Sunday, December 21, 2008

Saturday Night's Alright For Writing

Okay, Sunday afternoon to be exact. But I'm writing about Saturday, a line of something conspicuously illegal laid out on my desk, so that sorta counts.

I have just returned from Russell's Bachelor Bonkette in South London, in a place that rhymes with Wrecksley Grief. Russ picked me up at the O2 centre, whereupon I decided to start drinking like a mature and sensible grown up. Russell then took me to his mate's house, meaning I was sat in this chap's lounge with his wife and kid, a complete stranger drinking a can of beer and stating by way of apology that I read the Guardian.

Some time later and we were getting ready for the night. I was now on more beer, drugs, brandy, and some Polish cherry vodka I'd brought back from my travels (tasted like sweet nectar in bohemian Krakow bars and, for some reason, Benylin by the time I'd brought it back to the UK.)

I became slightly concerned when Russ insisted that I'd need ID. 'I'm 34,' I said, rather happy that I might need to prove I was over 18 after all these years.
'It's not for age,' he replied earnestly. 'It's so they know who you are if you end up in a fight.'
I grimaced slightly. When we got to our first bar, a large room that was 80% shaven-headed men in shirts, I grimaced some more. I was the only one in a coat for one thing, and Russell had given me his chequered black and white scarf to wear, rending me a heavily-layered dandy fop amid a sea of Ben Sherman.

It was only a matter of time, I thought, before someone reproached me for wearing a coat in December but the abuse never came. We chatted to a few of Russell's mates, and I tried to look sexy and smouldery for the orange blondes who walked past practising their indifferent looks.

We spent the rest of the night in a second bar. More of Russell's friends turned up, some ladies who I chose to greet with what I thought was a graceful continental peck on both cheeks, but which ended up looking like a sleazebag trying to get into their knickers with a kiss one cheek, get one free intro. It probably would've helped if I actually talked to them after pretending to be French, but they all fucked off in Kentish disgust immediately afterwards.

Much to my chagrin, I can find it hard talking to women unless they are sarcastic spunky types; regrettably I have no such problem with men, as I am fluent in Bloke. Solicitors, High court judges, football hooligans, drug dealers, none faze me in the slightest, and I feel I'm not doing my best if I don't get at least one 'Har har har' within a couple of minutes.

Women however tend to judge me harshly, but then that's my fault as I'm about as funny and charming as Peter Sutcliffe - and that neatly proves my point; I'll make jokes about ladykillers to ladies, and they tend to find that offensive. They assume that I'm a boorish unreconstructed knuckledragger when I'm actually quite the feminist who's less of a sexual threat than the Pope. Ho hum.

Russ, on the other hand, has no such problems. He can chat to women and make them feel all glowy and radiant. He listens, he laughs, he charms them out of the trees. Unfortunately for him, I was there to fuck with his night and ensure he came home alone. I'm like a sexual vortex; any carnal possibilities are sucked into my black hole of despair, never to reapppear again. Errol Flynn would doubtless tell me to piss off and leave him alone when it became apparent that I was fucking with his stats.

By the time we left the club and waited for a cab, Russ got cold. Mind you, that's hardly surprising when it's midwinter and about 1 degree out, and you're only wearing a thin fucking shirt. Nonetheless, I was rather impressed with the lady stood nearby. She was in a strapless green number, and she didn't even rub her naked arms or complain. Truth be told, she scared me a little.

This morning, feeling one moment slightly drunk and chipper, then the next absolutely fucking awful, I got the train back home and wanked into a sock.

I really need a girlfriend.

(This post will self-destruct when Russ reads it and tells me to take it down.)

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Best English Language Rant on Youtube Ever

The Amazing Athiest, slightly less angry than I am most days:

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

The Wrath of Can't

It had to happen sooner or later; I'm non-specifically angry and bitter at the world again (more so).

I guess it's to be expected from a day that started sitting opposite tubeladygirl and getting blanked, and ended with a forced stay at work til 6.30pm, severe tube delays home, and a Large Northern Flatmate who had used the last washing up tablet that I wanted for my crap clothes.

I've finally succumbed to this shit weather. It's bearable when one's mood is high, but when you feel as wretched as George Bush's smug head and you feel as if life is like an Iraqi's shoes, you want to lash out at the biting wind.

I spent the weekend near Ipswich. It was very pleasant but I shan't go into such life-affirming detail. Instead I'll relate the phonecall I took from my Mum on Sunday, as my mates' five-year-old son tried to climb up my shrivelled hungover brain.

'A woman tapped me on the shoulder,' she said, 'when I was in (insert name of shopping centre just north-west of London. In Watford. Called the Harlequin.)'
'She asked if I had a son called Fweng.'
'Oh yeah?'
'So I said I did, and she said she was Quentin's mother.'
'Quentin Eclampsia?' - A lad I was at primary school with.
'That's him. She asked me what you were up to, so I said you used to work at the BBC but got bored with it.'

Bless her cotton socks. In truth, my contract came to an end, and no amount of wrangling or all-out begging could convince anyone to extend it. She continued,
'And now he's an office manager selling plastic fucking bags to irritating bastards.'
'Oh lovely! Mrs Eclampsia had replied.
'And what does Quentin do?' my Mum asked.
'Oh, he's a doctor.'

That hasn't helped much. My jeans waistband is starting to nip at my stomach again, as my faith in crisps as a major food group takes hold. Work was more irritating than being chained up to David Cameron. And my novel (Ha!), my one chance to write myself out of my continual rut, is shit. It's torturous, it's lacking in something vital, it's a grammatical turd that won't get finished, let alone published.

A quick google search reveals that even my old childhood chum Dr Eclampsia has had a book published! Good for him!!!

Oh, and I think my friend, he of the single Polish lady acquaintance, hasn't replied to my text for a reason. He saw her a few days ago and said he'd put in a good word for me. Sadly, I have a vague feeling that he might read this blog, and may have taken umbrage at my conviction that I WAS DEFINITELY GOING TO SHAG HER.

But back in the real world, now crashing down to earth from my recent, inexplicable high (based on fuck-all), I'm reminded that my penis is best left in its jar, an ugly scientific curio.

On the plus side, I haven't got cancer. But I'm smoking enough to get it.

Humbug. Fucking life.


Wednesday, December 10, 2008


A quick update because I’m getting non-blog stress to the extent that my left eyelid’s twitching again – or maybe that’s due to my work bollockings as I’m now late for work on a 100% daily basis.

The writing of my (Ha!) novel during all my free time is going better than expected, hence a reluctance to write any blogposts in said sparse seconds, but I’ve decided to shit this out leaving the rest of my evening free pretending to be an author.

I haven’t seen the cute Thai girl since she flirted unashamedly at my head in my local supermarket, which makes me wonder if she’s become a victim of the global credit crunch - her, and now my genitals.

Neither have I seen tubelady on the tube, although an unusual thing happened last week. I ran off to get change for a tenner at the pub next to work, whereupon I spotted a young lady within who looked uncannily like TL. This lady was chatting to (presumably) a work colleague of hers and I observed during their conversation the lady wearing teeth braces, something I’ve never seen this side of the Atlantic. It wasn’t until two minutes later as I walked out of the pub that I had a proper look at her. She, in turn, had a good look at me – which was nice. It was definitely tubelady, except I now have to downgrade her to tubegirl on account of that metalwork. Very, very cute, but probably about 19 – meaning I’m not quite old enough to be her father, unless I was a chav.

Anyway, forget that. I spent last weekend at a surprise birthday party (arrived at the locale 30 mins early, spent 32 mins looking for the fucking place, nearly arrived at the same time as the surprise-ee) where I met for the second time Polish lady, blonde of hair and phenomenal of body, and had a rather nice time. Nothing happened other than animated chatting and consumption of alcohol, and she rather annoyingly left half-way through. Nonetheless, my mate is trying to matchmake. It would be just typical if I end up in a relationship before I finish writing this so-called book.

Still, sex or novel? Sex or novel? She may break my ridiculous drought yet. I think I’d better attach lightning conductors to my balls.

Friday, December 05, 2008


I am busy writing my (Ha!) novel. Normal service will be resumed.

In the meantime, another Star Wars mash-up. Quite amusing....