Monday, March 30, 2009

Nothing To Declare

Do you remember when you'd pull faces when you were younger, and your mother would warn you that the wind would change and you'd be stuck like that forever?

Instead of pulling faces, I've been either sitting on my arse trying to watch everything on Youtube, or working said arse off in a small office in Central London. And the wind has changed.

I have nothing to declare. There are only so many times I can blog that I've gained weight and wanked myself into a coma until someone decides they have to kill me.

My boss has since returned from a two weeks sojourn that I'd spent running his company into the ground. The Sunday evening before his return, I was overjoyed with happiness. I'd worked a fortnight from hell, smoked my last cigarette ever, and was ready to dive back into writing my (Ha!) novel. Even that strange, swollen, stressed upper lip I'd gained in his absence had begun to simmer down.

Then I get to work on Monday morning and he hands me 200 Japanese cigarettes as a slow death thank you. For some reason, that gift gave me the green light to forget cycling to work, allowed me to avoid lettuce and fruit smoothies, and somehow sanctioned spending my evenings chainsmoking while I watched atheist geeks from Louisiana 'pwn' Young Earth Creationists, whilst simultaneously playing Spider Solitaire (wins to date: 1,748; losses, 7,082)

But mentally, I'm okay. I accept my uselessness. I am a failing human being, more than a bit crap and lonely. Noting my recent futile attempts at reconciliation, my American ex-girlfriend decided to email me for British chocolate, which I dutifully posted off to the East coast. She returned the favour with a picture of her looking lovely, leaving me feeling a little bit sick and remorseful.

In other news, I bought myself a smart new winter overcoat, several months too late. (Reduced from £130 to £47 though. I practically shat myself when I saw the discount.)

Yes, that's my news; I've bought myself a coat.

However, it's a magic coat, one that renders me 7% sexier. Last night, on the tube, I sat opposite a gorgeous Chinese girl who stared at me repeatedly without vomiting. It was the single most erotic moment of my life, barring those infrequent times I've had sex. I almost considered putting up one of those pathetic notices in the newspaper; 'To the gorgeous Chinese girl on the Central Line I sat opposite. You were glamorous and elfin, with shimmering, pink lips and glowing eyes. I was sweating profusely and grinning like I was trying to appease a mugger. Please contact this paper to improve Anglo-Sino relations. In bed.'

But the icing on the cake these last three weeks has to be my mate Russell coming through for me. He's set me up with one of his many lady friends. We are currently at the emailing stage. Blundering along with outrageous inevitability will be the number-swapping moment and its awkward conversations, followed by the eventual meet, which will either go a) surprisingly well or, b) badly.

I hope I have sex phenomenally soon - Sorry to be blunt, Russ. I have to have sex, and quickly. (Ironic choice of word, as that happy moment will probably last about five to six nanoseconds. I can see myself in a dimly lit bedroom, frantically removing my shirt or that of my lady companion's, then pausing to sigh as I turn and squelch off to the bathroom to remove my jeans and unleash a tidal wave of premature ejaculate onto the cold, tiled floor.

If it wasn't for my daily self-abasement, I'd basically be a lump of hardened semen on legs.

All of which makes me realise; I last enjoined in coital congress with a female human lifeform during my 32nd birthday weekend (ironic again), back in 2006.

I haven't had sex for three years. That's THREE FUCKING YEARS. (Kindly don't point out that it isn't.)

No wonder. No bloody wonder.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Comfortably Numb

I think that's a suitable title, and it has nothing to do with smoking yourself into a mindless stupor listening to pretentious 70s soft-rock icons.

Ever felt like you should be feeling something inside, but you don't? You're not happy, but you're not sad either. Nor are you pensive, thoughtful, introspective or confused.

You're just Comfortably Numb.


1> I panicked a little on Sunday night. My boss was about to leave for a two-week sojourn to the other side of the earth, leaving me to run his company in his absence. In this fractured state, I found myself looking for Positivity podcasts on iTunes.

When I found them, I scoffed at the suggestion that I am a "miracle", or that dwelling on the past and worrying about the future is completely pointless. Nor was I bothered about the very obvious advice that I should act on things that are important to me.

Nonetheless, I went to bed actually excited about the fortnight ahead. It worked so well that I even considered, that Monday at work as the office caught fire and a portal to hell appeared in the toilet, that I was now too positive to ever write another bitter blogpost again.

It didn't last.

2> On Saturday, I began my brilliant scheme to Buy New Clothes by complete accident, totally forgetting that my mate, the future groom, wanted to traverse with his Best Man the finest emporiums in town for wedding suits.

In doing so, I discovered a world I'd long since ignored; that of the Gentleman's outfitter. I'd lost count of the number of whistles we'd tried on, of the shirts and ties I'd admired, of the sense that I could buy a fucking expensive Ted Baker and lord it around London like a gadabout fop pretending to be rich.

All I bought were moderately sexy new jeans. I threw out my old ones. It's a start.

Cold changing-room lighting however, the one that shines down on you and reveals gorges of flab you hadn't spotted before, was none too helpful on the old ego.

I also discovered that Selfridges, and John Lewis - all the stores, actually - don't take kindly to the phrase, "Can I have a discount?"

I'm skint. Haven't they heard of the fucking recession?

3> I'm off to my third Beer Festival in Brighton this weekend. I intend to see my friend Monkey Dave, and get drunk. It will be a little oasis of relative calm amid the turbulence of work hell.


1> In the three days since my boss has been gone, I have traversed Positive and Up For The Challenge, to common-or-garden stressed. I have even made my upper lip swell up by absent-mindedly sucking on it harder than a newborn on a nipple.

It isn't easy getting on with the day-to-day when my colleagues, or the phone, or a motherfucking customer decides to interrupt me. I'm afraid I lost it so badly that I actually yelled at one of the staff for sitting behind me motionless and in silence, his eyes drilling into the back of my head like, erm, a drill.

And as karma would have it, I got yelled back in return by cuntstomers; One who is totally incapable of RELAYING TO US OUR FUCKING PRODUCT CODES WHEN ORDERING, and who then considers it our fault when she receives something sort of like what she wanted but not quite.

The second chewed my ear off because they haven't paid us since December, and this is somehow my fault that we've not delivered to them. I tried to explain to the loud, pompous fuck at the other end of the telephone that if someone bothered to reply to my emails and at least talk to me, they might stand a chance of a compromise being reached but Nooooooooo, he could not countenance being even slightly in the wrong, and he will merely take his (admittedly lucrative) business elsewhere.

But it ain't lucrative if we're working for free.

This may come as a shock to my three readers, but I'm too stubborn for business because I refuse to grab the Money Cock with both hands and suck, lick, rub, tweak, tug, slurp and cajole that motherfucker to spout wads of notes from its cold ATM bellend. If I've learnt anything from my accidental four years at work, it's that you have to bend over backwards, be nice when getting yelled at, and accept that you can spend days quoting for dozens of people only to be ignored no matter how many times you chase.

It's enough to make a man cry, if I actually had tear-ducts or was raised in California.

2> On top of that, I am hastily trying to arranging another Stag for next month. I am putting more effort into it than last year's Stag in Barcelona, when I ordered the pre-requisite branded Stag shirts, booked the flights and accommodation, and hoped that everyone would just get on with it over the weekend. Instead I got mostly yelled at by the attendees, lost my mobile phone, and had my balls felt by a transvestite who tried to steal my wallet. (I'll never get tired of that story.)

All I can say is it would be a damn sight easier if these attendees actually put in about a-hundredth of the effort I'm expending, and fucking paid me now that I'm close to finalising everything.

3> I'm not writing my book. I'm too tired and I don't have the time. I have to stay late at work til CHRIST!-o'clock.

4> I spotted Tubegirl eating lunch outside our work-neighbouring pub a few days ago. There's something about the sight of a woman you fancy forcing an elongated chip into her gob that takes the sheen off her somehow. That, and the fact that she didn't seem to care that I saw her do it.
Women are a cold breed.

5> I've been emailing my ex-girlfriend in America. She hates me now. Clearly one of her last comments to me in person: "Remember, I still love you," came with a Best Before date.

I should probably leave her alone.

6> I am cycling and swimming every day, if only to fit into a beautiful Ted Baker suit in two months time, and it's KILLING ME. I should probably stop smoking, but who do you think I am? Barack Obama?? I am on a diet too, but I'm bored with it all and my flat still stinks of fish two days after cooking the fucker.

In Summary: Yawn.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

Steady As She Goes...

I won't go into detail; suffice to say, I am doing things, special things, life improvement things, that I've mentioned many, many, many times before. I shall do them slowly, methodically, and with a metaphorical noose of responsibility around my neck.

I will try not to harp on about my 'progress' at all. For one thing, it only makes me look like a twunt once I inevitably fall back into doing The Complete Opposite™ a month later, and have gained fifteen pounds and a large, cancerous bubo on my neck.

This March will be THE MONTH OF NOTHING AT ALL (barring a trip to the Brighton Beer Festival to slash my wrists with a fat nerd's beard the week after next.)

This is because I am very, very skint, I have a book I'm convinced is in me and I have to write it, and my boss is leaving the country for two weeks, meaning I'll be encouraging my early death as I work every night until 10pm and single-handedly running the company into the ground.

Amid all this, I am also trying to arrange a Stag (re: Bachelor) Party abroad, in six weeks time.

And when I return from said Stag, my boss will have left the country again for two more weeks.


On the plus side, I'm not any of these people: