Saturday, June 30, 2007

Embarrassing Memory #8: Wanker's Revenge

I wasn't too sure whether or not to admit to this at the time, a little event that happened when I was in New York a few months ago.

I had spent the night sleeping on a sofa after a frankly appalling evening in a bar I didn't want to be in, and with a ladyfriend who clearly wasn't bothered about speaking to me, preferring to chat to and get back rubs from her male friends instead.

We'd got back to her apartment later that evening, saying nothing to each other as we prepared for bed. Once in bed, my ex couldn't even summon up the words 'Goodnight' after I'd offered her the same sentiment seconds earlier.

So I lay there, really thoroughly pissed off for about four minutes, then thinking 'Fuck this, I can take a hint', and storming off to her couch in the living room.

And on her couch, I continued to think; thoughts of anger at myself for assuming I could just turn up at an ex's apartment in a foreign country and think all would be cool, thoughts of anger at her for being cold, thoughts of shame that I'd travelled all that way and put us both through this.

And as I continued to think and squirm and fidget and - ultimately - when it became clear that there was no way on earth I was going to get any sleep that evening, I devised a plan, a cunning and symbolic scheme that would pass some time, entertain me and, in an almost poetic sense, exact some revenge:

I was going to have a wank on her sofa.

I was in a t-shirt and jeans, with my coat over my torso, the hobo's duvet. I fumbled around my pocket for a clean tissue and began to grow in every sense as my mind conjured up images from my Memorywank; sex with ex-girlfriends, filthier girlfriends with bigger tits than Spurnwoman in the next room, and images of Tera Patrick in some of her more vocal movies. Undoing my jeans, I pushed them and my boxers to my ankles, and got on with the task in hand, feeling both gratified and a little bit disgusted with myself all at once.

The perfect crime, releasing all that pent up anger and energy in a positive way, plus I was very accurately wanking on her sofa.
Win/ Win.

Daylight is trying to force its way into the living room through heavy curtains. I squint as I regain consciousness and realise that I am cold and my coat has fallen to the floor during the night. Oh yeah, I'm in New York.


Shower noises.

I could hear my ex-girlfriend's Petite Pretty Flatmate storming about the apartment and I wonder what she'd make of me lying on her sofa. I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep. Then I open them in alarm.

Didn't I try to have a wank last night?

I sit up. I am naked from the waist down, an unused tissue lying on the floor.
Oh christ.
Despite being ruthlessly alert when I began pleasuring myself, I clearly couldn't even turn myself on. I had fallen asleep mid-toss, slowing down the strokes until, cock in hand, I began to snore.

The worst part is the fact that my ex's New York apartment has no door to the living room. It is an open plan space, with the only doors being to bath or bedrooms. This can mean only one thing; on exiting their rooms, my ex and her Petite Pretty Flatmate would've had a no-holds barred view of me snoring loudly on the sofa, pants round my ankles, and holding my brain.

I chose not to discuss the matter with either of them that day, and I have kept quiet about it ever since.

Until now.

No wonder I'm perpetually single.

Sunday, June 24, 2007


28 Days Later is on at the moment. I think I'd quite like to survive a post-apocalyptic world populated by zombies. At least then I'd have clear, attainable goals in life; Kill zombies, Don't die, Go for a swim.

I feel like a zombie. I am bored. My stop-gap emergency job, the one where I gave myself a year to claw back my debts, get a new flat to rent, and look for The Right Job in the meantime has now ticked along and I've been there for almost two years, two years of keeping my head down as I still haven't got a clue what to do or where to go.

I have joined Facebook in the last couple of weeks and it is eating up all my time. I have spotted some lads I was at school with - wankers, mainly. Some are married with kids. Most have girlfriends. All appear to have decent jobs, or their own businesses, and look very, very content. So that's been a fun discovery, realising you've wandered so far off the beaten track, you can hear a banjo being played somewhere.

I was invited to my Dads for dinner on Friday night. While his friends chatted among themselves, I looked at my old man and it was like looking into the future. His shoulders were drooped, his head hung a little low. He stared into the middle distance looking like a man whose dreams, ambitions and plans went unfulfilled a long time ago. He is 73, still working, still with a mortgage to pay.

And no-one has told the weather it's late June.

On the plus side, I am chatting on-line to a ladyperson. I don't have the heart to tell her that I'm not a barrel of laughs right now, a bit like a Jim Davidson concert. I also have a week's holiday in Spain coming up. That may help. It also may give me chronic liver failure, reinforce the fact that I'm clinically doomed, and necessitate a futher holiday by the time I get back to work.

33 years on this bloody planet and all I've got to show for it is a fucking blog.

* * * * * * * * * UPDATE 26.06.07 * * * * * * * * * * * *

I have since read my comments. I am largely moved, and feel a tad primadonna-ish and more than a little told off. I apologise. It was Sunday night. I had eaten a lot of carbs and smoked like an impending ban was upon us. Needless to say, I shall try and keep the really miserable stuff well contained. Furthermore, I shall try and - oh god - write something properly creative n' that. Just don't ever expect to see it on TV or in a bookstore. But thank you for assuming it could be.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

I Accidentally Buy Lots And Lots Of Porn

In an ironic twist to my last post, I found myself in a pub last night, buying a shedload of pornography I really didn't want from an irate Northerner about to punch my lights out.

Said Northerner is a mate of mine, and said porn-selling is his opportunity to claw back some of his debts. Sadly, I'm in debt too, and although I was keen in principle to own more porn (albeit before my Mum got in on the act and ruined the whole concept for me), when it came to handing over my hard-earned cash yesterday, I really resented being the proud new owner of 'Analgeddon' and five other titles.

Nonetheless, I can confirm it is slightly better than the tamer Bruce Willis vehicle, albeit with less self-satisfied grinning at the end.

I've been out every night this week by sheer accident. My attempts to catch up with old friends (and reluctantly buy grot) all converged at once, and I am utterly desperate for sleep. Like a mobile phone that is almost dead to the world, I'm getting just enough recharging at night to function during the day, but little else. For god's sake, don't let me make calls.

Tonight would've been my chance to catch up on sleep, but I had been summoned to my Mother's house in outer fucking London. I wasn't in the mood for a two-hour round trip after work, barely able to keep my eyes open, yet there I was, leaving my healthy free bike ride locked in the office while I paid through the nose to get a train out of the city. My Mum's Hungarian housekeeper wanted me to connect to the house's wireless broadband, which I was fairly confident about.

Except no-one told me the whole fucking laptop would be in Hungarian.

So for three hours tonight, I pressed buttons and tried to decipher the world's most impenetrable language so Maria could ultimately email her daughter in Budapest. But to no avail. Fathoming out a stubborn laptop is bad enough without having 'A hálózati beállításokól fűggően ajelzónak 128 vagy 256 bitesnek kell lemmie. Ez elérhető 8 vagy 63 ascii karakter, illetve, 64 hexadecimális karakter bevitelével' flash in front of you a dozen times a minute. And having a Hungarian whose grasp of English is poor at best huff in exhasperation when you point to the above sentence and yell 'What the fuck is that?' didn't help. And nor was her constant cry of
'Give machine yours key. Yours KEY!
'What, Maria? What??'
'Jaj Istenem!'

So I go home dejected, having been unable to fix the damn machine, but being a pack of dodgy Eastern European Viceroy cigarettes up on the deal. And then I get to the tube and find the Victoria line closed for repairs. In my anger, I'm forced to take the Northern Line, but I accidentally go the wrong way and end up at King's Cross. Those utter, utter, utter, utter, utter LRT cunts, and my shit bearings.

But on the plus side, I've found myself purchasing a ticket to the godforsaken Costa Del Sol again, to once more undertake a boozy holiday I absolutely should've got out of my system by now. It is, as last year, at The Nothing Man's parent's holiday home and this time, we've set ourselves the three remaining weeks to avoid all junk food and beer, and exercise like we're going to a cheap string of bars in Southern Spain to hopefully have drunken anonymous sex with a gaggle of cheerful girls from Lancashire.

I'm not going to lie, I need this. All my holidays, and I've not had so much as a kiss (not counting a pair of Thai hookers I snogged by accident then panicked about). This holiday will be my Last Hoorah, my final childish bingeing abroad and yes, I will be out on the pull. I'm even considering dyeing my hair a darker colour, although last time I dyed it, blond, to be specific, it went properly ginger. That was fun. Nevertheless, in the meantime, I intend to lift tons of weights, wake up and do 100 crunches a day and, in under a month, have sweaty, rampant sex with a cute girl I've just met.

Oh yes.

This Is Definitely Going To Happen.

And if it doesn't, as I strongly fucking suspect, I've always got Kinky Butt Freaks and Slam it in Every Hole to wile away the long nights when I get back.

Saturday, June 09, 2007

I Can Never Watch Porn Again

I have just received an email. The forwarded subject heading is 'Paris Hilton, view in private'.

I've just surfaced in my pit, private enough. I download the attached mpeg and my computer doesn't crash. Excellent.

This is what I see: Paris Hilton is naked from the waist up, and she's pouting. The accompanying music, I've googled to discover, is Paris's very own paean to pap, Stars are Blind. She's now reclining on a chaise longe, like a stick of celery with its snatch out.

Right, ok.

Now her ex appears, popping it in from behind. I squirm a little. Surely this clip is going somewhere, some kind of reason for sending it to me.

Scene change. Oh look, an erect member. Paris is gurning from just behind this angry red helmet. This is about as erotic as watching Large Northern Flatmate shave off his backhair.

Oh crap, now she's sucking him off. Oh dear god, No! Why? Why was I sent this? What's going to happen ne....

Ah, he's come on her tits. The clip ends. I am ruthlessly disturbed.

I haven't watched hardcore pornography with such astonishment since the day I first saw a mucky video, Teenage Desires, I believe, back in the VHS only, pre-internet days when I was 14.

And the reason I watched this clip with so much horror and nausea wasn't just because Paris Hilton was the main performer, a woman with the body of a Dickensian waif and all the charm and intellect of a vole.

No, the reason for my encroaching horror was that this clip of hardcore pornography was sent, apropros of nothing, by my Mother.
My Mum sent me porn.
Of fucking, and a blow job, and some bloke jizzing his DNA onto the small pert breasts of an airhead. Which meant that my Mum saw that. She saw it all. And she knows all about that kind of thing, and maybe even did likewise herself, dear GOD.

My Mum watched and sent me porn, and included a dozen elderly Jews into the email. They are all right now probably having small seizures in their tidy homes in North West London, and all my known rules of the universe have been stretched and inverted and spunked onto the Floor of Unease.

I feel a little bit sick.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Modern Life Is Rubbish

I've had this unpleasant feeling gnawing at me for a while and this time, it's not just my genitalia disintegrating through underuse.

Now this might sound a tad bitter, but modern life feels like a sham; a synthetic morale-sapping Rat Race in a Dog-Eat-Dog world.
Born, Eat, Taxed, Die.

A Fine is a tax for being bad. A Tax is a fine for being good.
Work is, annoyingly, important. Not only does it fill your life with some kind of meaning – if you’re lucky enough to have a meaningful job – but it will reward you with money to purchase goods and services. The fact that said goods and services can end up being junk food, alcohol, and heavily marketed clothes and gadgets you didn’t realise you need until you fell for the advertising just makes you feel like a blob of lube keeping the cogs of industry obscenely well oiled.
So you work. You spend your remaining wages (once your rent/ mortgage, bills and taxes are paid), on the aforementioned crap. What’s left over can hopefully go towards a small nest egg. But make sure you spend it all before you die. In Britain, the government take a slice of those hard-won savings in the form of Inheritance Tax. Before your body’s gone cold, the Inland Revenue still want a chunk.

The International American Dream
When America’s founding fathers’ penned their Declaration of Independence, they were setting down perhaps the noblest statement in history; “We hold these truths to be self-evident: That all men are created equal.”
Marvellous. Really. Of course in its proper context, it was saying in a far more refined way than I’m about to, “Fuck off, King.” They were specific in their assertion that no-one in their new country would be born better or worse than the next man (women presumably included only by vague implication), ironic when you consider that slavery was still rife when the ink on the declaration was still wet, but the equality intention was there. And thus, the American Dream was born; a world where everybody is born technically free, and where even those from the most humble of backgrounds could rise to the Presidential Top Job (unless you’re black, female or gay). George W Bush is a perfect example of a man from humble beginnings whose intellect, drive and ambition propelled him to the position of Most Powerful Man in the Universe. 300 million Americans in the world, and the job goes to the raving simpleton whose humble beginnings were in the testes of the soon-to-be 41st President of America. But I’m digressing. This isn’t supposed to be an America-bash. After all, I’m quite fond of the place.

Their ‘Dream’, of realising your potential and reaping the rewards (normally financial) is the ultimate source of the most unhappiness in the world as its essentially dignified ideals have spread, only to cause massive Status Anxiety. Status Anxiety is best highlighted through this haphazard assumption; that people were happier 300 years ago. There’s no evidence that I know of to back this up, so consider this is a crass and pointless argument. Life was obviously a lot harder in the 18th century, but if all the working classes could aspire to was regular work, then surely that alone was enough. You didn’t worry much about climbing that social ladder, because there wasn’t one. Ironically, one would presume there would’ve been more ‘Jobs for Life’ and apprenticeships back then, unlike today’s consumable careers where people bounce from job to job, fighting, freelancing, and aspiring for the largest pay packet. Jobhopping, the ultimate symbol of rubbish modern life.

Depressing News
Why oh why oh why is the news so fucking depressing? I know that 'Cat Rescued from Tree in Cheam' isn't nearly as newsworthy as Nato condemns Putin missile vow (The current top story on the BBC website, about Russia threatening to target Europe if the US sets up a missile shield. Didn't we resolve all that unpleasantness?)
It isn't hard to imagine that your children will be kidnapped if you go out for a meal. Or that we will all die in the forthcoming war by religious fundamentalists. And if that won't kill us, global warming will. My friend Luke recently told me that he went on holiday and had no idea what was going on in the world as he was too busy relaxing and enjoying his time off. And he couldn't have been happier. Other people are actually quite nice. The news ultimately convinces us that we're not.
Turn on, Tune in, Drop Dead. So have a no-news week instead.

What’s it all about, anyway?
No idea. Don’t worry, there isn’t a chance in hell that I’m about to propound anything deeply philosophical – as if - but what kind of world do we live in where our aspirational icons are emaciated clothes horses who don’t seem to do anything for a living? Whose vacuous lifestyles consist of conspicuously glamorous holidays, eating at the most exclusive restaurants, and wearing the latest haute couture? People have always aspired to more comfortable living ever since the Romans gave us the lazy and rich classes. Humanity aspired to be stinking rich right up until the French revolted and cut their heads off and the whole process came full circle again. I’m no better though, sitting here and longing for a proper house I can call my own, and in a job that fills me with pride and leaves me wanting for nothing. Yet I know that won’t be enough, that money won’t really buy me happiness, that I’ll still want. Because modern life will die on its arse if people stop consuming, and I really want more iPods. And at the top of the tree of modern life, there’s the steady torrent of wannabes, Stars, and starfuckers, getting papped and reminding us mere mortals of that other world, the world of outrageous opulence garnered, in many cases, from zero fucking talent. It doesn’t matter, because pretty, thin and rich wins every time. For the rest of us, there’s nasty yellow pies, the lottery, and cheaper alternatives to David Beckham’s wardrobe that’ll make you look less like him, and more like yourself in a dodgy Primark rip-off. Of course, the pies will make you fat and you will grow breasts even if you’re male and can’t lactate but don’t worry. Our ancestors may be befuddled at the thought of us paying huge sums of money to run on the spot in an exclusive torture chamber, but we’ll lose all that weight we’ve gained from staring into a monitor for 40 hours a week.

So what’s the answer? I’m not a bastard pinko Commie, although Socialism is a great idea in principle. So I don’t know.
We could Be Nice, that’s a start, something that the man who nearly rode over my foot in his 4x4 as I cycled to work this morning could’ve followed. Be Nice, and Spend Less, perhaps. Buy things that will really matter, or maybe spend money on your nearest and dearest instead. Buy less fags, booze and illicit nasal pharmaceuticals, perchance, and learn to find happiness in some other way. Join Facebook and keep in touch with friends you can’t be bothered to visit in person.

Or perhaps, stop whinging. Stop whinging, make some changes, and Live A Little.

Of course, if I stopped whinging, I'm have to kill this blog.

Sunday, June 03, 2007

The Eventual Update

The coppers, the first I'd seen wandering purposefully around my manor since I'd moved in, were actually there to arrest someone else.

Thus, the outcome of my speaker destruction was a success, of sorts. No police seem to have been contacted, and despite my neighbour's landlord being made aware of his door being broken down, even that doesn't seem to be going any further. Whether or not my neighbour decides to blast out music at ridiculous hours remains to be seen. Becuase he is that stupid.

So that's that. Don't fuck with me; I'm a Geezer.

In further news, my mate Suki who I didn't realise reads this journal of shit, was kind enough to copy and paste Tuesday's post below into an email and circulate it to a wider circle of friends. Cue lots of emails (well, two), calling me an egotistical twat.

Here's a picture of my good friend Suki below.

My good friend Suki

Sadly, this picture doesn't show him receiving a cucumber suppository whilst he observes with interest, also out of shot, the young pert nakedness of a trio of Soho rentboys dancing solely for his sick pleasure in a cheap King's Cross bedsit.

Regarding my speaker escapade, for all those who have commented and emailed your concerns, thank you.