothing of this harmless exchange, but he’s misread my nod, he thinks I’ve called him over.

Clubs aren’t designed for talking. They’re for the wordless communication, the mating rituals that existed before chivalry and language.

“Hey,” he says, reaching me. His voice carries easily despite the deafening decibels that drown out all else.

I say hi back, but I can’t even hear myself.

“How’s it going?” he says, stepping forward. The fetid stench of wine breath punches me in the face.

I assure him all is normal, and return the question. Can he even hear me?

“Yeah, haven’t seen you around in a while,” he says this as if this is a great shame, but can he really mean it? Or is his insincerity so honed, so practised, it is indistinguishable from his sincerity? Can he even tell which he is being?

I return the sentiment, and make a wry observation about it being part of the uni experience.

He laughs politely, expelling clouds of condensed stink into my mouth. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t standing so close to me. Why is he standing so close to me?

I take a step back but he immediately presses forward, afraid he might lose me. He touches my arm to steady himself. He’s very drunk.

“What modules are you taking this semester?” I’m looking in all directions but directly at him to avoid the full force of his mouth funk.

I tell him my modules.

“Yeah, I was thinking of taking ‘Cornish Cinema’ but I didn’t have good enough grades from college.”

I start to edge away again, leaning and shuffling, making incremental and indiscernible movements to widen the gap between us. Kevin doesn’t realise on any conscious level what I am doing, but when it is soon apparent that there is now a foot in distance between us he becomes uncomfortable and closes the gap, almost stepping on my shoes. I can see the bristles of his fluffy moustache quiver as his toxic vapour spills out of his face.

“What are you up to?” he says.

I make like I can’t hear him, even though everyone within five metres can hear him. He moves closer and grabs hold of me, bringing his mouth to my ear, “What are you up to?” he says loudly. My eardrum shakes unpleasantly, but at least it has no sense of smell.

Drinking, I scream in his ear, hoping it hurts. This is it. This conversation has come as far as it can. He should know to leave now, that there is nothing to be gained by hanging around. It can only become more awkward. But he just stands there. The fool is smiling; he’s enjoying my company.

I close my eyes, pretending that this particular beat has sent me into dance trance. I begin swinging my arms wildly, as if they were possessed by the music; I let them crash into Kevin.

“Hey,” he says, taking a step back.

I do this for a while longer and then peek through my lids. He’s still standing there, watching in wonderment.

I feel hands clap on my shoulders, “Looks like you’ve pulled,” says Fraser.

Kevin is still standing there, watching both of us.

I introduce Kevin, saying, This is Kevin.

Kevin says, “I’m Kevin. Ahrun’s friend.”

“Fraser; I’m shit-faced,” they shake hands. Fraser says to me, “Where you been, mate? You need to get your drink on. You’re gonna get some minge tonight, I can smell it.”

I motion a goodbye to Kevin as Fraser and I head for the bar.

“Wait,” he says, “we should meet up sometime.”

Definitely, I say.

“Give me your number.”

No, I want to say. No, don’t talk to me anymore. I watch him for a while, and his face begins to fall. Did I say that out loud? OK, I say. He’s smiling again, but maybe he was smiling all along, anyway. He never stopped smiling.

I wonder if I’m really going to do this. My uncertainty rises when he passes me his phone to type my number in. I type the standard 07 and then make up the rest of the numbers.

“I’ll just prank you, so you have my number,” he says.

No.

He presses call and holds the phone to his ear, as if he were calling someone that wasn’t standing in front of him.

I get my own phone out and hold it, like I really believe his call is about to come through. He calls, he calls; my phone is tellingly silent. When will he realise that I gave him a fake number? I’m trying to think of an excuse when my phone comes to life, chirruping at me, and the name ‘Kevin’ comes up. Kevin cuts the call.

“I’ll call you sometime,” he says, before disappearing into the press of bodies.

I’m still looking at my phone. A cold heavy stone drops through me and lands in my testicles. Kevin has my number. I gave Kevin a false number, which at the same time is my number. Am I a false number?

* * *

Still Here

2009-07-08T17:42:00.000+01:00

Since last Wednesday I started writing my first novel. With an aim to writing 666 words a day over a period of 90 days, which should equate to about 60, 000 words. A short novel. So far I'm roughly not on track, but don't think I've forgotten you. Haven't really found the time to writing a proper blog this week, so I'm cheating and including an unedited excerpt from the novel. The working title for this book is 'Ahrun is Aching', hope you enjoy.

* * *

I have no problem with eating cheap. My sense of taste is my most underdeveloped. If I had to sacrifice one of my senses, taste would be it. It’s important to make a decision on these matters, it crops up in conversation, and I like to be prepared if a deity or a goblin forces me to choose.
Food is only fuel, and if you don’t care what it tastes like, you can live on £10 a week. My friends and housemates admire my frugal nature; they’re impressed with the quantities. They say things like, “That must have cost a lot,” and I say no and they say, “wow.”

Of course, they also live on £10 a week, but they receive only a third of the nourishment I achieve. They buy without thinking, delighted by the bright wrapping and promises of orgasmic flavours. They buy the groups of miniature cereal boxes, bound together as if they were all siblings, one happy and different shaped family. They buy Haribo to snack on between meals that stretch twelve hours apart. They buy industrial sized bags of pasta, and grate different cheeses on it each day and pretend they’re eating something new.

People are too easily fooled by the allure of the packaging. Taking faith in brand names, in Uncle Ben. People mistrust battered packaging. Battered packaging is how I live. Everything tastes the same. There is no need to enjoy food. What time is wasted savouring a mouthful? I eat quickly, and in this way I save time. I maintain a constant motion of shovelling the food into my mouth, like coal into a steam engine. The gullet is wider than you think; people waste time over-chewing, wearing down their jaws. Once you can control the gullet you can swallow fish whole, drain a pint of water in three seconds. I’ve developed a method whereby my teeth are barely involved; instead my tongue passes the food rapidly to the back of my throat where I swallow many things whole. I can finish any meal in under a minute.

This is how I make time for life; by finding the time that is wasted and making it mine again. What I make up for in eating, I spend on browsing.

I know where everything is in the supermarket, so there’s little need to browse the food, I instead like to take my time in browsing the women who perforate the store. The mothers, the housewives, the divorcees. The supermarket offers many opportunities to guiltlessly ogle as they bend and stretch to reach their potatoes, their shampoos, their Special K. Most of the time I see post-natal bellies, dinner-lady arms, and breasts that hang loose and low – the muscles stretched to bungee cords. When I see this I move on, in search of riper fruit, leaner meat, and firmer vegetables.

A pretty girl by the yoghurt smiles at me. I consider smiling back, but don’t want to encourage her. She’s not fat now but I see that she’s one emotional trauma away from ballooning like a puffer fish. It’s the kind of fat that she’s had to battle her whole life. It’s in her family, she’s looked at her parents and decided that she doesn’t want to be like them, but it’s unstoppable. It’s genetic. I can’t take that risk of entering a long-term relationship with her, becoming involved. I turn away.

I spy an athletic blonde across the aisle. A rich tan covers her exposed legs which taper excitingly. Her blonde hair shines and waves. She looks suitable for sex. Not procreation. Spawn from someone who so obviously advertises their body is never going to take to education. I want to believe that she’s beautiful, but experience tells me she’s not. Experience has taught me that no one that good looking from behind has ever had the front to match. I move casually past her, reaching for some bargain beans and looking openly at her. She turns to face me. All I see is a Roman nose over cocksucking lips. I turn away.

I take my haul to my favourite checkout girl. She’s pretty and she doesn’t know it. My favourite kind. She knows she’s not ugly as well. And how hideous that insecurity is. Her name is Eleanor and she’s Canadian. Every time I go to her till she asks me under company policy whether I need any help packing my bags. Only handicapped and dicks say yes, and I’m a dick. I relish this moment, as Eleanor cannot hide her slight annoyance and always unwittingly snarls her lip. I’ve never seen a more sexy display. I make her pack my bags because she has small arms so it takes her a while to do, allowing me plenty of time to watch her. To memorise her contours and fantasise about her life. Eleanor is the kind of girl to wear jeans, and never dresses or a skirt. She always wears a jumper, even in the summer, which hides the two bumps on her chest, as if she were ashamed of her gender. She remains free of makeup and foundation apart from a minimal use of eyeliner. A welcome addition. Most of Eleanor’s friends are guy, who she feels more at ease with because they never bitch about each other. Eleanor owns an Xbox and an extensive zombie film collection: the envy of her male friends. In between packing my bags she tucks a fringe that is too short behind her ears, which springs back to tickle her cheeks each time she reaches forward.

“Seven pound eighty, please,” she says, surprised.

I hand her a tenner and wait for my change. She hands it to me, fumbling it with the receipt. Our hands make contact for .8 of a second. Blissfully long, and four times the usual amount.
I give her my most charming smile as I say my thank you. I want to intimate that she has real potential to be with me. The look that she wears, the ‘I hate working here’ look that she has down to a tee softens, and I think she does understand my smile. Tonight, she will see that smile again as she lays alone in the darkness, in her boy boxers and Metallica T-shirt. She will hope to see me again, work becoming more bearable as she anticipates my next arrival.

* * *

Dealing with Social Pariahs

2009-06-30T12:50:00.000+01:00

How to identify a social pariah

In every school and in every workplace you will find these creatures. They appear human, but there is something distinctly wrong about them. It’s hard to place, but you notice it in the way that they walk. It’s different, it’s not dysfunctional but it lacks grace. As if they read about walking online before they tried it. They go through the same motions, but everything they do is a cheap imitation of human behaviour, a foreign knockoff.

It is perfectly acceptable to ask after someone’s plans for the weekend, but if they start getting too specific with their questions you may be in danger. Watch out for this line of questions: “Got any plans for the weekend?…oh bowling, where do you go to do that?…I know the place, what time will you be arriving?…and how long will you will stay?…yeah, I know each game doesn’t have a specific time but if you were to make an educated guess?…OK, OK, there’s no need to get angry…will you be wearing my fav- I mean, your favourite jeans?”

One of the pariah’s most obvious traits is its need to please. A pariah will fall over himself to perform favours of any kind for you. A typical conversation with a pariah might go something like this:
Me: Seen any good films lately?
Pariah: Yes, I re-watched The Dark Knight last night. It is brilliant.
Me: Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to watch that.
Pariah: (pulling out a copy) You can watch mine.
Me: You just carry it around with you?
Pariah: I wanted to be ready in case you asked.
Me: Is this signed by Christopher Nolan?
Pariah: Yes, I bought it for £138 on ebay.
Me: Wow.
Pariah: Do you want it?

Notice in this example the act of present giving. This is another common ploy of the pariah. They believe that present giving is acceptable at all levels and a fast way to curry favour. This is not to say that gift sharing is weird, just that there are certain boundaries that we all follow, and a pariah will often reveal himself by stepping over these boundaries. For example, giving a work colleague 10p so that they have enough to get a toffee crisp from the vending machine is decent, if not encouraged. But buying a toffee crisp each day and leaving it on their keyboard in a ribbon is creepy. The only way to make this situation worse is by waiting for them to look up in gratitude so you can offer your sickly grin. A grin that says, “I only want you to love me!”

The threat they pose

Everyone wants human connection, but none more so than the social pariah. They crave it with an alarming intensity, reaching hungrily towards it like a wilted flower to sunlight. Indeed, their desire is so strong, that it is impossible for them to hide it. They wear it like an ugly mask – more unnerving than any Halloween equivalent.

Outcasts thrive on your attention; they leech off of it like life-force. The best piece of advice I can offer is to treat them like a bully. I.e. ignore them. If you see an outcast crying into his lunch, wiping away his tears with his cheese and pickle sandwiches, steer well clear. This is one of their many ploys to gain your sympathy. It is the only way they know of attracting others, trapping them into ‘friend’ status.

You see, when you become ‘friends’ with an outcast, however loose you may consider this term, you’re actually entering a relationship. The outcast will latch on to you, developing a rapid dependency multiplied by any goodwill you send their way.

How to get rid of them

Much like leeches, pariahs are sensitive to heat, and are most easily removed by extinguishing matches on their bellies. Another option is imitate their behaviour in a more frightening manor. Turn up at their house late at night and hang around till they come home. If they invite you in, refuse by saying you better be off now, and then wank on their windows.

Closing thoughts

What makes pariahs so dangerous are their abilities to tap into the kinder man’s natural sympathies for its fellow man. When an outcast presses us with it its piercing questions, despite feeling unsettled, we would rather tell vague white lies than be rude, because god forbid we should offend the freak. Perhaps we need to reassess the way we treat these social pariahs. We shouldn’t be looking on with benevolence, but instead take the opportunity to satiate our deeper, and repressed cruel instinct. They only use our compassion as a weapon against us anyway, so why not take this opportunity to dump our pent up ‘badwill’ on them?

We’ve all had days when we want to hit and scream at our loved ones, and when is that ever productive? Why not save it for those who are used to the abuse? Those that have made a life out of suffering; those who even in their own minds have thoughts only of self-deprecation. These of all people are equipped to deal with the pain of a nation. They should not be feared, but revered as a gift to soothe our ugly sides that would disgust a normal human being.

It’s a controversial theory, but what other choice to we have when to be kind to an outcast is to be cruel to yourself?

Liquid Soap

2009-06-24T00:29:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, we started filming the comedy web series that students from our uni (Bath Spa) have been working on. We began with an episode I wrote co-wrote which I also acted in. During filming the BBC dropped by and later showed this piece on the West Points 6:30 News.
Seem to getting a fair amount of media attention, The Bath Chronicle and Heart FM also stopped by today.

Party Fail

2009-06-21T19:59:00.001+01:00

I recently semi-organised one of the most unsuccessful parties in my life, if not in history. The Facebook group confides that 109 guests were invited, and guess how many turned up? No, it’s actually embarrassingly less than what you thought. It’s 4. This equates to a 3.6% turnout, the result is so hilarious it seems impossible to feel insulted. I feel more as if the absent guests were taking part in some grand joke, only they weren’t in on it together, they all made private and separate decisions that led to such a small turnout that I wouldn’t have thought possible.

So where did it all go wrong? I can’t help but feel that the event was titled somewhat ambitiously, parading under the moniker ‘Epic Houseparty Awesomeness’. ‘Houseparty’ itself denotes a significant gathering of people, or at least twenty. We probably thought this was a safe bet when we invited over five times this amount. As embarrassing as a 20% turnout would have been, it would undeniably be a house party, just neither Epic nor Awesome.

I wonder if people felt intimidated by the name, perhaps they didn’t feel ready for such heady experiences. Or perhaps the more cynical among them felt that the party had oversold itself, that by using Epic and Awesome in such close proximity their expectations had risen to dangerous heights, and they knew in their heart of hearts that no party whether epic or awesome could match their frenzied imagination.

Perhaps this is just indicative of the noncommittal attitude prevalent among students. An attitude masked by politeness. The most prominent group of invited rsvp’d as ‘Maybe’. Of course, everyone knows that ‘maybe’ doesn’t constitute a completely neutral position that may swing either way. It’s for people who feel too harsh being categorised as someone who has rejected your invitation. In this case it was as good as no, evidenced by no one on the maybe list showing up. On Facebook, even ‘confirmed’ doesn’t mean yes, it just means they intend to come, or at least they did before they realised that the new series of House is on.

If we lived in an alternate universe when confirmed meant confirmed and maybe meant probably yes, then excusing all the people that I’m still waiting on for a reply and those who admitted they wouldn’t be able to make it, I’m looking at 55 potential partygoers. In real life 4 came. Which meant there was a pullout rate of 92%, which is higher than a teenage boy with no condom.

I think we could have expected a larger turnout had people been drinking prior to the party. There’s nothing like alcohol to lubricate the loose bonds formed at a jamboree. Oh, how we reach out for the camaraderie of strangers with a fervour and raw enthusiasm, and what comfort we find in the bosom of their attention! How we agree that from this moment on there will be plenty more meets, getting togethers, getting to know one anothers. Only once the alcohol has worn off do we retreat to our solitude. Why did I agree to that? We think, and pray the other party has forgotten.

Of course, they’re usually thinking the exact same thing, but it isn’t always the case. Sometimes they ring back, and what a terrifying experience that is. In these circumstances it is perfectly acceptable to change your SIM card and passport photo.

In the end, the party became a small gathering of men and one lady. We played Rockband all night and had ourselves a ruddy good time.

Older

2009-06-13T13:08:00.001+01:00

I’m 21, but sometimes my body tells me I’m older. There are little signifiers to watch out for. Like the little groan that escapes the back of my throat when I get out of a chair, and the corresponding sigh of relief when I fall into one. Is this really necessary? Is my body that out of shape that it likes to remind me that the transition between sitting and standing is a stressful one to me?

I’m stuck with it now, it’s not going to get any better, but neither will it get worse. There never seems to be much range in this noise, depending on just how decrepit you are. I think it would be a good indication as to how old someone is. In your thirties it’s the sigh, barely noticeable above the sound of the TV. In your fifties it becomes an inappropriate bark, almost angry, as if lifting yourself out of a chair is a battle. By seventy, you’re screaming; afraid that every ascent may be the death of you.

I’ve tried to rectify this problem and eliminate it from my system. I refuse to have it until I’m a dad. So now, I hold my breath, and by the time I’m on my feet my face is purple. For whatever reason, the sighing eases the process, as if there was a major difference in air pressure between my height and the level of the couch. As if the sighing releases a valve that makes it safe to be upright. If I somehow fail to eject myself from my chair (one of the hazards of not breathing) I may have to wait a good quarter of an hour before I’m stable enough to try again, or I risk passing out.

I wonder if there is more to the ‘couch sigh’ than first meets the ear. Perhaps it is a modern rites of passage, that suggests a new phase in life that every man comes to at one point or another. A time when father and son both expel their breaths in agreement, as if so much were contained in their sighs. It suggests experience, a wistfulness and resignation, but an acceptance of life. At this point the father could turn to his son, his eyes shining with pride, whilst his shaking hand proffers an ancient technology. Passed from fathers to sons in livingrooms across the country. As if to say, you can’t control life, but you can control TV.

The sighing in unison is a rare and mystical phenomenon. At a family gathering I once stood up at the same time as my dad and one of my uncles. The resulting noise was a chorus of effort, as if we were an a cappella group demonstrating a synchronised cough. It was like four doors of a car being shut simultaneously, so that it didn’t sound like four doors, but instead one huge booming door. This occurs as seldom as the perfect alignment of the planets in our solar system, but with less catastrophic events. In this instance we accidentally blew out the candles on my cousin’s birthday cake.

Shirt Shopping

2009-06-06T13:42:00.000+01:00

As anyone who’s bought a shirt for work or special occasions will know, your size is based on the thickness of your neck. I was making such a purchase the other day, when I approached a sales assistant for help. He was a stately man of great height, as if his height was entirely influenced by how well he thought of himself. Even without speaking to him I picked up an air of authority emanating from him, though this may have just been his broom moustache. I went to tap him on the shoulder but thought better of it; I noticed a coiled tension in his back muscles, as if they wanted to burst free. He became quickly aware of my presence and spun round to face me. Without further adieu he looked at me piercingly, his eyes seeing something indiscernible to everyone else. “I’d say you’re 15 and a half inches,” he said with confidence. I was about to ask him how he could possibly know that when I realised he was referring to my neck.

I was awestruck by this display. This was surely the coolest party trick ever, to just by looking, gauge the circumference of someone’s limbs, to peer at their appendages and croon sagely, “Yes. Just what I thought, you have a fat neck.”

What worried me is that this man saw more than just my 15 and a half inches, the amount of scrutiny he gave made me wonder what else he observed. Perhaps the eyes aren’t the windows to the soul at all, we’ve been looking in the wrong place all along. He surprised me when he followed up with, “You were never happy as a child, were you Khyan?”

I was stunned into silence, although I didn’t ask how he knew my name, he answered me regardless, “I have ears everywhere.” His eyes darted to each far corner of the room to indicate this. My own eyes darted to follow his gaze, very much expecting to find fleshy lobes hanging from handrails, invisible to me until now.
“I was happy,” I said uncertainly.
“Don’t lie,” he said, “I can always tell when you lie.”

I’m not lying, I wanted to say, but his piercing glare had now become scarily wide-eyed. I felt a sensation of weightlessness descend on me, as if I were falling from a great height until a cough developed from deep within me. I was able to retrieve my handkerchief just in time to splutter what felt like a warm mucous. I looked into my hanky to find a stain of blood.

“Blood,” the sales assistant confirmed. He seemed please by this development, and offered me a clean handkerchief, apparently in trade for my soiled one. I felt wary about accepting any gifts from such an unnerving man, and re-pocketed my own hanky. The sales assistant was now very close to me, his head bent down towards my own. The smell of menthol was overpowering, which he blasted into my face with exertion. I soon became aware of a massive hand invading my pocket; it seemed less concerned with finding the hanky than violently groping my leg. His breaths now became short and sharp whilst his eyes bulged. They bulged so much I was afraid they were going to fall on me. And then just as suddenly as the hand was there, it was gone, taking the hanky with it.

We looked at each other for a while after. I had no idea how I should react, and oddly felt little need to. My reverie was broken when I heard the pounding of feet behind me; the sales assistant reacted physically, bolting into a graceless run, as if he were unused to using his legs. Two burly security guards charged past, giving chase and calling to no one in particular, “It’s him again! The bastard’s back again!”

Afterwards I was called into the manager’s office, a glorified cupboard with cheap wood panelling. The manager, a tired looking man who hid his girth behind a dinky desk said to me, “That bastard,” which was how he was commonly known around here, “that bastard did it again. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It won’t be the last.” He turned suddenly to face the miserable view out the window, and he let the silence build, perhaps to weight the importance of his words. I was impressed with how long he drew this out, until he said again, this time with less conviction, “It won’t be the last.” The security guards, who flanked him on either side of the desk – and made the room even more claustrophobic – looked uneasily at each other, as if their boss did this a lot.

The manager turned back to face me, looking older already, as if he aged by the minute. He pulled on a drawer in the desk, and retrieved a brown envelope and gun which he placed on the desk in front of him, then quickly replaced the gun in the drawer and looked at me anxiously, as if he was worried I saw. He pushed the envelope towards me, “If you could not say anything…” he said, letting his sentence drop off, either too embarrassed to finish it, or happier just suggesting it. I took the envelope and had a quick look inside, disappointed to find a thick wad of Marks and Spencer vouchers. One of the guards got the door and let me out, immediately closing it after me.

I went home and showered for a long time after that.

Mr. Crane

2009-05-30T21:48:00.001+01:00

Last night I cricked my neck in response to an attacking crane fly; you could say I was craning my neck. It was more like a twist though, but it would be fitting to refer to it as craning. Perhaps that is how it got its name. However, it also commonly goes by the name Daddy Long Legs. Now, I think we all understand the Long Legs part, but Daddy? How could this possibly have come about?

Was an orphan scholar woken in the night by a flickering at his oil lamp, and on seeing a creature unfamiliar to him, which on closer inspection was surely a common fly but a fly granted the power of spaghetti legs, he called out uncertainly to it, “Father?”

It seems somewhat diminutive to refer to the daddy long legs as a fly. I’ve always considered it a winged spider, which is perhaps why I always regard it as more of a threat. I don’t like spiders as it is, so the idea of giving a creepy crawly aviation is monstrous.

The naming can give a creature more power. Think of the dragonfly for example. How proud must it be to have ‘dragon’ in its name? They are probably the most boastful of flies, but their arrogance is ill founded. They are not nearly as impressive as their name suggests. I remember people talking about them as a child. I imagined them as great beasts the size of human torsos. How bitterly disappointed I was on meeting the reality; a pin stripe with wings. They exhibited no dragon like abilities. I wouldn’t even call them dragon-esque, even for the insect world.

It didn’t actually work out that well for the daddy long legs, in order for it to defy gravity, there was a great deal of slim-lining involved. Yes, it decided to keep its spider legs, but it had to compromise if it wanted to be light enough to fly. Consequently its legs are detachable. They’re about as strong as spider web, and can be popped off with ease. Not only are they one of the most ugly of creatures, because they only live a day, they never learn to fly with any grace; and what could be graceful with those legs, spread uncertainly in all directions? They’re like a plane that’s left its wheels out for the whole journey – if those wheels were giant gay roller blades.

Much like moths, it is the unpredictability with which they fly that scares me most. There is an urgency in their movement which suggests chaos. Whereas the grounded spider prowls, sometimes creeping; it is like an omen. Even this is preferable to the devil may care daddy long legs.

I believe the daddy long legs knows my fear. I believe they are drawn to my face, which is as attractive to them as a 40-watt bulb. They seem determined on exploring my head’s orifices.

This is a major difference between the spider and the crane fly. The spider takes refuge in darkness, like a ninja. Stalking pray, its presence hidden. By comparison the crane fly is the football hooligan of the insect world. It demands your attention, seeking the brightest light it can find and bashing its skull against it, “Fucking c’mon!” It craves intensity. Perhaps because it only lives for a day, its only goal is to live its last day like its last, spreading havoc, herding humans over cliffs like a wayward sheepdog.

After fifteen minutes of ineffectual batting with my Guitar Hero controller – the crane fly was having none of it – I resorted to the old trap-in-a-glass-and-slide-paper-under technique. Predictably, it lost a few legs in the process. How pathetic you truly are, I began to think. I brought him over to my open window and ejected him into the night sky, almost throwing the glass in the process. I checked the glass several times afterward to make sure he wasn’t still desperately clinging to the base, ready to take his revenge on my face. I shut my window, and haven’t opened it since.

Toilet Seat Up: Match Point

2009-05-24T00:06:00.000+01:00

There’s been something on my mind that needs to be settled. I’m sure you’re all familiar with a bathroom rule that’s been set by our lesser halves that continues to go unchallenged. Fear not men, I have come to champion our cause, no longer shall we replace the toilet seat once we have finished our business.

First, let’s look at the logic that our female counterparts have touted as to why the toilet seat should be left down. There is none. Let’s just be clear about this. What possible reason could there be other than their own preference?

I’m actually in the habit of leaving the seat down, but only with the lid down as well. This is because it looks neater and you can place things on it, such as towels or children. It also prevents the two million germs that are ejected from a flushing toilet from flying at my toothbrush. But it’s mostly the neatness thing.

Girls never seem to complain when they see the lid down, perhaps because they do not suspect that a boy is responsible, or perhaps a downed lid brings a natural harmony to the bathroom that puts them at ease. They see no object to lifting the lid, but when it comes to putting a toilet seat down you better believe they’re going to be pissed, or in some anomalous examples, terrified.

I have spent a great deal of time speculating on this matter (some would say, too much time), and I’ve come to the conclusion that there are only two possible reasons to explain this reaction.

1) Women have underdeveloped triceps, making it difficult to move things toward them in a downward motion.
2) They regard their toilet habits as a sacrosanct ceremony, which must be properly prepared for. They take great offence when a man does not respect their rituals and will either lash out verbally or use the sink in protest.

From a health and safety standpoint, it is in fact more considerate to leave the seat up. Allow me to explain: We now live in an age of (debatable) gender equality, where female bankers are not considered witches and house husbands are not poofs…well.

But it wasn’t always like this. In a time when a woman’s only boss was her husband, a time I like to refer to as The Golden Years, women actually evolved a stronger back so as better to carry offspring and linen baskets. This now means bending over imposes less of a strain on the small of their back. And as women tend be shorter, they’re already closer to the toilet seat, thereby decreasing the angle of the bend and the risk of slipping a disc.

This is a classic example of evolution doing its best to bring out the stronger traits of each gender. You may be interested to know that since The Enlightenment men’s necks have actually gotten thicker so as better to support their scholarly brains, imitating a pedestal, if you will.

As it happens, I’m gifted with an unusually long neck, which holds my head aloft most others I deign to speak with, lending me a regal air, and allows me to look down my nose at almost anyone.

The second point in my case is what should be fair.

If we want to talk about ‘fair’, let me tell you what is definitely unfair. If the woman expects the seat to be down and ready at all times, it would mean the man expends infinitely more energy in seat related lifting and closing. This is more than 100%, because 100% more than nothing still doesn’t mean anything.

Surely it is fairer if both sexes leave the toilet how they please? However, even in this instance, it would still favour whichever there are more of. For instance, in my house of five, I live with three other girls and a guy. So the chances that I enter after a girl is more than 3/5 (as I’m unlikely to use the toilet twice in a row). But even on a more even ground, the house still favours girls, because about 1/10 of a guys toilet functions will require the seat.

It looks like there is no winning this one, at least not with any arguments of fairness. Even so, women don’t learn through reasonable debate, much like monkeys, they learn from practical example. If I were to try and explain my theory, I could expect a stock phrase response such as “Fuck off” or “What?” But if I piss on the seat every time it is down, then they learn through the repetition of my actions. This may be the only act of domestic vandalism that I can feasibly get away with, so I try to take as much guiltless pleasure as possible. I like to imagine it is her favourite pincushion, and douse that motherfucker.

I’ve found this has had mixed results, from the lady in question terminating all contact and relations, to her learning to pee standing up, which is about as novel and miraculous as a cat that opens doors.

You want to talk to me about toilet seats? You lose.

* * *

Khyan is pleased that Microsoft suggested he make ‘mother fucker’ a single word.

Personality test results from discredited psychologist, Dr Mikel

2009-05-04T13:14:00.000+01:00

Took an online personality test and learned a few things about myself. The results follow.

ISTJ – Introverted Sensing Thinking Judging. Inspector or Duty Fulfiller

Often referred to as Inspectors, the ISTJ has an almost needless attention to detail that is rarely of any use. They make a grand show of being careful and thorough in everything that they do, perhaps to cover up the fact that they seldom know what they are actually supposed to be doing. Indeed, they spend a great deal of time floating through life in absolute confusion. Nevertheless, they enjoy cultivating their image as an inspector, and can often be identified by their monocles, whether they have good vision or not.

ISTJ’s are the most conservative and traditional of the personality types. They fear the chaos of individuality, and find great comfort in the homogeny offered by uniform, feeling uncomfortable in any clothes not decided by an authority.

ISTJ’s like to emphasise the importance of being true to their word, indeed, they consider this the most binding and effective of contracts as they rarely learn to read. They regard written characters with a mixture of reverence and fear, and feel greatly discomfited when books are left open too long.

ISTJ’s are known for being hardworking, but no matter how much time they spend on any project, their results are always the same. Their work lacks pizzazz or distinctiveness and is at best, unremarkable. ISTJ’s never pursue a career in the arts, and are often mistaken for being colour blind, due to showing no preference whatsoever when it comes to decorating their homes.
Extravagant gift-wrapping is the fastest way to anger an ISTJ, and the sight of a bow can cause vomiting. Their font of choice is Times New Roman.

ISTJ’s can be difficult to approach because of their serious airs, which can lead other personality types to thinking them dull. They are also often mistaken for autistics because of their inability to distinguish irony, and their literal minded approach to everything. However, it is encouraged that you take the time to get to know an ISTJ, as what they lack in social flare, they make up for in foreign currency collections.

Much like a dog, the ISTJ has an unquestionable loyalty to anyone that calls themselves master. They pride themselves on their dependability, but oddly enough, frequently end up in positions of leadership. There is no real explanation for this phenomenon, but what’s more unusual is their ability to maintain their job without attracting any attention, or making any major faux pas. Some attribute this to a powerful intuition, or perhaps even psychic tendencies, but further study has linked 95% of ISTJ’s work based decisions with their reliance on magic 8-balls. Their preferred sexual position is missionary.

See you soon

2009-05-02T20:56:00.000+01:00

No post this week because I'm snowed under with uni work. I'm being dramatic of course. If I was a real man I could shovel it all away in six dedicated hours, but I'm not. I'm a whiny little boy. You might see the results of my personality test instead, which I've sent to McSweeney's first. So once they've given me the courtesy of rejecting it, I can post it here.

In other news, I've joined the Internet phenomenom that swept the virtual plains ages ago, Twitter. I needed something smaller to keep me distracted whilst I do my work, and if you look to the right of the page you'll find a new Twitter widget that displays recent posts, so you don't even need to be a member to admire my dull thoughts, how great is that? If you are a fellow twitterer, then feel free to stalk me. The first person who does gets a medal, redeemable value is one comb tooth. Tarra

Going Public

2009-04-09T18:26:00.000+01:00

There’s something inherently depressing about buses. Strangers bound together by a reliance on public and grotty services. I’ve never seen anyone happy to be there, and the thought that usually strikes me when I step on is: This is where ugly people go to die. Why else are there are no seatbelts? It’s like a bottom rung reject club, where the only requirements are that you can’t find or afford other transport. This hardly makes up for the most pleasant of company, who are only there because they don’t have any friends with cars or because their license was revoked after drink driving. Conversation is made almost entirely of gestures that ask ‘Is that seat free?’ and the blank response that says ‘I will stab you if you sit there.’

This dynamic changes if you recognise someone you can sit with. Be careful though, make sure you have plenty to talk about before you sit next to them, as unless you want to avoid awkward silences, there’s no polite way of moving somewhere else once you run out of words for each other. The friend you find on the bus is always someone you haven’t seen in years, and after you start talking, you’ll remember why. Using a prop, such as a book or an iPod is a good way of signifying that the conversation has ended, and a great way of saying to your ‘friend’ that it’s okay, they don’t have to talk anymore.

However, there are some people that don’t understand this rule, and will begin speaking to you even when you have your headphones on. All you will hear is garbled noise, at which point you have two options. Either take off the headphones, or just pretend you can hear them and make generic responses to their noises. I usually find that ambiguous hmms and yeahs are your best bet, and just pray they don’t say anything like, “I’ve been really depressed lately, I think I’m going to end it all.”

The trouble with the first approach is, you are unlikely to start a full conversation again, so simply turning your device off won’t be worth it. Instead, you’ll end up playing that game where you constantly remove and reapply the headphones as you engage in awkward and stilted chat, where every response from you begins with “What did you say?” You will often feel as if you are in a terribly unfunny comedy sketch, as they only find something to say once they are certain you’re not listening.

When the bus approaches a stop, I find that people are always so anxious to be prepared, as if getting up and moving to the door takes any longer than two seconds. Perhaps they are worried that the driver is particularly unforgiving, and only allows neat time windows of door opening, and will close the doors even when they are only halfway through, trapping them – screaming and wailing until the next stop. Let me assure you that this is not true. I myself like to remain seated for as long as possible, partly because I like sitting down, and partly to save myself the embarrassment of holding my balance when the bus comes to a sudden halt.

My departure habits do not pose any issues if I have an aisle seat, but if I’m locked into a window seat, you have to let the person know to let you out. Sometimes they read the signs too early though, and begin standing up when I’m just putting my bag on my lap. Not yet! I want to command them; there is still 15 seconds of good sitting time. What do you think you are doing? It’s apparently unreasonable to expect them to wait in the aisle until you are ready to stand.

Super?

2009-03-27T19:04:00.000Z

If you’re anything like me, then you’ve noticed the pump at the petrol station that boasts ‘Super Unleaded’ and thought, what’s so super? Is it a regular unleaded by day, but by night….? Surely it’s either unleaded or not, in what possible way does ‘super’ fit into the equation? “Well it’s more unleaded, isn’t it?” If that’s the case, then where will it end? Why not create a range of products, going from Pretty Unleaded to Really Unleaded to More Than The First Two Unleaded. Surely this could continue until they finally arrived with Definitely Unleaded.

When I try to find out the actual benefits received from paying 10p more a litre, I mostly get vague answers like, “It’s nicer to your car…treats it better…cleaner.” I suppose it’s the motor equivalent of toilet paper. All the different toilet papers do exactly the same thing, but there’s a huge range in price and quality. On the upper end of the spectrum, you get ‘quilted’ sheets, presumably to make your bum feel like it’s going to bed. Indeed, the experience of wiping your arse can become so luxurious that you’ll be taking four shits a day just to feel like your anus is being kissed by money. And of course if you’ve got cash to burn, and want to truly feel decadent in your post-defecation process, why not just use a satin handkerchief or pashmina scarf. Perhaps you are driven by a need to express a socio-political statement, so use a gold bar or some traveller’s cheques.

As students, our house tends to opt for the cheapest excuse for bog-roll available. It’s not usually pretty; I once had to resort to using the label from a baked bean can. I speak from experience when I say don’t use anything laminated. For the smallest amount of money, the range tends to offer something that is either atom thin or sand paper. When going for the former category, you need to buy in vast quantities, as you’ll be using a roll at a time to avoid staining your hand.

It’s always good to be green, but I draw the line at recycled toilet paper. First of all, I’m naturally suspicious of processes I don’t understand, and the act of transforming a desk chair into Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code is as mysterious as alchemy. I’d feel more at ease if they just called it ‘Magic’ and that we had normal bins and Magic bins. I’m uncertain as to what extent recycling can be used. Can you turn a teddy bear into a machine gun? I want to know what this toilet paper was before. Perhaps it was a children’s pushbike, the wing of an aeroplane, or a carrot.

What worries me most of all, is that things are recycled from the same ‘family’. So recycled toilet paper, was toilet paper once before. How many generations of sphincters had these humble sheets hugged? And how quickly does the recycling process take? Does the sewage system filter straight into a recycling plant, that works overnight to have those same sheets dry-cleaned for next day delivery, so the very same sheets could be getting familiar with you once again come Tuesday?

On the first way round, how soon do you think they know what trees will be used for what? They probably label them: Timber, firewood, Ikea, Harry Potter, toilet paper. It must be incredibly humiliating for these trees, with all their friends going to Sweden to live the good life, whilst knowing that their only purpose is to be stained by human refuse and rot in a septic tank. I wonder if they bow their trunks in shame, unable to ever look another tree in the bark again. :(

Facial Foliage

2009-03-14T19:44:00.001Z

I’m currently growing a beard. It’s official. I’ve made a conscious decision to grow hair on my face. It’s not as if I have any say in the matter, sure I can shave, but the hair grows regardless of any mental effort to stop. So I’ve decided to stop arguing with my face. You win this time, Beard. It’s been a constant battle since I was about 16. I even like to think of my razor as a tiny sword.

Admittedly, when I was 16, my face was putting up a bit of a pathetic fight. A fight that I wanted to lose. Because every boy at 16 just wants some fur for his top lip. He wants to look more mature, but you can’t really grow anything worth boasting about. If you try to sidle down to the breakfast table, pluck up your collar and ask the family, “Notice anything different about me?” They’ll probably think you forgot to wash your face.

I remember when going to college though, I found out that this wasn’t entirely true. There were exceptions. Boys with all the maturation of a thirty year old, sporting full tramp beards. I used to look at these boys in wonder. They weren’t really boys at all, but Manly idols. How did this happen?

Perhaps young Jimmy was walking to school when he noticed a tear in a hedge. A hedge that had always seemed so ordinary and unnoticeable. But then he remembered what Old Man Jenkins had whispered to him after Jimmy had finished mowing his lawn in exchange for lemonade, “Take the uncertain path…look out for hedges,” and for some reason “crazy golf.” But at this same time, he remembered what his parents had told him on the first day of school, “Stick to the roads…stay away from the hedges,” and when he had asked why, they had looked at each other with a deep sense of knowing, and his father said, “Just because…damnit.”

Now once that something had been forbidden, there was no turning back for young Jimmy, and so through the hedge he went and fell head first into a vat of testosterone. There really is no other explanation.

I didn't mean that

2009-03-07T23:39:00.000Z

For me, predictive text is the way to go. It’s come a long way since it was first introduced, and has a respectable dictionary. However, it has one glaring oversight. Something myself and my housemate Sarah Jane Chambers noticed whilst sipping on scones. It doesn’t have ‘fuck’. Or any other expletive, for that matter. It is totally innocent, apparently.

If I want to write ‘fuck’, it suggests ‘dual or duck’. Name me one person who doesn’t live in the country that will use either of those words more than ‘fuck’. It can’t be done. Fact. Now stop thinking.

As much as it does miss out a vital part of my vocabulary, it does also make sense. It protects the more easily offended from being asked, “Did you mean, ‘fistfucker’?” You may be intending to send a perfectly honourable text to one of your family members, but instead of saying “Hey aunt!”, accidentally say “Hey cunt!”

So you have to go back to typing in the letters yourself, for those crucial curses. The only problem is, I often forget to turn the predictive text back on, and carry on unwittingly, sending out texts like ‘Gdw gmw wmt dmgmg?’ for the rest of the day.

Check out Bill Bailey's song about the problems with texting.

Another problem with using predictive text is that you don’t always use the punctuation you had intended. This can have a big impact on the meaning, and dangerous if you’re in the early part of a relationship and are asked a direct question. I was once asked by text “do you miss me?” Now this is the first time she had asked this question. It’s one of those more vulnerable moments when you open your heart to someone, and say, kiss or cut me. I wanted to end my response with a love affirming, “miss you!” I text back immediately to reassure her, but went wrong. I’m not quite sure how this happened, but I instead ended with the challenge, “miss you?”

This was less love affirming than it was relationship ending.

I’ve become more of a fan of the exclamation mark of late. It suggests positivity and energy. However, I do draw the line at using them to ‘enhance’ a joke. I believe it does not have this quality. However, this is not a unanimous view. One not shared by an older generation. You see it worst when your parents join facebook to share comments! Make unfunny, parent jokes! Like, you don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps!

They seem to think the exclamation mark has some inherent comedy value, which will transform their shitty little aside to comedy gold. Every time I see that exclamation mark, I think of their face, a prize of glee, their eyes wide with farcical madness, barely able to contain their own laughter as they add the punctuation, and now as they see it for themselves, well they’ve never seen anything so funny. And then for a wild second it occurs to them, how could they make this funnier? No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly. But already their right hand is holding down the big shift key, and their left is edging guiltily towards the ‘1’. It hasn’t even been entered, but already the suspense is too much. Their face begins to crack as sharp and shallow breaths are taken, and then the finger comes slamming down, crashing through the keyboard, lodging the ‘1’ into a permanent state of ‘pressed’. The !!s file one after another, replicating like chromosomes in mitosis. An endless stream, a parade of mirth in symbols. The laughter is coming thick and fast now and the parent is struggling to find breath. He has never laughed this much in his life. It is unbearable. He has to leave, but his eyes hold fast, as if in a trance; there is no looking away. The joyous hiccups have turned to uncontrollable wheezing to epileptic fit. The eyes are bulging and the tongue drying up. He clamps his jaw in order to stop himself, but succeeds only in smashing his teeth like dishes, the shards of which he breathes in, slicing his lungs into wet pillowcases. He dies a bloody and unfunny death.

May this be a warning.

Don't Touch My Crutch

2009-02-28T21:34:00.000Z

I was in WHSmith today, browsing the magazine rack. I knelt down to get a look at the mags on the lower shelf. I reached for TimeOut, and only noticed once I was touching the magazine that I had reached between a man’s leg and one of the crutch’s he was using. Was this rude, to reach between a man’s leg and his crutch? I had gone unnoticed, but for how long?

I began to wonder if he thought of his crutch just as he would a real leg, and it was therefore improper to put my arm between them. Perhaps it was even more sensitive, and there were laws in fact. Laws that only the Crutched knew of, inscribed on a papyrus scroll rolled inside the crutch. Laws of a Divine nature, number 11 on Moses’ Tablet: Thou Shalt Not Reach Between A Man’s Leg And His Crutch. It seemed unlikely, but the thought was uneasing me.

I had put myself in an awkward position by reaching, but now I had frozen, unsure as how best to get out of this situation in the most dignified manner possible. For one mad second, I decided it would be a good idea to pass the magazine to my other hand, but for my other hand to reach, I had to move in closer. I bent my arm to make the pass. Now I was hugging the man’s crutch, which was seeming more and more like an artificial leg. I found myself wondering, had this man become so accustomed to his crutches that they actually felt like his own limbs? Extensions of his body.

I had still managed to go unnoticed. Either that or the man had thought it best not to say anything to someone being intimate with his crutch. Either way, I needed to change my tactics. I decided to pull the magazine back through the cavern between real and fake leg. I started wheedling my arm through, trying to avoid any contact, like those electric wire games that give you a buzz if your hoop touches the metal. Except this time the buzz would at best be social embarrassment, and at worst, prison.

I was almost out of there when I saw the gap beginning to close, the metal crutch drifting towards his thigh, only it looked more like a guillotine. I would rather my arm be cut off than unintentionally stroke this man’s leg. I watched in horror as the gap became smaller, and I knew that a minor collision was becoming unavoidable. There was a point when I could have cut my losses, dropped the magazine and retrieved my hand ninja-stylee, but this chance was already milliseconds passed, which in my adrenal state felt like years. I saw it all unravelling before me with a terrible inevitability, there was no turning back.

At this point, I estimate I had the strength of four retired boxers, and so when I whipped my hand back, my arm swept through his support like leaves. He fell like a skittle, his face ploughing through the rack, each shelf at a time. I tucked the magazine into myself and performed a commando roll for effect, emerging from the chaos into a bull-charge that the security guard was too scared to challenge. I ran all the way home, stopped only by my front door which I knocked off the hinges. I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while.

Just not necessary

2009-02-21T15:07:00.001Z

I called for a taxi recently, and the first thing I heard after the phone had been picked up was the most world-weary and exaggerated sigh ever. Darth Vader couldn’t have done a better job. It was a woman, and I had already pissed her off, surely this was some kind of record.

I just couldn’t understand how this had happened. I’m sure it wasn’t a yawn, because it was spiked with hate, and it seemed deliberately affected for me. It felt as if she had been storing it up, and decided that that was it. The next person who phoned was going to get it. Once she had finished, I stated with apprehension that I required a taxi. “Destination,” she said with clear disdain, it wasn’t even a question, just an automated response that must have left a bad taste in her mouth. No one had ever despised their job this much. At some point this woman had been hired because of her people skills, and now she hated life. It’s not as if she was a weathered prostitute who was asked on a regular basis to perform the most despicable acts on the most despicable people, only to come home to get slapped in the face by a pimp’s dick. Only this would be enough to explain the level of contempt I felt through my earpiece.

I’m sometimes a bit nervous when speaking to service people. I tend to mentally rehearse what I’m going to say before hand, to avoid the embarrassment of wasting their time as I think under pressure. The problem with this is that I become too fixed on what I am going to say, so if they ask me questions in a different order to what I was expecting, I can’t deprogram myself, and carry on with my recital. For example, if I wanted to order some cider and crisps at the bar, it might go something like this:
“What can I get you?”
“Magners.”
“Do you want a glass for that?”
“Cheese and onion.”

It isn’t always this catastrophic, but it feels awkward and confusing to break this line of thought. If I am aware that there has been a change in plan, then the only way I can save myself is to try and wrangle the conversation in my direction. E.g. ordering a taxi might go something like this:
“Where do you want to be picked up from?”
“I would like to go to the train station.”
“Where are you now?”
“Can I have one in ten minutes please?”
“Did you say you wanted to go to the train station?”
“I’ll be waiting by the library.”

Valentine's meets the Crunch

2009-02-14T19:18:00.000Z

As we all know, we live in a time of financial collapse. Banks have gone bust and suicide is at an all time high. The USA is currently embroiled in a nuclear civil war, and Tennessee has been wiped off the map, along with its very valuable contribution to banjo music. Babies now roam the streets, fending for themselves, and building forts out of broken dreams. They’ve formed an alliance with the Toddlers, and keep a tight perimeter on the Alaskan border with the aid of diaper catapults. The effects are devastating. And disgusting.

Valentine’s Day is a small respite from the baby regime. And for one flickering day only. For some it’s more special than others. But times are tight, so I offer my five ways to show someone you care, whilst spending zero pounds sterling. Hopefully your loved one will appreciate the gesture, and will equate it to a whole lot of love dollars, redeemable in a marriage bed. I.e. Sex.

1) Sweep Her Off Her Feet
No one enjoys being carried more than women. So carry her through the streets so that she gets the attention she deserves, and everyone knows what prize you have bagged. NB: If you are unable to carry her, then you either a) are a pathetic excuse for a man or b) need to downsize.

2) Build Her A Cake Or Something
Perhaps you don’t have the money to treat your princess to the deluge of chocolate rain that she is used to this year, so instead, turn your own hands to the culinary arts. Chicks love ‘gestures’, so they will literally eat this up. If you are smart though, do yourself a favour and make a terrible job of it. She will then never allow you to cook for her again, but will forever appreciate your effort. Everyone wins.

3) Make Her Feel ‘Special’
Special, is the most desirable state for your burden of a wife. No one knows accurately how to create this state. Some think it does not even exist. The best we can do is to artificially induce it by integrating the word ‘Special’ into any sentences involving her. I.e. “This is my Special Wife,” “Can we get some Special knives and forks for my Special wife, please?” and “You look especially Special today….Special.” The woman will be unable to differentiate the pseudo-special environment that you have created for her, from any genuine feelings of being Special. She will spend her day with a heightened state of self-worth, and will be primed for asking for any Special favours.

4) Flowers
Much like bees, hoes (or egg carriers) are genetically engineered to be attracted to flowers. Think of them as bargaining chips. Go to the finest garage forecourt in your area, and take some time. It may even be necessary to ask the cashier. Do not be afraid, these men are experts. They are hideous, but they also get a lot of punani. If you get the right flowers, you’re going straight to Boob Town. If you really want to impress the symbolism of the flowers, bring your own bee to pollinate them whilst you watch. Once it is over, squirt honey on her back to show her what to expect next.

5) Be Mean To Keep Her Keen
This is always solid advice, and never more so than on Valentine’s. Do not get your bitch a present. Make sure she is fully aware that you know what day it is, and perhaps even mention the great presents you got for better girlfriends in the past. Push this until she cries, and then cut yourself and her, and rub the wounds together, shouting “the ultimate commitment!” Then leave. She will never doubt your love again.

Don't Depress Me

2009-02-11T00:04:00.000Z

Did anyone else see the BAFTA’s? Mickey Rourke won best actor for his role in The Wrestler. I think the same thing was on a lot of people’s minds. What the fuck happened to his face? In case you weren’t aware, Mickey was once a very handsome young man. Looking his best in the likes of Diner (1982) and Rumble Fish (1983).

However, a boxing career and subsequent reconstructive plastic surgery left him as the ugly bucket he is today.

It is a mighty shame, but it’s not just being repeatedly punched in the face that will save you money on future Halloween masks. Time can be a cruel bitch. The most frightening example I’ve found is the once beautiful Claudia Cardinale from Once Upon a Time in the West (1968).
See now the old hag. An impostor, a ravaged relic.
This is what 50 years can do to someone. Render them unrecognisable. Only a fragment of their former selves. This notion scares me. No matter how we try to fight it, the matter is out of our hands. Our features soften and become rounder. The skin rubberising, becoming Play-Doh in our grandchildren’s hands.

There’s a horrific circularity to it. As babies we all looked the same, and as old people we shall again. Is there anything more depressing than when an old biddy takes great pleasure in surprising you that she was once a beauty? That when old couples look at each other and smile, they’re trying their hardest to remember what they used to look like, and try to forget that they are now different people who have nothing in common.

I suppose the best they can do is laugh at themselves. Find humour in the slapstick nature of life unique to the aged. Like when Doris sets down a brew on the dinner table, only for her swinging breast to swoop down and knock it into the lap of her beloved. Albert doesn’t mind though, grateful that his wet lap isn’t tinged with the humiliation he’s become accustomed to. The shoulder shrug and ‘I’ve only gone and done it again!’ joke was getting old anyway.

Are we still attracted to people our own generation when we get to that age, or do we only look longingly at those in their prime? Does either party even enjoy sex with one another anymore? I imagine the more intimate acts are spoilt by overgrown pubic hairs, and fatflaps covering crevices that haven’t seen soap for 25 years.

Does Doris stop teabagging when she tastes the tang of toilet water?

Are you taking the piss?

2009-02-08T23:44:00.000Z

Just missed my train. I arrived with time to spare, and joined a short queue. The amount of people seemed to give little indication as to how long they were going to spend at the window. How hard could it be? You say your destination and pay your money. When I was dealt with, I took all of thirty seconds before I was moved on. Why was everyone taking so long? They all seemed to spend a great deal of time in embarrassed silence, apparently unaware of the procedure, or indeed unaware of what a train actually is. I thought some form of counselling was taking place.

These people were so oblivious of the hurry I was in, which I wouldn’t have been in if they had all been in a hurry themselves. The people seemed to think it was a general enquiry desk, not because they had anything to ask, just because they had so much time to kill in their dull and lethargic lives. I wondered if they were doing this on purpose, that these people’s only pleasure was in delaying innocent passengers. I was probably imagining it, but I could have sworn I saw secret and cruel smiles that disappeared whenever I looked at the conspirators.

The equipment for Southampton Central seemed entirely out of date as well, they had no self-service machines, and I ended up spending half my time waiting for my single ticket to be printed. It was so slow I suspected that their ‘printer’ wasn’t a printer at all, but in fact an underpaid man in a box with good handwriting. In London, they print your tickets before you’ve even finished your sentence. You’ll ask them where it is and they’ll assure you it is already safely in your pocket. The ticket itself is an artistic masterpiece, and can be redeemed on ebay for over four times its initial worth.

The staff are no great help either, apparently it was ‘Bring your retard to work and let them do your work’ day, because the cretins that served me seemed entirely unprepared for my very reasonable demands. They probably would have felt more at ease if I told them I wanted to take the grey-tube machine when the big hand meets twelve, and the little hand rests on two.

I am now on the train and it has been difficult writing because I am constantly distracted by the mumblings of the train driver, the only discernible words being the destinations, “mumble-mumble…Romsey…mumble…Salisbury… mumble-mumble…Cardiff…mumble.” For all I know this could be a compelling narrative with vital information, “Frodo finally found the ring under a park bench in Romsey, but he didn’t know the town has a train station, so he’s rung ahead, and we’re picking him up at Salisbury, I hope you’ll all welcome him aboard. He’s convinced that Snowdon is in fact Mount Doom, so we'll be taking him through Mordor, more commonly known as Wales, and drop him off at Minas Morgul, or Cardiff if you like. Let’s wish him the best of luck.”

Why is it that we still have to put up with these unclear messages? Are they afraid that if they installed Dolby Surround Sound and stopped using a cup as a microphone that the perfect clarity would scare us into believing that they were transmitting these messages telepathically? Would we misinterpret this noise as the voice of God? “Go to Bradford, for it is your home. Take the East line, for it is faster, and crisps are only 40p.”

There really should be more done in the form of entertainment for train journeys. At the moment we are limited to stealing newspapers and smelling each other. I understand it might not be in their interest to install 8” LCD screens on the back of every chair, but perhaps the staff could read over the intercom. “Our Barry is now going to read one of his charming prose poems that he’s been working on. He’s a bit of an up and coming talent, and has been posting his work on writing forums across the Internet. He’s received such comments as ‘Roflcopter’ from ‘yahooslut’ and ‘keep it up’ from ‘fatwallet77’ and is hoping you’ll be able to give him some creative feedback when he comes by with the food-trolley.”

Fart Memory

2009-02-04T17:48:00.000Z

I remember the most embarrassing fart I’ve ever experienced in public. Luckily, I was just a witness to the exhibition. Protected by the anonymity of a group. We were all young, year 4, junior school. It was story time, and so we had gathered before our teacher: him on a chair, us on the floor.

It must have been a good story, for distraction was at a minimum. We seemed to be hanging off his every word. Our attention was acute and focused, and our heartbeats responded to the soft rise and fall of his voice. He had the voice of a natural storyteller; we felt every stroke of a comma, punch of a full stop, and kiss of a capital letter. It was this interactive style of storytelling that eventually got him fired.

He reached the end of a paragraph, and left a tantalising pause. We bathed in the comfort of that silence, and felt the need for the story to continue. He opened his mouth to oblige us, but instead all we heard was the fanfare of hot air squeezing through the cheeks of a fat kid. It was loud and unhindered. It sounded like wet lips flapping on a trombone. It was silly; an exaggerated imitation of a fart. It was unreal.

All of a sudden there seemed to be one kid on his own, as if a spotlight had been turned on him. It could have been no one else but Phil the fat kid. Only someone as grotesque to behold could be responsible for such an incredible blast. The very noise seemed to suggest uncleanliness, ugliness and obesity. Hands shot up to point at him, to mark him out. I felt my own hand rise with accusation. And then the laughter came, forced and unkind. It barked from the back of our throats viciously. And all the while, Phil the fat kid stared back at us, his eyes wide as marbles, shaking his head in silent terror. ‘Not me’ his head said, ‘not me’. But his face said the rest, and we thought it, ‘yes, you!’ ‘Guilty!’ our fingers said. Despite being grossly outnumbered, Phillip himself was pointing, trying to direct the flow of blame elsewhere. No one looked to where he was pointing; rejecting his explanation. This was an open and shut case.

It’s hard to remember what exactly happened that day, as it was so long ago. I remember things which surely can’t be true. In some of my memories, even the teacher is pointing his finger, the ringleader of Phillip’s humiliation, his lip curled in disdain. I can’t seem to remember what happened next, or how long it lasted. Did he read over the laughter, hoping to save Phil any prolonged embarrassment? Or did the teacher pause, shocked into silence by that flatulent explosion?

The Times They Are a'Changing

2009-02-03T02:32:00.001Z

My blog is now adorned with an awesome header, compliments to Irisz Heathershaw. Also, I recently organised my posts into helpful 'sections' for new readers. So if you think less of some sections and more of others, you now know which ones to avoid. I'm still trying to decide what this blog is, and seeing as I'm an activity whore, this is my compromise. Who knows what other crazy revamps this site may or may not fulfil. Hang low.

Ugly Nuggets continued

2009-02-03T02:11:00.001Z

If you missed the original Ugly Nuggets post, it is advisory that you check it out now so that you are up to date.

Now, let’s move away from food related issues and table manners. Let’s move away from the kitchen to another important room of the house: the bathroom. Bathroom sharing is an important issue. It seems that most people aren’t offended if their partner takes a leak whilst in the same room. Now, this only works for the bathroom. You can’t start taking liberties with the kitchen sink when your partner’s making a sandwich. Bedwetting is also an unpopular option.

So the real issue is: when can you shit in front of your partner? People say, don’t run before you can walk and so I like to say, don’t shit before you’ve farted.

Farting is always an awkward one. What’s different from our toilet functions, is that it doesn’t have a designated, air-conditioned room. It can also come at any time, without warning, and usually in public situations. The main problem is, your sphincter has no way of measuring these variables, so it gives you the false hope that perhaps it will be a quiet one. You think, what did I have for dinner? Fish and chips. Nothing too odorous, I think I might get away with it. Cue loud stench and embarrassment.

A good way to introduce farting is to make a joke about it. If you want her to feel like an accomplice to your body functions, then try the old ‘pull my finger’ routine. If your partner doesn’t share your sense of lowbrow humour, then try a more intellectual windbreaker over a game of chess. When it’s your turn, take some time, and furrow your brow, as if you are deep in thought. Then crack it open like a champagne bottle, and laugh, to let her know it was all a joke, har har har. There’s no need to make the same joke about future farts, or you’ll have difficulty getting your partner to play a board game with you again.

Shitting in someone’s presence is a quite a leap from farting, but despair not, it is possible. Some people even have their partners wipe their arse, though they are usually kinky or paraplegic (I’m so sorry).

Sometimes shitting in front of your partner is almost unavoidable, and this is how it usually begins. Perhaps your partner is soaking in a bath of suds; unwinding after a long day at the office. You on the other hand are tense. The best way is to force your partner into an ultimatum. Shout through the door that you need a shit, and they will either have to make a hurried and screaming exit, or light a few more of their aromatic candles. Either way, you’ve brought up the subject, and they’ve made the decision.

Now, don’t get too cavalier about your toilet habits once they’ve green lighted you. Try to avoid the brushing-teeth and number-two crossover. This can be very unpleasant for the teeth-brusher, as the sink is invariably next to the toilet, and they only came in for some minty refreshment.

Gary

2009-01-31T13:39:00.000Z

Today I came back to an old toothbrush, let’s call him Gary (that’s not gay, is it?). It’s strange that we don’t form a deeper bond with our toothbrushes, as they spend their active time in the most intimate areas of our mouths, reaching and kissing cavities even our tongues cannot contact.

Gary was showing his age. I’ve been using newer models in other houses: ones where the bristles are strong and unforgiving, sharp and penetrating. Guaranteed to make your gums bleed like crying children.

But Gary has as much cleaning power as filling your face with rice pudding. It feels like a wet J-cloth gliding through my mouth, not so much cleaning my teeth as making love to them. I guess that would make the foaming paste the jizz, which appears in such horrific quantities, my teeth must be very satisfied.

Sometimes I like to pretend that the foam isn’t toothpaste at all, but instead the froth of rabies. I take great pleasure in watching it spill over my chin into the sink, like the flow of lava from a volcano; unstoppable and prodigious. Sometimes I spit and cough, spluttering violently and dramatically, swinging from the taps. If I’m feeling energetic I might gnash my teeth and stalk the house for victims, eliciting the terrified responses, “I just cleaned this shirt!”

Hard of Hearing

2009-01-28T18:12:00.001Z

I was shaving recently when I realised that I can hear better in my left ear than I can in my right. The buzzing seemed louder and more threatening in my left ear, like a chainsaw approaching from behind, whereas my right ear barely registered the threat in those whirring blades, instead recognising it as the deranged hum of a Buddhist in prayer.

How did this happen? Had I inadvertently exposed my right ear to more loud noises than my left? I remembered something about ears and balance, so I developed a limp that suggested my equilibrium was distorted. People thought I was drunk. If only they knew the burden I bore. Then I remembered that deaf people never seem to have difficulty walking, and it turns out your balance is only effected if you perforate an eardrum or wear a heavy coat. I went back to walking normally.

Ugly Nuggets

2009-01-26T23:05:00.000Z

In the beginning of a relationship, there are certain benchmarks that are crossed. Those memorable moments: the first kiss, the first fuck, the first hug. Sometimes in that order. But these are often clustered together, and depending on how much of a slag you are, may all occur within six hours of meeting that person. What I want to discuss today are those true benchmarks further along the road, those moments which a relationship can hinge on, and if judged too early may close the door on the relationship altogether.

I’m speaking of course of habits. Those dirty, secret habits which only your nearest and dearest are witness to, whether they like it or not. We’ll start with something relatively inoffensive. It’s the start of your day, and if you’re considerate to your digestive system, you began it with Bran Flakes, hmm, the cereal you don’t need any taste buds to enjoy. But your breakfast isn’t finished yet, not truly, there’s still a pool of milk leftover. Wasting is out of the question, but you’re remembering how your partner is the sort of person who cringes when you suggest sharing a toothbrush.

This is a different boundary of course, it’s not as if you’re asking them if they want to finish it off. So you wait till they’re distracted, and bring the bowl swiftly to your lips. Not too fast though, or you’ll have a beard full of cascading milk, making a spectacle of the whole thing. Perhaps this isn’t such a bad way of introducing it, ‘look at me, I’ve made a disgusting yet humorous mess of myself, it’s all so hilariously endearing, ha ha ha.’ Only problem is, that joke gets old quick, and soon they’re going to begin thinking, maybe it wasn’t a joke after all, maybe this is actually how he finishes his breakfast everyday. You see them playing it over in their mind, the endless replays of your face being doused in milk and residual flakes; the mouth half open, and the sinister ghost of a laugh projected from the back of the throat, like some puppet fortune teller at a fairground.

So take it easy. If you feel that the relationship isn’t going anywhere, then this is a good short-term solution. However, if you’re in for the long run, there is going to come a time when she stops becoming distracted by the imaginary things you point at, and turns to look at you as you’re tipping that bowl to your lips. It’s one of those classic hand-in-the-cookie-jar (or biscuit tin, if you’re from this side of the Atlantic) moments, which are best dealt with by pretending everything is normal. Don’t freeze guiltily, or say “Uh oh”. If you’re feeling cocky, meet her eyes and stare her down, make her feel ashamed for looking at you in your moment of weakness, and perhaps even lick your lips, so that she knows you’re ready for intercourse.

If you pass this moment with little incident, then perhaps your partner might be ready for you to unleash your next ugly. However, give it some time, you don’t want to cluster these things, otherwise the force of it might act as a sort of domestic Ragnarök.

Dinnertime is over, or so you’re partner thought. You enjoyed a delicious chicken lasagne, and you just can’t seem to get enough of that cheesy sauce. Now try to assess the relationship, do they love you? Are they charmed when you drink the orange juice straight from the carton, and can see the logic that it saves on washing up? If so, then the meal has only just begun. Now lick the plate. Show them what the strongest muscle in the body was designed for. A rule of thumb though, this only applies whilst the plate is still on the table. You don’t want to get caught half an hour later in the kitchen trying to make the most of dried pasta. With this in mind, if your plate is removed, your partner has spoken and mealtime is over. These things can turn ugly, so steer clear of the tug of war situation.

Overall, I’ve found licking the plate produces a variety of reactions. For some people, this is relationship-ending stuff, and so is a good weapon to bear in mind if you feel you’re in a Shawshank circumstance. Other people will merely shudder, and try and remember why they love you. The boat has been rocked, but hasn’t sunk yet. Try to balance this out and buy them a DVD or something. Think more Mamma Mia! and less Schlinder’s List. In this case, it’s probably best to wait a few years before you begin licking their plate.

If you’re really lucky, your partner will see the joys to be had in licking the plate and they too will join you in finishing their meal. Times like these are emotional; so don’t be surprised if you see tears of revelation as they begin to realise the revolutionary repasts that await them.

More on this later. Subscribe for the updates.

Rule Breaker

2009-01-23T19:37:00.000Z

The other day, after rising, I came downstairs to a row of letters addressed to each member of our household. This was not a good sign. Official looking letters always instil a certain anxiety in me, I find they always tend to say, ‘You owe X amount of money’ or ‘You have failed to return The Breakfast Club for over two years now, are you taking the piss? You now owe £600’ or worse still ‘Hallo English pen pal, when you come to visit? It has been 18 months now, and still you have not replied.
P.S. please sends 250 of your English pounds immediately or our protection racket will kill us.
P.P.S. sorry for using scary and official looking envelope.’

In this instance my trepidation was compounded by a hand-written post-it note from my housemate, Hannah, which said she had gone to see our estate agent. This was serious. I decided not to open my letter; otherwise I might not be able to eat my breakfast.

A few minutes afterwards, Hannah came home looking a little flustered. “Did you read the letter?” she said in a, ‘do you have any idea of the kind of shit we’re in’ sort of way.
“No,” I said, my lips quivering. I opened my letter nervously. It was from the council, and it said I had not paid my Council Tax. It then said in bold capitals, ‘YOU ARE THEREFORE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES SITTING AT NORTH PARADE ROAD, BATH AT 11.00AM ON Thursday, 12th February 2009.' That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? Bold and capitals? It was as if they were taking a disturbing amount of pleasure in my worry, and the only thing they could think of was how to maximise the damage. They stopped short at an army Sergeant delivering a telegram – that was too expensive – so they settled on large, black shouty words. Did they expect me to read it louder, give myself a hard going over?

If you’re interested the due amount was £889.77. Hannah said we needed to phone the council, and explain that we’re students so didn’t have to pay the obscene amount, and that we may need to provide evidence. It all sounded like a lot of bother.

After 20 minutes on hold, she explained the situation, and the council man asked what uni we went to, and she told him, and so he consulted his list of students, and yep, we were on there, so we in fact didn’t owe any money. Now where the fuck was this list when they sent out their ‘You’re going to court you criminal’ letters? He seemed to resolve the situation so easily and quickly that I presume it was laid beside him next to his worn issue of that week’s Heat magazine and an untouched copy of How to do Your Fucking Job Properly: For Fucking Morons.

Why is it that those in power always go straight for these scare mongering tactics, as if you had personally punched their mum in the face, when they haven’t even bothered to check their facts before sending out their death threats? I got the same thing from TV Licensing. A few months after having bought a license I received a letter stating that they knew I had a TV and no license and they were going to be paying me an unfriendly visit soon. They told me to feel guilty, ashamed even. They said live on the edge of your seat, jump at every ring of the bell and knock at the door. They said my heartbeat will never go below 80bpm, that I will develop high blood pressure, and suffer annoying headaches. I will become addicted to aspirin, and subsequently heroin. We’ve seen this before, they said, a million times before, and the only way I’ll be able to pay for my addiction is by performing lewd sex acts on foreign businessmen, stingy businessmen with smelly cocks and pubic wigs. ‘Oh, Doris!’ they’ll whisper as they pull my hair and reach climax. They said I will spend entire days watching the same episode of Deal or No Deal but not noticing because I am distracted by every van that goes past the window. They said they would wait for that one moment when I let my guard down: buttering my toast, only to drop the jar of strawberry jam as they forced entry through my upstairs window. Broken glass and jam everywhere – what is blood and what is jam? The chaos! THE CHAOS!

These people are sick.

Ooh - Aah!

2009-01-21T00:31:00.000Z

For a small city, Bath has an inordinate amount of homeless people. Coming from Southampton, a larger city, this surprised me. I was used to the occasional sightings, usually in the form of a furtive hand protruding from a sleeping bag. There was something bashful about them; they were all so ashamed that you were aware of them, and so apologetic in their whispered pleas, “big issue…big issue.”

If the Southampton bum is the silent voyeur, then the Bath bum is the clown, demanding your attention. They have a way of making their presence known; you’ll be walking through the Sainsbury’s car park when through the hedge you hear them roar like pirates, “Argh!” and then amble into view, leaning heavily on each other. In no other city have I seen homeless friends before, bound together by circumstance, or some common interest to be loud and drunk.

There’s a sort of locked-in-time quality to Bath’s bums. I think it’s their West Country accents. It reminds me of the food stall owners you hear in medieval films, “Get your apples!” Except they’re probably not saying ‘apples’, they’re saying ‘Shit!’ and they’re not so much selling them, as they are throwing them.

Bath Bums are also the most jolly of bums; their reckless smiles seem to mock the taxpayers, the family unit, the uniformed hoi polloi. They seem to be energised by their sense of freedom, their devil may care way of life. There’s something Zen about their directionless existence; the lack of ties to a place and family, their forced liberation from materialism.

That being said, I have noticed certain homeless hotspots. Places where they accumulate and gather. I don’t know how they decide on these places. One in particular is a series of benches which overlook a grotty stream peppered with sewage. The place offers no shelter and could best be described as ugly and depressing. Do they feel some sort of affinity with this area? Do they see something of themselves in those dirty depths? What do they think when they see their murky reflections, besides, “I could do with brushing my teeth”?

What is it that keeps drawing them back to this place? Does it have mystical and sacrosanct qualities? If they dip a bird bath into it, and retrieve the soiled water, does it act as a sort of Mirror of Galadriel, a Mirror of Gazza, from which visions are played, and once they return to consciousness, words of an elusive meaning burn brightly in their mind, “Special Brew – £5.99 –Tesco”?

I often wonder when watching them, staring into those depths, do they feel some sort of kinship with the water? I imagine they think, if all water ends up in the sea, and all old people end up in Bournemouth, where do we homeless end up?

You Know You're 21

2009-01-17T22:32:00.000Z

I recently had a check up with a doctor, no real issue, nothing scary. Except it wasn’t Dr Fitzpatrick, my childhood doctor, who had seen me through chicken pox, gastric enteritis and man flu. The bastard was taking a break in the Bahamas. Not that this bothered me at the time. I was being foisted onto Dr Ward, a Lady Doctor. This didn’t seem like a problem; It’s not as if I had misread the dose for viagra and was now sporting an angry pocket snake, and neither had I ‘accidentally’ plugged my rear end with a rubber bath duck, or any similarly embarrassing incident.

A lady doctor? Of course I’ll see her. As it happened, Dr Ward was an attractive, soft-spoken woman. She went through the routine professionally, and I’d like to think, with some enjoyment. You see, I thought I spotted a glint in her eye that suggested she liked what she saw. Of course I wasn’t going to try anything, I’ve spoken before about my ineptitude with women. I’m like a charmingly bumbling Hugh Grant, but without the charm. I felt safe in the knowledge that nothing could happen between us. I’m a young man and she an older woman, but I took pleasure in imagining a mutual admiration for one another. I felt my heart race as she held my arm firmly and took my pulse. “A little irregular,” she remarked, with a secret smile, as if she was all too aware of the source of its excitement. Fuck me, I thought, mentally willing her to straddle me. I became worried that a telling tent might form, but pocket snake remained calm and philosophical on the whole matter.

“Ok, if you’d like to take your top off…” I did as I was told, hoping she’d follow it up with “And now you’re trousers…and now you’re pants…and now – no, leave the socks on.” Enjoy, I thought, trying not to make it obvious that I was flexing. I searched her face, trying to distinguish any signs of the moral turmoil that she faced within – Surely I couldn’t, not here. It would be so unprofessional!

I almost thought I saw something; a slight blush, a parting of the lips, the involuntary dilation of the eyes. Yes! I thought, Yes, take me now! To hell with the consequences! To hell with your house-husband and his collection of WWII model planes, to hell with shepherd’s pie! And just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. So quick you could have missed it. So quick you doubted it was there at all. Oh, but it was there all right. However fleeting. Only now her pupils had narrowed to cat’s eyes. Her mouth; wired shut, and her complexion was pale; sickly, even.

She then moved swiftly behind me, and began tapping at various points on my back. Her hands now felt cold, and ‘knuckly’. My body responded in turn and began to goosepimple. My nipples hardening into corners. It seemed only moments before that her hands were warm, and radiated with a sensual healing. Where once she treated me in a gentle but professional manner, her approach was now rough and impatient. I felt like Oliver Twist being checked over by a Victorian nun. I felt the shame of my desire, and the desire itself diminishing.

The sexual tension that couldn’t have been cut with a knife could now be swiped by a baguette. What had happened? What had changed? I tried to play over in my mind the exact point at which the alluring smile malformed into a disdainful lip curl. Playing it back again and again like an obsessed detective whose been let off the force because the case is getting in the way of his life. There! What was that? Johnson, get over here! It looks like we got our man. And there it was: the eyes, spotting something. Something they didn’t like, about the level of my midriff, and the rest of her face reacting, closing off.

I looked down to see what could have been so offensive, so pivotal to the affections of a trained doctor. A person who’s familiar with some of the most grotesque and sickening ailments of the human condition. What I saw shook me to the core: a spec of fluff, collected in the recess of my bellybutton. Ok, it was more like a wad, but I was confused. How could this have accumulated here? I had showered that morning. What distressed me even more was the colour. Blue! How was this possible? I don’t own any clothes that are blue, and nor had I given a naked-belly-hug to a pile of blue linen.

Not a day before my 21st had I ever experienced this phenomenon. Now each day begins with an apprehensive rummage that has become as routine as brushing my teeth. Are adult bellybuttons adhesive? Or does some sort of cotton bee try to pollinate it overnight, its mature form resembling a fleshy flower?

I'm not a rapist

2009-01-14T17:50:00.000Z

Since becoming a student I've been walking a lot more. And because I don't get up till late, a lot of my walking takes place at night. This is fine. Bath is a nice, and relatively safe town. Rarely do I feel in danger. However, I do worry about the strangers I share the street with. In particular, the small and dark alleyways I take home. In particular: women.

Now, I know I'm not a danger to these women, but I worry that they don't know this. If a woman is walking five paces ahead of me on one of those nights, the only thing going through my head is, "I hope she doesn't think I'm a rapist." I start to think, should I reassure her? Put her at ease. Is there a more awkward and terrifying time to initiate a conversation? I don't have to introduce myself, perhaps just tap her politely on the shoulder and say, "You don't have to worry about me. Seriously, I could have raped you four times by now."

The dynamics of the situation can change dramatically if you're walking with a friend. If you walk with a silent purpose, then the woman will become understandably tense. However, I think she can be put at ease if you speak loudly about ordinary and non-rapist things. If I'm walking alone I'll try to compensate this by pretending to phone a friend, and subtly put my pursuant at ease: "Hey buddy, how's it going? - Oh nothing, just walking with harmless intent...yeah, just returning to my loving and mentally stable family...Indeed, there is no history of violence in my family...no, ha ha! I'm just enjoying the walk, I don't know how I could make this any better; I'm certainly not thinking about raping anyone."

Pursuing someone, I mean walking in even step behind someone leaves you in an odd position of power. A power that can be abused. If you are particularly cruel - I'm not talking about the you-will-go-to-prison sense - you do have the opportunity to turn to your friend and say, "Seriously, shall we just do her now?" You will never see someone run so fast in heels.

The matter of overtaking is a difficult one. Do you? Don't you? There's a real science behind this matter. Judging speeds - She's walking briskly, if I overtake her, I'm going to have to power-walk all the way home. You have to go easy; you don't want to unsettle her by breaking into a run. This worries me when I'm jogging; that people will only hear me about 3 feet before I overtake them, and in their panic, they too will begin running. Now it looks like I'm chasing them. To avoid this, once I get within 20 feet of someone I start taking louder steps and drawing huge, laboured breaths. This allows them time to turn around, see the running gear and iPod, and realise that they are not in mortal danger.

Sometimes when walking, I realise I'm gaining on someone very gradually. It's only so long before you reach an intimate distance, and then cross that threshold from stalker to lead walker. During this time, there is that brief interim where you actually move past them. This is the most awkward phase, and no words shall be spoken. There is a code in walking that says if you are being overtaken, you subtly reduce your speed so as not to prolong the moment. Not everyone observes these rules. These are dangerous people. One time I went for the overtake, and not only did she not slow down, but once she realised what was happening, she actually sped up, denying me my overtake. To say I was mildly outraged would be an understatement. I was in disbelief.

I went again, drawing level with her. She tried to move away, but this time I was ready. We began to move faster and faster, our legs becoming a blur as our march turned to jogging turned to flat out running. We ran like this, side by side for half a mile. People saw us coming, they saw what an unstoppable force we were and wisely crossed the street. Cars stopped in their roads, the drivers staring dumbly at us, having never seen such a phenomenon: two people running in perfect symmetry, locked together by an unseen energy.

Pretty Lady

2009-01-13T01:41:00.000Z

Sometimes I think I fall in love too easily. I use the word lightly here, but it’s a dangerous mistake, to begin associating the word ‘love’ with a crush. I get worried I’ll be on a date that’s going well, only to declare my love as she discovers my member in the bottom of her popcorn. Not just lying there. It’s not dismembered. How terrifying would that be? I love you! Have my willy!

The reason I bring this up is because the other night I was served by a very pretty barmaid; she had hair and teeth and everything. This was a momentous event, very rarely am I attracted to someone so strongly. She wasn’t just pretty. There was an intelligence behind those eyes. She looked like she read. I felt like I could ask her if she had read Ulysses, and she would say, “Which edition?” And we would throw our heads back laughing. On the downside she had small boobs.

Now, I know I’ve broken an unwritten rule here, and opened wide the ‘Does Size Matter?’ debate. I know some of you are hating me right now. So I’ll tell you my stance on it. Does it matter? Well, not in real terms. If I’m developing an attraction for someone and it comes to the crunch (ahem), then a lack of boobage isn’t going to veto my decision. However, I suppose the shallow truth of it is that I do notice, and the details are noted. I always tend to balance this out with the positive that if we grew old together, there is going to limited to nil droopage. They’re still going to be fastened to her like newly sewn buttons on a teddy bear.

So how to approach the situation? You may have guessed I didn’t do anything about it that night. You see, I’ve never chatted anyone up before, and how do you go about doing it to someone who’s working? Something like this?
“Barmaid!” I snap my fingers.
“Yes?”
“Clean this table immediately.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to have sex with you.”

Hmm, perhaps a bit full on. What if I were to make a solo appearance, and sit in moody and deep thought until she approaches:
“What’s the matter?” She asks.
“I’m just trying to figure the best way to ask you out.”
She smiles, but her attention becomes distracted, “Are you bleeding?”
“Yes, I carved your face in my arm. Do you like it? I love you!”

Ok, ok. I’m not as creepy as I’m making out to be (breathes deeply), and I know I don’t love the barmaid, but I got a good vibe from her. It’s not about sex either, not with this one. I’ll tell you when it was about sex, in a club, earlier in the week. Remember the horrifically drunk night?

I was getting a drink when two bleach blonde bombshells sidled up to the bar. They looked unreal, otherworldly, like Californian goddesses. Their makeup and dress suggested they were used to being filmed. Interestingly, they were also covered in cool tattoos, and what Mitch Hedberg would call ‘Cranium Accessories’. It struck me that they would come as a pair, so if I could pull one, I’d be in for an experimental night. Tee bee aych, this wasn’t even about sex, it was about a personal victory, and impressing my housemates, “You got with them?”

My imagination was already hours ahead, thinking how I would surreptitiously take a photo to prove that I had achieved the impossible. This reminds me of a classic episode of Frasier when our eponymous hero does the very same after a steamy night with the hottie from his high school. The closest I got was thinking of saying, “Nice tattoos…”

Bell 2: Multitasking

2009-01-12T00:07:00.000Z

When it comes to speaking on the phone, I'm still liable to panic, as I'm completely inept at achieving anything whilst holding a phone to my face. It brings us back to that idea that women can multitask and men can't. It's feminist propaganda like this and sentences like, 'women are better drivers than men,' 'women deserve equal pay for the same work' and 'you can only beat your wife with a wooden pole and not a metal one' that makes me want to push small children over.

However, when it comes to doing stuff and talking on the phone, I think women may have won this one. I could call my ex (that's right, ladies ;) at any time of the day and receive a monologue of her precise movements: "Yeah, I'm just paying now...ooh, I've just dropped the money, silly me...she's just given me forty-three pence in exchange for my ten pound Stirling." Me? I don't answer the phone if I'm in a cue.

Women are prepared to answer a call at any given occasion. They could be cooking a roast, cleaning an expensive vase, or indeed any other stereotypical-about-the-house activity. One time I phoned my partner (I can call her that) and everything seemed to be normal, except for what sounded like these large blasts of air.
"What're those noises?" I asked.
"A fire extinguisher, my curtains are on fire."

If I receive a call whilst I'm about the house, I have to tie my legs down so that I'm not distracted by the thought of walking. Ladies hate it when you're distracted. And it doesn't matter that they can't see you, they'll know.

I think one of the few times that a man will answer a phone when a woman definitely won't is when he's using the toilet. Number one, number two; it doesn't matter. If there's one thing Man can do whilst maintaining a conversation it's answering that separate call to nature. How else do you explain urinals? It's not about efficiency, it's about socialising; bonding.

The one problem with this is that you can never let a woman know that you're attending to business whilst speaking to her. Thankfully, mobiles aren't at the megaphone level of audio pickup, so if you stick to the side of the bowl, you're pretty safe, and if it's a number two, just avoid groaning and other sharp outtakes of breath.

OK, so you're finished, and without arousing too much suspicion. Do you flush? Of course you want to flush, every fibre of your potty-trained hand is being drawn towards that paddle shaped arm. One technique is to edge toward the door, whilst simultaneously leaning towards the flusher. You press, turn, slam the door behind you and charge down the hallway. It's hopeful, but never in the history of Man (unless you're Usain Bolt or a toilet ninja) has this worked. Even if you manage to escape the tidal wave of decibels, you're still going to have to explain why you're suddenly out of breath.

Footer

2009-01-10T20:36:00.000Z

The blog is now decorated with a magic footer by my good friend Craig Foley. See bottom of web-page. If you look close enough you can see he's put a bit of himself in it. I'm currently expecting a cool header to join this page soon by another artist friend of mine, Irisz Heathershaw. Irisz and I worked on a little two-page comic spread last year, as seen here:

Bell

2009-01-10T01:09:00.001Z

When my phone rings, my instant reaction is to panic. This panic becomes heightened if I’m sat down and the phone is lodged deep into my jeans pocket. The ring of a phone to me sounds more like a countdown, the everyday equivalent of a bomb going off. The only consequence is that I miss the call, and then have to call that person back. Well, when I say it so logically, what the hell am I worrying about? This is all quickly forgotten when I hear those alarm bells.

Sometimes the phone will go off, and you can hear it, but you’re not quite sure where it is. At first the search is casual, it’ll turn up, you’re thinking. Soon pillows and magazines are being thrown aside, sofa-cushions pulled out, and bookshelves overturned. By the time the device is found, you’d be forgiven for thinking I had been burgled.

Things get worse if the phone is in another room. You’re watching TV when you hear a familiar tinkle. So distant you’re not sure you even heard it. You pause Sky+ (which comes from as little as £16.50 a month, and they install it for free) and prick your ears. Yep, there it is. The insistent bell, making me react like I’m expecting a call from my wife’s kidnappers. Who knows how long it’s been ringing? There are no other options; I’m going to have to run. I bound and leap through the house like a gazelle, taking the stairs three at a time. I trip and fall, receiving a bruise that’s going to bother me for a week, but for now barely registers – I’m already on my feet again, my legs devouring the ground beneath me, silently counting the amount of rings: 16! No one calls longer than 16! I reach for the phone, and snap it to my ear, hoping to save precious milliseconds.
“Hello! Hello?”
“Hi there, sir. This is T-Mobile, would you like to take part in our survey?”

Good Night, Bad Morning

2009-01-08T15:01:00.000Z

Last night is the most horrifically drunk I have ever been.

If you're curious, I drank:

1 pint of Fosters
2 double Sailor Jerrys and coke
4 double Jägermeisters and coke
1 double JD and coke

Is this a lot? I don't know, but it was enough for me. I think it was the JD that tipped me over the precipice from happy drunk to dangerously ill drunk. I think I had even decided I had finished on the last Jägermeister, but was handed the JD by a destructive housemate (you know who you are) and did what any man would do with a fresh drink.

Sorry to spoil the content but I am aware of my limited readership, so if vivid descriptions on the negative effects of alcohol consumption bother you, then stop reading this post now.

It wasn't until we got home that I realised how drunk and suddenly nauseous I was. I couldn't focus my eyes on anything. The classic symptons, really. Sleeping was out of the question. I went straight for the bathroom, and after a few heaves I produced a prodigious and probably poisonous flow. I looked on the evidence with admiration. My eyes, blurred with loose tears could only discern the colour. Black, laced with traces of blood. Incredible. I wanted to show my housemates, hoping to impress them, but there must have been one brain cell with the light still on that said they probably wouldn't appreciate this kind of sharing. If only that brain cell had reminded me I have a camera-phone. I decided that I would have a bath, perhaps this would sober me up? Nope, now I was wet and drunk.
Then I thought perhaps a cigarette would be sobering? Where did this come from? I don't smoke, but there seemed to be a strange drunken logic that this would help. I don't have cigarettes, and neither do my housemates, so stage two of sobering was foiled.

I decided that drinking water could probably only help, which I did inbetween vomitting. A lot of the night consisted of me trying to make a headrest out of the toilet seat. But it was no use, I didn't seem to be getting anymore sober. Everytime I returned to the lounge to watch more TV my focus was clearly as bad as it was before. I just wanted to feel better, I just wanted to stop being drunk. By 4am, I was this close - - to calling a paramedic and getting put on a drip. I had enough money for a taxi home. I had the necessary digits typed into my phone when my housemate Sean appeared, biceps gleaming, legs striking the floor like a stallion. He gathered me into his arms and tenderly kissed my forehead, giving me the strength to carry on.
OK, this last bit is an exageration. What actually happened is I told Sean I was probably going to call a paramedic, and he said, "Nah, you just need to Man-It." Although this is a less romantic image, I found a similar strength from it, and by 5am, was this possible? I was beginning to feel not so horrifically drunk. Sure, the nausea was still there. And I was becoming quite accustomed to sending my fingers to the back of my throat to feel that fleeting relief post-vomit. It was mostly water by this stage, but somehow my body was able to find chunks from deep recesses, pockets long forgotten. Chunks that probably weren't food at all.
I'm not sure what time I fell into my bed, semi-clothed. But needless to say, I missed my 9am seminar. I think there's a lesson to be learned from this, I'm not sure what though. I have to go now, I think it's time to start drinking again.

Grown Apart

2009-01-07T20:00:00.000Z

I've recently been spreading my creative seed across the internet, wondering where it might stick. Result: My first story 'published' - http://youreadonline.com/short%20stories/humour/grown%20apart.htm

Check it out if you have the time, and if not, fuck off. (Ironic face)

Little Cousin

2009-01-06T23:17:00.000Z

Christmas as usual provided the only excuse last year for my family to see each other in small and inoffensive doses. It is in these moments where you share the kind of conversation that no one enjoys and your uncles used to remark on how tall you'd gotten, and you were forbidden to remark on how fat they'd got.

At the time I swore I'd never pass such dull comments once I reached adulthood. This turned out to be easier said than done. Now that uncles and aunties are starting their first and second families, there is a slight amazement that is hard to contain when you see the phenomenal rate of growth. I feel the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a knee-jerk reaction, "Ooh, look how you've grown!" And then the instant shame as the young cousin bows his head in a familiar embarrassment, and swears silently to himself that he will not propagate such comments once he comes of age.

This last Christmas gone an uncle came over with a couple of his kids, one of them from his first marriage, whose three years older than me, and has changed very little since I last saw him (besides horizontally) and his younger son, Sam, from his new marriage.

When I came downstairs I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a man with the head of a child, a Man-Child if you will. "Is that Sam?" I said. He turned to me with a glazed stare found only in young kids and the mentally devoid and barked a reply that seemed to surprise even him, as if his voice box had a will of its own, and was thrall to no one. I was so shocked I forgot to remark on his height, which was rivalling mine at six feet.

I was beginning to think, 'Wow, Sam's a lot older than I remember. I swear he was a toddler the last time I saw him.' In truth, I would have been less surprised if Sam came in on all fours. "So," my mother asked, "you looking forward to senior school?" Senior school! Sam was only ten!?

What fascinated me most was the premature fur that was gracing his top lip. "If that grows anymore you're going to have to start shaving," I laughed.
"I shaved this morning," he croaked, and took a swift swig from a hip flask that appeared from nowhere and returned there. I imagine it contained hard liquor laced with chocolate milk.

At this point my uncle noticed the study which had been converted into my younger brother's weight room. My brother is sixteen and currently benching 50kg. Sam thought it was a dumbbell. He began pumping with vigour - no one could believe it, 23, 24, 25. Who knows how long he would have gone on for before he became distracted by the sound of jangling keys, dropping the bar on my uncle's foot - crushing two bones - and pursuing the noise.
"How are you going to get home?" asked my concerned mother.
"It's alright, Sam drove us here."

Moi

2009-01-05T19:52:00.000Z

I'm guessing I should introduce myself, this being my first post. My name is Khyan, which is probably not your name, because it's different, and unusual. There's a story there, and it has something to do with my mother's obsession with Egyptology. Ask her and she'll tell you all about it.

It's a burden as much as it is a gift. People find my name refreshing and often tell me that they'll name their spawn likewise, I nod and act flattered. I suppose it's better than another Liam out there. However, people often have difficulty pronouncing my name; there's been a veritable smorgasbord over the years, Kee-un, Kai-un, Wanker. OK, not a smorgasbord, but at least as diverse as Uncle Ben's curry sauces. If you're trying to guess the right answer, it's Kai-ann.

Anyways, I don't want to get too bogged down in small talk, so over the coming months I hope to bombard you with big talk, news and observations. Hang low.