Tuesday, October 28, 2008


Fuck #1 ~ My beloved iPod is dead. It happened just now, when I checked to see how its charge was getting on, and there was nothing, nothing.

Turns out iPod's don't like dangling from a rucksack and getting wet while you cycle home in a freak hailstorm.

Fuck #2 ~ Hailstorms are a first, or at least cycling home in one is, and it was particularly galling as I had only just left work. I pedalled frantically until I found somewhere to shelter, but there was nowhere. Neither was there any consideration from the fucking motorists, who continued to drive as if it was a sunny day in June.

I got soaked; my non-waterproof trainers began to squelch after about a minute; my backside became saturated with rainwater; my tracksuit bottoms became drenched and leaden. I threw everything in the wash when I got home. I'm fairly optimistic that not a damn bit of it will be dry enough for tomorrow morning's commute, which may well mean my first day of non-cycling this October.

Dammit. I hate stuff forcing me to do other stuff against my will.

Fuck #3 ~ I kept on getting phonecalls on my mobile all day by some recording claiming to be from my bank. I kept cutting the call, assuming it to be a hoax of some sort. By the third ring at the end of the day I decided to listen, only to discover that someone somewhere has my card details and has been trying to buy stuff in Costa fucking Rica.

My card has now been cancelled and I'm without access to cash. Just as well, as I'm tempted to run off and buy an iPod.

Fuck #4 ~ I weighed myself earlier. It now appears that I am gaining weight. So to celebrate, I ate two packets of crisps and a Kit Kat.

I can see myself on the tube tomorrow morning, and facing it without music.


Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Monday, October 27, 2008


I shouldn't say I'm in stasis, because I'm not. I simply can't be bothered to keep dieting, nor can I be bothered not to keep dieting. After all, I am hoping very very soon to start dating again, as soon as I've a) written my turd of a book and b), lost enough weight to feel like I can get naked in front of one of those breasts and vagina owners.

Nonetheless, I'm just bobbling along with a vicious, vice-like grip around my cranium because I'm tired, boo hoo. I had seven hours sleep last night, but I needed ten. I can't for the life of me figure out why I need more sleep than a newborn, but there we go.

Days passed: 28
Routes cycled to/ from work: 40
Lengths swum: 177
Lbs lost: 8
Cigarettes smoked: More than 126.
Beers/ Spirits drunk: Starting to forget.
Drugs snorted: Still none.

As long as I bother to cycle to work and swim myself clean, I may as well carry on. I'm actually looking forward to November just to have a new month to endure, plus I'll get paid. And if Obama doesn't get elected, I will kill myself.

The weather has suddenly got a lot colder, which makes cycling that little bit more unpleasant, and those spiteful, arrogant fucksters otherwise known as motorists aren't helping. In one 14-hour period last week, I found myself in no less than three altercations, one where I screamed at a man in stationary traffic because he sped up behind a bus at 30mph covering a distance of about 8 yards in the process, because he spotted my signalling right arm extended as I tried to get past him and THAT JUST WOULDN'T DO.

Clearly my life is less important to him than the ignominy of remaining stuck in a rush-hour bog and I told him as much, except I called him a FUCKING CUNT and a SELFISH ARSEHOLE while he grinned and waved back childishly.

The following morning, some bastard in a Volkswagen blaring out the Grease soundtrack did likewise in another queue of traffic - the golden rule here seems to be; If I can't get to work, no-one shall get to work, so I did the mature thing and twatted his wing mirror as I cycled passed a second time, then pedalled off very, very quickly.

Ten minutes later as I approached work, a bendy bus that I was half way past decided to pull out and continue down the road despite the fact that the road was narrowing dangerously and he was beginning to force me into parked cars. I screamed out, braked hard, and came to a halt while he took off down the road only to seconds later come to a standstill at red lights, the third motorist who'd rather see me killed just so they can keep moving for a quarter of a minute.

I shamed myself by screaming blue murder at the driver; punching his window, demanding he look at me and stop being a coward, and generally letting the whole bus know that he was also a FUCKING RETARD and a WANKER who shouldn't be allowed on the road.

Please date me - I'm lovely.

Thursday, October 23, 2008


I've just checked the answers I gave to a questionaire on the dating website I belong to;

Film preferences: Adult
Take drugs: Socially
Do you believe in monogamy: With the right person

No wonder. Pillock.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008


Intrigue #1 ~ Dawn Porter: which links to not the greatest of reviews. At one point, the journalist refers to her as 'White Noise'. But what a lovely, charming and attractive young woman. I've been watching her Therouxesque journeys through dating and relationships via Channel 4 On Demand, because a) I wasn't even aware this programme existed and it's the kind of easy gonzo telly I'm a sucker for and b), It's a lot easier to watch them than it is to write a book.

I heartily recommend the Ukrainian Brides episode. If you happen to think - as I do - that all men are basically idiots, this won't change your opinion in the slightest.

I also doubt that she hasn't had a relationship in four years. Even I have. That statement just makes for better copy. After all, the series wouldn't seem quite as 'raw' if she had a boyfriend and kept banging on about him every ten minutes, like I would if I went near Dawn for three-quarters of a second.

Intrigue #2 ~ Jesus Christ, Venereal Disease!!!

Intrigue #3 ~
Days passed: 23
Routes cycled to/ from work: 34
Lengths swum: 147
Lbs lost: 5.5
Cigarettes smoked: 83 (erm, 83???) and counting.
Beers/ Spirits drunk: 7 pints, 3 bottles of wine - the latter in the one evening.
Drugs snorted: 0, regrettably.

And I've just realised that Bridget Jones' initials are BJ.

Intrigue #4 ~

The book is, well, slowly continuing. It currently stands at some 65,000 words, which is a good 15k on the original draft, which was godawful. Now it's just awful.


Sunday, October 19, 2008

The Long Slog

So another week passes and I'm back on the wagon; five more days cycling in, five more days swimming.

I'm finally back in the 14 stone zone which is beautiful as I was nudging 16 in the Spring. I hope to keep this up, although I'm starting to wane.

I'm waning because this Friday was spent in the pub, followed by a Saturday of less that perfect health. It's now Sunday evening, (post pub again, post-three pints of Bombardier and sausage and mash), but I needed to see my friends, including a heavily pregnant Natalie whose shotgun marriage to Phil I missed because I was wandering around Prague.

And I've been smoking. Granted, I didn't smoke during the week, but only at the weekend when ensconced in said pubs. And since I've been smoking, a strange thing has happened - It's made me able to continue writing my Shit Book, something I wasn't interested in when trying the Diet from Hell. It's as if I'm incapable of dieting, quitting smoking, and writing at the same time. Something had to give and in this case, it's been hitting the fags again just so I can write.

Very unusual. Don't know what that means.

But everything else is plodding along in a remarkably dull way. All the attractive women on the dating websites still refuse to look at my new profile. I'm spending more money than I would like and my budgeting plans have gone tits up. But other than that, I can see a future somehow. Even though this has become one of those unnecessary What-I-had-for-lunch kinda posts, I think I may be on to something here.

Of course, I've now jinxed everything by writing that. The crack pipe beckons.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

The Holy Trinity

It is Saturday night. I am sat at my desk typing eagerly as I sup my delicious glass of wine, throw a disgusting orange Dorito down my neck and - hang on - light this nicotinal arsenous monoxid preparation taken bronchially as an infumation; a cigarette.

I have quite literally been perfect right up until this last minute or two. What can I say? I'm sorry, but not as sorry as I'd be for the rest of the fidgety evening if I'd forsaken this bottle of cheap crap, bag of cheaper crap, and packet of gorgeous fags.

One night. Just give me one night.

Hang on, why am I asking for permission?

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Bored Shitless


Days passed: 8
Routes cycled to/ from work: 12
Lengths swum: 38.5
Lbs lost: 2 (fucking two)
Cigarettes smoked: 0
Beers/ Spirits drunk: 0 (unless you count one small tot of rum on Saturday)
Drugs snorted: 0

Boredom level: Incalculable.

It hit me about 3 hours ago. I have been verging on holier than thou pretty much since I started but for some reason, tonight, I'm bored, really bored, and that's made me suddenly very fidgety. I want action, and I want bad stuff. Although I'm not craving cigarettes, I want to smoke, if that makes any sense. I want to feel alive and I can only seem to do it there... outside... that place where action happens, 'cos it sure as heckittyfuck don't happen in this bedroom.

In case anyone thinks I should spend a night going out for coffee or venturing into a pub for an OJ, nice idea in theory but NO! I'm also attempting to get through October without spending money on anything that isn't 100% absolutely vital, such as food, which provides another stat:

Cash withdrawals in October thus far: £0
Card purchases in October thus far: £26.77

.. and that's been for everything, dinner, my lunch at work, the weekend; all my food and even some essential toiletries - obviously not condoms.

And I'm just, j u s t starting to unravel ever so slightly. I've never been this frugal in my life, and this is as healthy as I get. Both states confuse me. I need to self-destruct somehow; it's in my genes, paradoxically.

I am denying myself any fun and any get-togethers this month until the very last day three and a half weeks away, when I'm going to meet some ex-work colleagues who haven't seen one another for years. I intend to get trashed. We all intend to get trashed, but I'm pretty sure that I'm the only one imposing sanctions on my social life and my wallet (even if banks are crashing around us and we're all gonna die!!!)

I have also rejoined (i.e. updated some photos) on a couple of dating websites I have been affiliated with for about thirty years. Needless to say, even with my new and exciting photographs, I've had fuck all interest.

So what's the point of it all? I mean really? I've had a pretty lousy, stressful day at work - and I don't even work in a bank - and MY SHIT NOVEL is now looking REALLY SHIT and I'm in the final stages of KISSING IT GOODBYE FOREVER and never going near it again.

The gutter is currently looking very comfortable right now. Pass the syringe.

Sunday, October 05, 2008

Clean Sheets

It's finally happened; I've had a reverse mental breakdown.

It's a reverse because I'm acting completely out of character. I am happy. I am confident. I am being - ugh, stupid word - proactive.

The clocks will soon go back and the weather is now officially allowed to be shitty. With no more bank holidays on the horizon and my Eastern European trip done and dusted - and no more work leave available anyway - there's nothing left to look forward to until Christmas.

Thus, for the last week, I have - ugh, stupid phrase - Life Laundered.
I have taken all my household bills, calculated their combined yearly total, worked out the monthly average (which I then halved as Large Northern Flatmate obviously pays bills too) and am squirrelling that sum - 35 quid - into a dormant account every month ready for the next bill to land. I Will Be Prepared This Time.

I am now keeping abreast of my bank account and actually making a note of how much I can spend per week. I am 34 and I've never actually done that. It sucks, but it's incredibly simple and effective. Yesterday, I spent 99p. On a Saturday. When I normally spend at least £50.

I didn't do anything all day, but you get the point.

I have cancelled the gym I never go to near me. That was £36 a month right there.
I then vowed to forsake the tube throughout October if at all possible, and cycle to work again.

I have decided to be less wasteful and to eat what's in my fridge/larder instead of letting it rot and throwing it out.

I am avoiding alcohol as best I can, throughout October. God knows I had enough of the stuff in Europe, and I'm fairly sure I've never spent a month of my adult life alcohol-free, so it'll be nice to attempt. I think.

Oh, and I haven't smoked since last Monday when I woke up and finished my remaining fag from the weekend.

So, October's been a clean sheet so far:
I haven't smoked.
I haven't eaten any crap.
I've cycled to work and back every day.
I am spending my money only on healthy food. Any free time has so far being spent on household chores and writing.

I should be at the shoe-eating/ murdering stage by now, but I'm not. I feel strangely empowered. I spent last Christmas, and pretty much the dozen before that, in an orgy of bacchanalian excess, boozing, smoking, and eating only the yellowest, shrink-wrapped garbage. I would at least like to approach this one with a little more common sense.

Apologies for the conservative, rigidly boring, and relentlessly dull nature of this post. I wouldn't expect much else here for the rest of the month, but you're all invited to stick around for the inevitable breakdown where I end up face-first in the gutter with the world's largest hypodermic syringe protruding from my neck, its contents of mashed up Pringles, 2,000 Marlboro lights, Tesco's value meatfeast pizzas, a barrel's worth of lager and a light sprinkling of crack and skag being absorbed into my ruddy, bloated corpse.