Oh yeah, I've got a blog.
Well I've just had five and a half thoroughly unproductive days off work and it's now 1am. I go back to work in a mere 6 hours, so let's write a new post.
I hope you've all had a pleasant Easter. Mine's been 90% spent watching documentaries about North Korea in my room whilst chainsmoking, and waiting for some kind of epiphany.
It came in the form of a vast, balding forty-something, also known as 'Large Northern Flatmate'. He knocked on my door some time around 2am this morning performing, I suppose, a kind of intervention.
For several months now, I have been locked in my bedroom where he presumes I've been writing my Magnus Opus. Instead of actually writing anything, I've obviously been doing the aforementioned docu-smoking. A lot. In fact, with so much time on my hands over Easter, it reached its nadir.
Things hadn't been pathetic enough so naturally, I turned to online gambling. That started a few weeks ago with a £15 bet on the Grand National which I lost; I put it on a 600/1 no-hoper that should've been shot before the race.
Anyhoo, I got the £15 back as it was part of a special offer to lure idiots into gambling (If your Grand National horse doesn't win, get your money back!!!)
Somehow, this made me descend into madness. I found myself placing bets on more horse races over the next few days, making a £30 profit and thinking I could double my income if I managed to always back the winner.
It's called gambling for a reason though. Within days I was doing things I'd never imagine I'd ever do; placing £20 bets from my overdraft on dogs I'd never heard of at a track that may or may not even exist (and losing).
I knew I'd fucked up, as shame had prevented me from even mentioning anything to my flatmate. Nonetheless, like some kind of mind-reading surrogate wife, he appeared and told me in very simple terms, as I sat in my room sheepishly trying to hide the Spider Solitaire/ North Korea video shame on my monitor, that matters were "Now or never."
I could go into detail, but I won't. It wasn't a telling-off, not that he was in any position to do so. He very simply stated the facts, that unless my hopes, dreams and sweetest ambitions were to watch everything about Stalinist Asian regimes on the Internet whilst reaching one million lost games of arachnid-based cards, I should probably grow up and change my ways.
So I wrote a chapter tonight. That felt good.
One of our customer's accountants phoned up to yell at me a few weeks ago. To our collective amazement, he turned out to be a cousin I'd normally only see at weddings and barmitzvahs. He invited me down to see my family on Wednesday for passover, an annual Jewish festival I'd done my utmost to avoid now for about seven years. (That Jesus fellow's 'Last Supper' gig was one such passover do, which is why Easter and passover tend to arrive around the same timezzzzzzzzzz.)
So I take the day off work, travel down to the South Coast, panic that I'll do something socially awkward (I sweated a lot, and generally looked nervous and out of place), met all my fine, stout cousins who have grown into charming young adults, except they now look at me and think, 'Christ, I'll be married and finacially stable by the time I'm 34. Are you sure you're not employably deficient and gay?'
I then felt guilty as the following day I fended off repeated requests to stay the whole weekend. I may have offended them too when I said I'd love to return again, on the proviso that it's ABSOLUTELY NOT FOR ANYTHING RELIGIOUS AT ALL.
So that went well.
I wish the same could be said for the blind emailing I've been conducting with a ladyfriend of a friend of mine. Bless you Russ for setting me up, but the contact is petering out. I should've probably been more pro-active or some such shit, but I haven't. I've been a procrastinating cowardly tit and she's rightly given up.
But I do have a new iPhone. I thoroughly recommend them. They take the focus off the fact that your life is a dull sham, and things become temporarily exciting again. I was particularly pleased to receive the following text when the phone erupted into life on Thursday; 'Hi. Are you okay for golf tomorrow? Susan.'
Seeing as I don't play golf, let alone know anyone called Susan, I responded with 'Sure, a bit of golf tomorrow, perhaps some foreplay in the evening. Lovely.'
I love wrong texts.