It's all fun and games until David starts whining

Hey, do you remember when it was snowing a few days ago? Well, in order to give this blog post relevance, you are going to have to. There is actually still some snow about. I saw the shrivelled base of a snowman beneath a tree earlier, so don't call me a liar.

Okay fine I was lying. That was just an example I imagined for artistic purpose. I can do these things okay I'm a writer. You wouldn't understand, you don't have a blog WITH OVER ONE HUNDRED VIEWS. Anyway, my point...

I'm not sure if this is actually funny, but hey, you don't come here for the jokes, right? You come for my dazzling insight into contemporary issues. In honesty, the chances are you don't come here at all.

Now, if you think snow is fun you are severely misinformed. Snow is not fun. Snow is cold. And no good has ever come from that which is cold.

I can hear you're voices now, "but but but snowball fights, and snowmen, and you know, things involving snow. What's nicer than being outside in the lovely snow?"

Well imaginary sir, in rebuttal to this naive rhetorical question that nobody has in fact asked, I have compiled a satirical list of things I find more enjoyable than snow:

I would rather spend a Thursday afternoon trying to teach someone else's grandmother (with whom I have no blood relation to) how to set up a Facebook account. I would rather wait for a bus with an aquaintance with whom I have very little in common. I would rather walk towards someone I sort of know, but I'm not really sure if they know who I am, down a very long, straight path, and face a sustained period of indecision at whether or not I should say hello, just smile, or try not to make eye-contact at all. I would rather unload a dishwasher. I would rather be hugged for a slightly inappropriate length of time. I would rather be picked on in a seminar for which I have not done the required reading. I would rather sit next to a man of questionable personal hygiene on a train. I would rather drink a bad cup of tea. I would rather make a joke, and then no-one laughs so I think that they haven't heard it, so I say it again and everyone is like, 'yeah Dave we heard you the first time, it just wasn't funny.' I would rather accidentally send a text about someone to the person the text was about. I would rather try and read while there are people around talking at an inappropriate volume. I would rather listen to the most recent Black Eyed Peas album.

All these things are far more appealing to me than the concept of frolicking in the snow. So before you ask me if I would like a snowball fight, please bear in mind the fact I like to keep slightly humorous lists of things that are better than other things, and I am prepared to use them.

Having said this, I would probably still join you for a snowball fight though, because hey, who doesn't like snow?

Why Homebase is a physical manifestation of Hell on Earth

The only (and by far the worst) job I have ever had was at Homebase. I won't mention which one; if I don't get a good reference out of my two and a half months of labour in that place then I will probably have an existential breakdown at such an outrageous waste of almost one hundred hours of my time. Yes, that's right, I was only there for two and a half months. I know what you're thinking—a spoilt middle-class white teenager can't handle a little bit of hard work, he's too busy lying in bed in his pyjamas masturbating and watching repeats of Pointless on bbc iplayer (not at the same time though, no matter how good-looking Alexander Armstrong may be), and while this is irrefutably true... Homebase was really really bad, okay. Just trust me on this one.

On my first day at Shitbase I was shown around the shop by a balding middle-aged depressive named Brian, who sported a wispy monobrow and an expanding waistline. I thought he must have been on the verge of suicide when I first met him. One of the first things he said to me was when he pointed to the balcony overlooking the shop floor and said, 'try not to jump from there when it all gets too much, I know it can be tempting.' Okay Brian, thanks for the heads-up in the first twenty-five minutes that I have ever worked, ever.

In fairness, I can see why he chose to work there. If one wants to share their misery with other hopelessly miserable people then what place better than one where couples have their marriages tested to breaking-point over the idiosyncrasies of the Dulux colour chart. (Seriously though, voluptuous red or seductive crimson? This is important people.) Then there's the question of whether a cylindrical or a rectangular lampshade will ultimately give maximum feng shui to the spare bedroom. Oh and don't forget about heart-wrenching conflict over whether or not one should buy the floral duvet set or a checkered duvet set. (It's a no-brainer of course, flowers are gay and checks are awesome.)

After the customers had been through this brain-numbing ordeal, they had to pay for their ridiculous items through me, the checkout worker. And they were never happy. Its probably because buying items such as paint samples and paving slabs is the most tedious way to spend one's hard-earned money. Anyway when they got to me they responded to my small-talk like I had just eaten the miscarried foetus of their unborn grandchild and burped the remains obnoxiously in their face. They were horrified. Little alarms went off in their heads: 'oh god what are those noises the checkout boy is making? Can those things talk? I thought it was all self-service now.' This was when I did actually try to make small-talk. In fairness I usually tried to zone out, avoid all communication and pretend I was working on the checkouts in Habitat across the road. One can dream.

Anyway I hated Fuckbase more than life itself. It was the most monotonous, banal and brain-shittingly dull waste of my oh so precious time. I went back there the other day. I stopped outside the door; I was terrified about going in. All those sad people arguing about nothing while the bored staff pretend not to look or are too busy fantasising about working in Habitat or are lamenting the financial state of Habitat and how it went bankrupt and now even their dreams are dying slowly. But I pumped myself up outside the shop. Come on, I said to myself, it can't be that bad; you're imagination makes it sound worse than it is. So I did eventually go in, and the first thing I saw was Linda, a checkout worker probably around fifty years old, and as she walked past me to return a shopping basket from her checkout I noticed that she was crying. She was a fully grown adult woman and she was physically sobbing with grief at having to work in such a place. Seriously. Fuck Homebase.

Tea for One (part one)

Here's a cheeky bit of fiction for you all. I say a bit, it's a three parter of almost five thousand words. Sorry to break character, but I hate hate hate the first paragraph of this, so any suggestions for improvement would be appreciated. Or you, know, just flatter me and say you like it.

Tea for One

I've been drinking for four days. That's a lie. Sort of. I don't know. I've never had a very good memory. Sometimes I go completely teatotal but it doesn't usually last longer than half an hour. Besides, I've never been able to have more four or five cups before the sugar starts getting to me and I start to feel sick. But no, I am not an alcoholic. Not a proper one anyway. I often get so drunk that I lie on the floor of an appalling nightclub toilet cubicle vomiting and screaming and writhing in other people's piss, but at least it's my own vomit. But that is socially acceptable; it's part of our culture, like Shakespeare and the Royal wedding and Morris dancing. Anyway, it only happened once. I usually keep my vomit to sinks, bushes, toilets, bus stops, bus seats and sometimes my own lap. Sometimes someone else's lap. They usually mind, but I eat well. And by well I mean cheaply.

Drugs. I did drugs twice. The first time was unremarkable; a slight dizziness and a vague feeling that someone was after me with a chap-stick. The second time, however, I lay on the floor of my bathroom dabbing my forehead with a wet flannel because I thought my face was burning and worrying about what I would do if my hair caught fire. I would scream and put the flannel on my head of course. But what if the flannel I was dabbing my face with was not wet with water but wet with petrol, and Thames Water has been taken over by Shell in a controversial takeover bid. They now had complete control over my water and my sewage, and they were pumping petrol through our taps and burning our waste in an attempt to combat global warming so that they could win a Nobel peace prize or something. Anyway, the flannel had petrol on it and now my face was on fire. I was in unbearable agony. My face was melting. I had lost my eyebrows and half of my fringe. I plunged my face into the bath but it was filled with petrol! I turn the shower on and it releases more petrol! My bathroom became flooded with petrol! Petrol everywhere!

Thankfully the heat was internal and the fire imaginary and my water pipes weren't filled with petrol but with water, so a nasty situation was luckily avoided. There's not a day that goes by when I don't thank Thames Water for the efficient service that they provide. Ever since that day when they saved my face from a terrible fire with a damp flannel I have left a Christmas hamper outside their head office every Christmas with an extensive assortment of jams and chutneys and shortbread and a small teddy bear wearing tartan clothing. It has been six months since the incident and there hasn't been a Christmas yet, but my mind is resolved. I'm thinking about going to the fair and winning a massive teddy bear for them too on ring-a-duck or throw-a-dart or shoot-a-thing but I have never been any good at ringing, throwing, shooting or any other verbs for that matter except sleeping and masturbating, but they don't offer any stuffed animals for excessive masturbation. Fair gypsies probably don't want to attract that sort of customer to their humble establishments. So anyway Thames Water will probably have to make do without a stuffed bear with a heart-shaped cushion reading “I WUV U” in cloying capitals. The hamper is enough. Hopefully I can get one with apricot jam, because it's a good flavour and it is often overlooked by the more mediocre compilers of Christmas hampers. What a bleak world we live in where apricot jam is not universally appreciated.

Anyway, the real reason I want to get them a hamper is not because they saved my eyebrows from a fire with a damp flannel. You didn't believe that did you? And it's not because they refused to accept a takeover bid from Shell, but even if they had accepted, Shell would probably have the business acumen to fill their pipes with water or jelly or something other than petrol. They've built a successful business and I'm sure they know the difference between those times when people do want petrol and those times when they definitely do not. No, the real reason (and I probably didn't make this up, I can't remember) is because one day my water stopped working and someone sent over the love of my life to fix it.

Tea for One (part two)

I was turning the taps and nothing was coming out. No water, no jelly, no petrol. Nothing. I turned both taps both ways and then I turned other taps in other places in other directions but, alas, nothing was coming out. When I ran out of taps to turn and directions in which to turn them I gave up and resigned myself to the fact that I would have to find a man to come and fix it. Being completely unprepared for any situation, no matter how simple or straight-forward, I was paralysed with indecision and panic. How do I find a man? I thought. Like, a real man, not a useless one like myself. Who are these men that inexplicably turn up and make my water work again? Why do they do it? How much money do I give them? Do I tip them? What if he does a mediocre job? What if he doesn't want to make small talk? What if he makes too much small talk? What if we make small talk and he finds me boring and does not maintain an attentive countenance and I manage to pick up on his boredom? Technically he hasn't done anything wrong and the fault is mine, but the offence is there to be taken nonetheless. Do I still tip him? Is it ten percent like in restaurants or is it different for water fixers? And I think I heard once that now you aren't meant to tip ten percent but now it's twelve percent. Or was it fifteen? It's like tip inflation. But are tip inflation rates different for the men who fix my water? And how do I judge whether or not he has done a good job and if he is worthy of a tip? If I could critique water-fixers I would fix my water myself, I imagine.

Oh god, I had been asking questions to myself for fifteen minutes. It's a good job my time is worthless. What do I do? Internet. Do things with the internet. The internet will know someone who can fix my water. Where is the internet? On the box. Good. Right. I went onto Google and typed in “MY WATER IS NOT WORKING. SEND HELP.” Then Google searched for me and the first page of words was about people called plumbers. I knew that was the word. It was useful to get that learnt (or not learnt but at least remembered again and these days that is practically the same thing.) Yes, plumbers, that was what I needed. So the website was asking about where I lived and naturally I gave them my postcode, and miraculously they found a plumbing company that lived in my area. Brilliant. So I go over to my phone and put in the numbers on the screen and it starts ringing.

“Hello,” said a man, “Someone and Son's plumbing services, how may I help you?”

“My water,” I said, “it's broken.”

“How is it broken?”

“I don't know can't you tell me that? Can't you send a man or something?”

“Yes, I can send someone, but what's the problem?” He said in a tone that I assume was annoyance or weariness or pure hatred; I can't really remember.

“The water won't come out. I've tried all the taps in all the directions. It's hopeless. I'm going to die of thirst. Help me.”

“Okay, sir, just tell me your address and I'll send my colleague over straight away.”

So he took my address and thirty minutes later a van pulled up opposite my house. Great here's the plumber, I thought to myself, and I walked over the door and waited for the bell to ring. The bell rung and I counted to five so that I didn't open it too soon and reveal the fact that I had been waiting there ever since I saw the van pull up. I think this was slightly uncomfortable for them because my front door has a large, translucent window on it and it was obvious to both of us that we were staring at each other's smudged body shapes through the glass. Anyway I opened up the door and to my shock I saw not a man but a woman. My first reaction was one of anger; I had been swindled. This was not a plumber this was a woman.

“You're not a man,” I said to the woman.

“No...” She said. “I've come to fix your water. I'm a plumber.”

“But... You're a woman.” Such a fact was incomprehensible to me.

“God, Paul said you were slow. Can I come in?” And she walked past me towards my kitchen.

Who the hell is Paul? What has he been saying about me? Do I know a Paul? I don't know many people, I think I would remember if one of those people I know was called Paul. Did she mean Paula? Because Paula's a bitch, she would say that. I'm going to go call Paula right now and tell her how much I hate her and that she should stop talking about people behind their back... No wait... She definitely said Paul. One of these days I will find Paul, but by the time I had finished with these thoughts I heard a noise coming from my kitchen. Who was in my kitchen? Oh yes, the woman.

“The pipe's broken,” she said. “It looks like it's been sawn in half. Someone has written something in permanent marker.”

“Hmm... Yes... I see... No I don't understand.”

“It think it's a haiku... It says:

Elephants won't drink

From the bagpipes, I think;

To nothing I sink...”

“How strange,” I replied. What did she want me to say?

“It's utter nonsense. What does that even mean? There's not even enough syllables in the second line.”

“It's a work in progress, okay. What are you a critic?” God she was smug with her words and her talk about syllables.

“I'm sorry what? You wrote this?”

“What?” Oh god, panic. Quick, what do normal people do in these situations? What's the protocol? Is it tea? I think it's tea. I have definitely heard normal people say things about tea. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please. I'm just going to the van for some spare tubing. I'll be right back.”

She left the house and closed the door and I realised I had let her leave without asking how she likes her tea. This was a nightmare I had all the time but I never thought it would actually happen. What was I to do? If she came back and the tea was not made and I was just standing there waiting she would think I was strange or totally incompetent, and while both are true I try my best to keep it a secret. But if I made her tea and I got it wrong then she would have to drink my disgusting tea and that would be hugely unpleasant for her. For the rest of her life she would remember me as the guy who made her a horrible cup of tea.

Do I even have tea? Yes, good. I'm just going to have to guess. What do people normally have in tea? I settled for one teabag, milk, two sugars, one cinnamon and one ginger, with a leaf of parsley in whipped cream on the top. Okay, so I misunderstood my own question; it happens sometimes. When she came back through the door I turned to face her, ready to present my mug of tea.

But facing her there in the kitchen, I was suddenly struck with an astonishing realisation: the woman, the plumbing woman, was exceptionally beautiful. Not just attractive like that woman who works late in Dominos and gave me a pizza for half price that one time because I didn't have enough change to cover the whole cost and I was crying and slightly inebriated. And she was not just pretty like the woman who works behind the bar at Wetherspoons on Mondays and Thursdays and always smiles at me when I stare at her as she gets prettier as the night goes on, but never beautiful. No, this plumbing woman person was actually beautiful, and naturally this was a total disaster.

I had been standing motionless and staring at her for a while with her tea in my hands, when her voice brought me back into the realm of reality.

“Um, is that... my tea?” She asked warily, looking at the mountain of whipped cream.

“Yes! I made it for you.” I said as I presented her with the sugary gift.

“Wow, I've never had whipped cream with tea before. Or... is that parsley?”

“Waitrose's finest parsley I'll have you know. Grown and hand-picked by Delia Smith on her own personal parsley farm in Norwich.” I hoped she didn't know much about parsley. It was Tesco value and I had stole it from my mother and used it in everything ever since when strangers came round in the hope of looking more sophisticated.

She took a sip from the unusual beverage and a bit of whipped cream was left on her nose as she took the mug away from her mouth. It made her look like a kitten. I was strangely aroused.

“It tastes... interesting.”

“It's a secret recipe. Passed down through generations. Just tea, milk, sugar, cinnamon and a secret ingredient.”

“Is it ginger?”

“No.”

“It tastes like ginger.”

“It's not ginger.” Damn she was smart. Smart and attractive. And she was a plumber; she had a practical use, which is more than could be said for me. My infatuation with such a remarkable woman could only be a terrible mistake. My case was hopeless. I should abort the mission immediately, I thought. I should go and take a cold shower fully clothed and cry and feel unbearably ridiculous fifteen minutes later when I emerge from the shower in sodden clothes and not even the slightest bit cleaner. But my water wasn't working, so I was forced to bear the torment of this intolerably beautiful woman.

It suddenly struck me that I did not know the name of this fantastic creature.

“What are you called?” I asked, wording the question as uncomfortably as possible for no obvious reason.

“I'm Beth” she replied, smiling. “And you?”

Ah Beth, what a lovely name. One perfect syllable. Rhymes with breath and Meth and death. How poetic, her name rhymes with other words. Maybe I'll write a haiku about it one day, I've already got three rhymes. Beth would love that. If there's one thing I know about women it's that they love a good haiku. That's why all the women loved Byron: he was a true craftsman when it came to the haiku. He could write a haiku using only sixteen syllables. It was really revolutionary stuff. And then Yeats came along and managed to write one in fifteen. What a genius. The women weren't as crazy about him though for some reason. I wonder why...

My thoughts were interrupted by her staring. Why is she looking at me?

“What?”

“What's your name?” She asked impatiently.

Wow, she actually wants to know my name. This is brilliant. A beautiful girl like her wanting to know my name. This reminds me of the time I was arguing with the man at the kebab van about the ratio of chicken to beef in my mixed kebab, and the police drove by and saw the terrible drama that was evolving at three o'clock on a Thursday morning, and—

Wait a minute, I can see where this is going. Quick, before I forget:

“It's Marcus.” I replied belatedly.

She looked bored. I think she was growing weary of my delayed replies. I wasn't quick enough. I wasn't putting my lightning fast repartee into action. What would Wilde say in this situation? Probably something brilliant about how things might not seem like other things but they are actually similar to those other things. My life would be so much easier if I thought in ironic witticisms. But I don't and it isn't. Instead I had to flounder about in an ocean of words and things and try and work out which ones to use and in which order so that I could impress this beautiful plumber.

“I like your hair. It's really blonde. It's like a banana or the sun or something.” I thought this line went down brilliantly. I mean, why not? Not only is it a heartfelt compliment, I also managed to exhibit my poetic prowess with an exquisite simile. One of my best ones yet. I must remember to write that one down for later, I thought.

“Um, yeah I guess it is, thanks...” She was loving it. Her arousal was practically tangible.

“Or like, one of those old fashioned yellow raincoats that fishermen wear. It's like that too.” I continued.

She smiled encouragingly.

“Those curtains are also yellow.” I said, pointing to the floral curtains hanging by the window in my lounge. Technically they were more of a maize or saffron. I was really grasping at yellow straws. She must have picked up on my poor attention to detail because she seemed eager to change the conversation. I was losing her.

“I should really fix this.” She said, turning toward the sink.

I was perceptive enough to pick up on the fact that as much as she enjoyed my elaborate imagery she had a job to perform, and wished to get it done. She was obviously very passionate about her work. I went into the lounge to watch T.V. and to consider my next move in this smooth old game of Lovechess. I almost had my queen in checkmate, and I was moving in for the kill. By the way in Lovechess you try and capture the queen and not the king. The killing is purely symbolic, the only things that actually die in Lovechess are my dreams, over and over again like some cruel game of whack-a-mole in an arcade played repetitively by a twelve year old with fourteen thousand pounds in fifty pence pieces and an infinite attention span. Seriously, why does my face keep popping out of the hole? There is nothing out there; just a moron with a hammer. I should just stay underground where it's dark and there's a T.V. But I always pop out nonetheless.

So here I was, safe in my underground lair with my T.V. and my sofa and a box of chocolates left over from my birthday, and I couldn't stop thinking about Beth and how I could poke my stupid face out of this lovely hole.  

Tea for One (part three)

 I had been watching reruns of the Simpsons, eating chocolate and scratching myself indulgently for the best part of half an hour, and I was becoming increasingly aware of the fact I was letting time dwindle away when that marvellous creature would soon have been finished fixing my water, and she would shortly be leaving to go back home where she would probably spend most of her time lying seductively on a bed of rose petals while ludicrously muscular men would feed her chocolate coated strawberries and beg for her affection as she showers them with insults. At least I assume that's what beautiful women get up to in their spare time, I have never actually been in the presence of one in the comfort of their own home. Anyway, I needed to do something before she got away. Anything. I just couldn't let her pass from my life.

But why would she stay around? As far as I could see there was no reason why she would possibly wish to spend any more time with me. She was struggling pretty severely with the time we were currently spending together, and I wasn't even in the same room as her. The smell of my house alone seem to trouble her enough, as I heard some pretty harsh imagery about “pig sties” and “burning gypsy-brothels” coming from the kitchen.

But it was best not to dwell on these thoughts. I should not discourage myself. I was going to ask her out on a date, because this is what normal people do when they like other normal people.

But first, I needed to sweeten her up. I walked through to the kitchen to admire her work.

“You're doing a great job,” I said encouragingly, smiling at her.

“Thanks,” she said, “I'm almost done.” My time was running out. I had a short time gap while I could still keep her in my life before she forever left to fix other people's pipes and receive mild harassment from slightly more competent men. I struggled to get my words out.

“Beth...” I started.

“Yes?”

“I... ah....” Oh god, I couldn't say anything. My words were stuck in my throat. I was just making incomprehensible noises with a pained expression on my face. I couldn't form a sentence. This was incredibly embarrassing.

“Are you all right?” She asked.

“Yes, I'm fine thanks. Say, lovely weather. What's the time? Do you own a sundial? I wonder which way North is. I'll be right back I think I left the T.V. on.” I rushed out of the room with a fast walk and my arms flailing awkwardly by my sides.

Go on, Marcus, I said to myself, you need to impress this woman. But how?

Poetry. I've seen enough films in my time to know that women love receiving poetry. Coming to think of it I can't actually recall a film in which love poetry has successfully won a woman over. Did it happen in Ten Things I Hate About You? There was definitely some poetry and some crying in there somewhere. No wait, I think it was when Heath Ledger bought that girl the guitar that she was won over. Maybe I should get Beth a guitar...

No, it would have to be poetry. I couldn't afford a guitar, and poetry is free. And aren't the best gifts free? In this case, definitely.

But there wasn't much time. I had never actually written a love poem to a woman before. And I had never written one to Beth, I had only known her for an hour. I should have been writing poetry instead of watching repeats of The Simpsons. Now she will leave any minute and I have no poem to offer her.

A Haiku has got to be my best shot. After all the ladies do love a good Haiku, we've been through this.

I could hear her packing her tools away, I had to be quick. I looked around for some tools to craft my poem with. All I could find was an old bus ticket and a red pen that I managed to get working after some excessive scribbling and a repeated licking of the nib. I racked my brain for the words to woo her with.

Then they came to me. Divine inspiration flashed within my soul. I knew the perfect words, I could feel them. It was like I had always known them, and had been waiting for this day at this precise moment to channel the words onto the back of an old bus ticket with all the meaning of my aching heart. This was destiny. In my most elaborate handwriting, into the ticket I carved

Your yellow hair is

very nice; you've great teeth too.

Will you g'out with me?

I was incredibly pleased with this. I had never seen anyone combine 'go' and 'out' before to create the fantastic monosyllabic phenomena that is the word 'g'out.' Maybe after today someone will put it in the dictionary. Shakespeare invented boring words like frugal and eyeball, but me, I had channelled my creative being into the most useful word combination in the English non-language: g'out.

I had to give my masterpiece to Beth straight away.

“Beth!” I started exuberantly, “I have for you a poem; one that I crafted with my own two hands, a red Biro and a used bus ticket.”

“Oh you shouldn't have,” she murmured, taking the poem. She was obviously intimidated by the presence of such an esteemed literary gentleman. If I get famous because of the invention of the word g'out, I thought, then maybe I won't even need Beth any more. I could probably be having sex with supermodels in baths made out of cocaine using lubricants that are fifty percent liquid ecstasy. All those drugs would probably take their toll on my body though, and besides, cocaine baths probably don't have great water-bearing properties. I'll keep trying with Beth for now. The supermodels and cocaine can be my plan B.

“Marcus...” she started, “I don't think I can go out with you, I'm sorry.”

“Don't you mean you can't g'out with me?”

“Yeah, I suppose I do mean that. And about that word...” she said tentatively. “It's not a real word. It's not a thing in any way. You just can't say that.”

“But Shakespeare invented loads of words. Do you think he let anyone stop him when he started to use the word frugal? Probably not. Now, thanks to him we have a word for someone who is economically efficient and a prudent saver of money. What did people do before that word came along? We were lost without the word frugal. It was madness.”

“I don't think its the same sort of thing. I mean, frugal is definitely a useful word, but g'out? You've essentially merged two words together that don't need to be merged, and in doing so you arouse connotations of a disease culminating in attacks of inflammatory arthritis. It is unnecessary and distasteful. The only use that it could possibly have ever, is to fit the syllable count of a Haiku that an untalented man had to hurriedly write in a two minute period on the back of a bus ticket. And while we're on the subject of your poem, I don't know why you think women love haiku; they definitely don't. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that out of all the poetic forms available to man, the haiku is probably one of my least favourites. Honestly, it's down there with the Limerick and the Medieval religious Ballad.

“I'm sorry, I really am. I'm sure you're not a bad man. Well actually... At least you are not a consciously malevolent man. I'm sure that if I spent some more time with you, I might be able to find one redeeming quality. I don't know what that could possibly be, but my unshakeable faith in the human race leads me to believe there must be something about you that a woman could love, but that woman is not going to be me. I just can't spend any more time with you. I'm sorry.”

And she picked up her toolbox, walked through the front door and left.

When I had stopped staring longingly after her I didn't know what to do with myself. I walked over to the tap and twisted; it was working. I twisted the other tap; it was also working. I glanced around the kitchen and saw Beth's tea, she hadn't drunk it but there was a hole in the whipped cream where she had taken her first and only sip. Sighing, I took the mug into the lounge and took my place on the sofa.

I turned on the T.V. and had a taste of the tea; it wasn't that bad, was it?

Would a dick by any other name smell as sweet?

Look: post number two. I have started a blog. I wasn't lying. Lucky you.

So today kids I have a treat for you all from the dense archives of my writing library. This bad boy was written at the time of the trial of Gary Dobson and David Norris, who were convicted of murdering Stephen Lawrence. Don't worry, I didn't write anything intellectually relevant. With this one I felt like I really got the ratio of dick jokes to slander spot on. There's sort of a base layer of slander with dick jokes peppered intermittently throughout. So, who loves insensitive, retrospective and irrelevant articles about people you probably haven't heard of? You love insensitive, retrospective and irrelevant articles about people you probably haven't heard of.

And if you are wondering if every post will start with an angsty, self-referential introduction, then yes. You are catching on quickly. Ahem, here you go:

Being terribly self-involved I tend to remain completely oblivious to all world affairs, however a while ago I watched the news on television (I know wait it gets better) and I watched a story about the Stephen Lawrence murderers being convicted. What caught my attention was not the historic case of an unsolved murder finally coming to an end, but the fact that the Acting Deputy Commissioner of London's Metropolitan Police is called Cressida Dick. Seriously, Cressida Dick. Why is this not a news story in itself? The question we need to be asking is not “why has such an atrocious murder case taken eighteen years to solve?” but “how can a woman with such a life-cripplingly awful name reach such a highly esteemed position in society?” How do we ever hope to progress as a nation if we refuse to answer these big, hard questions?

One would think she was doomed from the start, I mean, what was going through her parents heads when they thought of that one? I mean, I'm assuming the surname Dick was inherited and they didn't pick that one for themselves, so they didn't have much to work with. But Cressida? Did they think, “hey, I'm worried that people won't take my daughter seriously because her surname is a phallic euphemism, so I better give her a nice, respectable first name to work with, yeah something normal, you know, like Cressida.” Or perhaps they thought “well, our daughter needs to be called something sophisticated to make up for the vulgarity of her throbbing surname, and what's more sophisticated than a classical reference? Nothing, that's what. We're calling her Cressida and sending her to Oxford.” I mean, why are people always saying her name with a straight face like those are perfectly reasonable words to name one's child with?

And while I was thinking such thoughts about how stupid her parents are, smiling smugly to myself, it suddenly struck me, what if Cressida Dick's long-running success is a result of her ludicrous name, not in spite of it? What if the person that decided on the name Cressida Dick is actually a genius, and they are laughing at me as I think? What I am proposing is something I like to call the 'Boy Named Sue' hypothesis. It comes from the Johnny Cash song about a man who called his son Sue before he abandoned him. Because of his name, Sue was bullied at school, until he learned to stand up for himself and became hardened to the ways of the world, and learned how to be strong. Sue then found his father at a bar and beat the shit out of him, asking why the hell he gave him such a humiliating name, and his father replied that he did it deliberately, because it was the only way he could be sure that Sue would become hard as fuck. I think the same can be applied for Cressida Dick. I mean, she must have had a hard time at school with that name, (she went to private schools in Oxford, they blatantly got the classical reference) and because of this she too learned to be strong, and has gained the determination and independence to reach such a high place in our police force. Don't get me wrong, choosing such a strategy when naming your child is a massive risk, but Cressida Dick's parents are obviously the gambling kind. That or they are actually insane. According to Bruce Feirstein, the distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success, so we have to hand it to her parents; they had a vision and they went for it. Some people may have thought they were crazy, but where are they now? They're sitting at home with their normal names doing normal things and wishing they had listened to Mr. and Mrs. Dick.

Either way we can all learn a fine example from Cressida Dick's remarkably intelligent parents: stupid names will get your children far in life. It teaches them to deal with adversity and to rise to challenges. It's hard on them but it will pay off in the end. I am personally going to do my civic duty and name my first born (irrespective of gender) Troilus Wankstain in the hope that he will one day go on to find a cure for cancer. For the good of our country I urge you all to do the same.

Penetrating the Blogosphere

Hello internet world!

I must admit, I don't really understand what this is. I'm not even totally sure where I am right now. There's like this white box and I'm putting words into it but I don't really understand how I get anyone to read my words. Have I successfully entered the Blogosphere, or is there like some sort of internet ozone layer I need to penetrate through? If the latter is true how do I get through? Do I need any tools? I have a spoon and a ball-point pen, will that do?

I don't understand, someone send help.

Anyway, this is what I like to call an introductory blog post from yours truly. I have no political conscience, no artistic insight into anything that has ever happened, and generally very little to say on anything of any importance. I do however have vague intentions of writing awkward comedy articles and opinion columns based around the banalities of my every day life. But wait, don't get too excited by this mouth-watering prospect, because I am incredibly lazy and disorganized, (and not very good at writing) so in reality, on the off chance that you do decide to follow my blog, you probably won't have too much terrible prose to wade through. Have I convinced you yet?

If not, here is a little tantalising fact about myself to really get you going: I once received a stuffed teddy bear from the famous decathlete Daley Thompson. How about that? Famous decathlete Daley Thompson. Famous decathlete. Definitely famous. And to top things off, I don't even have the bear any more! What am I like? Hilarious, that's what. Seriously, I've got tonnes of these bits of fascinating trivia about myself. At the moment I can think of nothing else, but I promise that there is definitely more to come, and it might not be made up.

Okay so I'm approaching the half-way mark of the awkward introductory blog post, and I have realised that I have made myself sound so unappetizing that you probably feel as though you shouldn't follow my blog, because if even I openly deprecate myself as a dullard with nothing to say, then what hope have you, the humble reader, got of enjoying my blog.

Well... Shut up, yeah. Don't be so clever all the time.

Look, I've compiled a list of reasons why you should stick around (oh my god post number one and I'm already on my knees and begging for someone to pay attention to me, I should be too cool for this):

1. I promise I will actually do real posts about actual topics that do exist, and said posts will contain jokes.
2. The hit/miss ratio of my jokes will be at least 1:10, but I can run through the jokes at a blistering pace and you will barely even notice they're there.
3. Most of the time, I am savvy to the correct usages of There, Their and They're.
4. Because I will inevitably have very few followers, you will be one of a select group, and I promise I will make you feel like a member of a beautiful community (or satanic death cult, we'll see). Who knows, it might even just be you and me. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Do you live within a one thousand mile radius of Coventry? Maybe we could go for dinner later. We could get some Chinese food, maybe some wine, we'll see what happens.

Look at that, four reasons. FOUR whole reasons. Look me in the eye and tell me you aren't tempted. I was going to do five but I thought I was starting to clutch at straws a little in honesty. Point three is essentially a lie, too.

Actually, I do have a fifth reason after all. reason number five comes in the form of a visual aid, and it is me lying seductively in a sweaty room:

Need I say more?

Well, it seems this is the place where the post ends and the plethora of adoring women begins.

If anyone works out how to use this whole blogging website thing, let me know. I will thank you sexually or non-sexually depending on your preference.