Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Statement Of Events

At approximately 6:20pm on Wednesday June 24th, I, Mr Fweng Ebola, of a decrepit and overpriced flat, was cycling west along some road.

It was a clear and sunny day. Trees continued to absorb carbon dioxide and the crippling indifference of a cruel world gnawed at my soul like beavers felling a dam as I got fatter and repelled anyone with a womb. The lights were red as I overtook a line of stationary traffic. In front of me, a female cyclist whose route was blocked by a pedestrian island had stopped. As the lights changed to green, I slowed to allow the cyclist into the road, taking up more of the road and holding back as I did so.

On doing this, a car driven by a CUNT overtook us close and at speed, due to the driver being a selfish retarded fuckbollock who would place a stranger's death at his own hand as less important than being a few seconds late for something. I yelled out in shock as I continued pedalling. The driver was now looking at me in his rear-view mirror to gauge if I'd been the yeller.

Regrettably, I made the mistake of jabbing a finger directly at him, invoking a furious red mist that clouded the driver's rat-like and beady little eyes. As he crossed over the junction, he'd slowed down behind traffic as I approached along an empty bus lane, tutting like a pensioner reading the Daily Mail. Before I passed the driver, he accelerated into the bus lane and came to a halt. Now rather worried, I overtook his car, keeping an eye on his door which I wasn't surprised to see being flung open full length so a Caucasian, shaven-headed and lobotomised ape could lunge at me. I weaved out of his way – just – and continued unabated, now rather perturbed that a maniac with a micropenis was trying to kill me.

About 15 seconds later, I became aware of a speeding engine approaching. Determined to make me stop so he could, I have to assume, beat me into a bloody, weeping pulp who wished as he cried red tears from swollen purple eyes that he'd kept up the kickboxing lessons, the driver overtook me a second time, pulled in sharply, and came to a screeching halt. This time, he ensured I had no chance to escape as his car was now only a metre or two ahead. I gripped my brakes but with no room for manoeuvre, I collided into the back of him with such force that my rear fucking wheel bucked and landed on the pavement while a jagged pedal cut my bare leg to ribbons.

I yelled out in shock and, looking up, saw two community officers run across the road to assist an unfortunate woman who had collapsed outside a tube station. I managed to catch the attention of one of them as I was now yelling and waving my hands like Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic.

As the officer walked towards us, Cro-Magnon man must have realised that I was winning - for the first time in my lousy, motherfucking life, I. Was. Ahead, dammit!

So he drove off.

I gave the officer my details and reattached my chain, cycling home carefully as unidentified bits fell off. On arrival at my flat, I realised my back had twisted up a la John Merrick, the Elephant Man.

I would like to end by stating that the individual responsible has no business driving so much as a mobility scooter, as he clearly has no qualms about using one as a weapon. If it pleases the court, may I suggest he be hanged about the neck until dead, and his bloated cadaver repeatedly pummelled by me doing bunny hops on his twisted spine with a fucked-up bike.

Thank you.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Whoops

I've just made a colossal mistake.

To those of you who've been reading the previous posts, you'll know what's currently happening - i.e., not much.

Jesus, I'm scared to even allude to her...

Oh fuck it. I've been emailing my lovely American ex-girlfriend.

And I mentioned this blog.

I don't know why. I think because I'm such a miserable bastard in general, and I'm particularly miserable at the moment, and for some reason I was trying to prove to her what a miserable bastard I am because I dumped her years ago and made a massive mistake and now she's met someone else which, okay, is brilliant and I'm very happy for her (me, not so much).... that I mentioned my many years of whinging, in blog form.

My point was, 'tschh, I'm such a cynical miserable git that I've got a cynical, miserable blog' - why I thought she'd find that endearing, I don't know - but I didn't really think much about the end part, the BLOG part, when I pressed SEND. I did pause briefly, but I'm a) phenomenally tired right now, and b) overconfident that this anonymous diary of shit is buried so deep in the dullest recesses of the Internet that she'd never find it.

In reply, she asked if it was my blog she'd read years ago, the one I much later linked to Fwengebola.

I frantically attempted to unlink it, but I got scared that I'd fuck something up and delete my whole Fwengebola account. But in doing so, I realised I'm more scared of losing this blog than I am of losing someone who's already missing, presumed indifferent.

So feel free to question why I really chose to mention anything. Personally - and trust me on this - I know myself well enough to know that I'm just an idiot.

I'm incredibly angry with myself right now.

*** UPDATE ***

I'm going on a fucking diet.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Staying Alone And Unloved In The Gutter Of Life

Overnight, my lovely American ex-girlfriend changed her Facebook status from single to 'In a fucking Relationship', with some bloke.

He's in a moody black and white photo. Local to her. Looks pretty macho.

And she's 34.

Meanwhile, 4,000 miles away, I went out with the lads. I've been avoiding huge drinking sprees for several reasons. Top of the list is my desire to spend all my free time on my (Ha!) novel. Coming in a close second, I'm attempting to save money in a sincere attempt to avoid Debtor's Gaol. Not far behind is my general health. I'm not getting any younger, and I won't do my ageing body any favours throwing pure grain alcohol down my Pringle-hole and tarring up my lungs with nicotine.

Nonetheless, I couldn't face the abuse I was beginning to get when I hinted to said lads that I might not go. So I bypassed my bicycle and took the tube to work on Friday. I wore my suit jacket with smart shoes, a white double-cuff shirt and cufflinks, and a pair of dark, understated jeans. I felt pretty damn sexy, I have to tell you, yet felt somewhat disillusioned as I sat on the train opposite a frankly devastating blonde who point-blank refused to look anywhere near me, not even to sneer.

Work - with no lunchbreak as usual - was typically stressful. And when I left the office two pear ciders merrier, I ended up walking to Soho as rushhour trains and buses wouldn't get me there any quicker. I was dripping wet by the time I arrived, having nearly been run over by a taxi and called an idiot. My suit was stained with sweat, and my friends publicly mocked my 'Ginger Beadle' as I'd only shaved my neck again. (It itches otherwise, alright???)

I spent a chunk of my overdraft on booze, and received much abuse I've grown accustomed to; several 'Cunts', a couple of 'Morons', and an occasional 'fatso.'

And London's womenfolk couldn't have avoided me more if I'd been covered with weeping buboes and had one leg. I did pat one girl on the back as we stood outside the pub, after she had a coughing fit. Surprisingly, she didn't seem to mind, so I did it again ten minutes later when she hacked up again. She even smiled in return, although the men she was surrounded by shot me a several dark glares.

This made getting her number all the more difficult, but before I could even think about that, I had the far bigger hurdle of summoning up the courage in the first place. I've never had a problem talking to women when the mood takes me. My shitfest of thrills has always been entering that bewildering next stage; getting those digits, or simply doing something to indicate a desire to see a complete stranger again, in a stressful and rather less pleasant 'coffee' scenario. In many ways, I've learnt to prefer that giddying high of not repelling a new Ladyperson and leaving it at that. I'd only ruin things doing something disturbingly adult like go on a date. Jesus.

So, I woke up this morning in my stinking pit with a now uncommon sense that I'd burnt the candle and both ends as I'd rampaged through London, my wallet, and my liver. The rumours are true; Huge piss-ups with the Boys do get harder with age.

And while I'd done so, my lovely American ex-girlfriend across the pond had cemented her 'blossoming romance' and officially Facebooked her commitment to a certain Mr Finkelstein.

They'll be getting married soon. I'm pretty certain of that.

I'm not prone to quoting ageing Jewish comics with impenetrably stereotypical accents, but I once saw Jackie Mason in London, and recall this bit he did about romance. To paraphrase; "Why do people always get married at the same age? Shouldn't it be random? If it was love, why doesn't it happen at fifteen, or fifty, or seventy-two? Why is it always around your late Twenties or early Thirties when two people decide, 'You're the one!' and tie the knot?"

Ugh. Too little, too late, once again. To all the single people out there with a little daemon in their heads, Hello.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Dying Alone And Unloved In The Gutter Of Life

Okay, I know I've made the point that feeling sorry for yourself is no bad thing, provided it's brief and ends with a positive conclusion.

However, I am feeling phenomenally pathetic right now, and I've only got myself to blame.

The fact is, I suffer from Male Paralysis. It is a common and rather stupid complaint, viz: If I'm not in a relationship, I feel lonely and unloved (even though not being in a relationship is my default setting; one that I'm petrified I've become so accustomed to that I will never be able to handle being someone's boyfriend).
On the flip side, when I am in a relationship, it seems so strange to have lost my perceived independence that I feel suffocated and get scared off.

Last month was my birthday, which falls on the same day as my lovely American ex-girlfriend's. I ended that relationship because of the 8,000 mile round-trips just to hang our for a coffee that would last a week, encompassing lots of hand-holding in Central or Regent's Park, sex, and dinners in fancy restaurants with the rest of decent civilisation.

However, we weren't together long when she got extremely keen extremely quickly, which scared the bejesus out of me. Being a cynical, somewhat low confidence cove, I couldn't work out why she felt that way. Her keenness, coupled with my vast collection of insecurities, meant I ended us, although I told her repeatedly and sincerely that if she lived in Britain, I would snap out of my paralysis to dedicate all my time to her. And of course, she was perfect too; Funny, attractive, and intelligent, we even got each other, dammit.

And I'd dumped her.

She took it badly. We only patched up our differences properly last month, during my 35th birthday, and her 34th. We began to email each other 10 times a day. We exchanged current photos of each other. We even called.

But then she slipped back into indifference, which bugged the hell out of me. To give you some background, I have a sister, a sibling that I haven't seen since January despite her living only 8 miles away. We hadn't said a single word to each other in 5 months, apart from the day I received a Facebook message which read, 'Happy Birthday'.

And that was it.

So I called my sister up to ask her what her problem was, that zero contact in almost half a year broken by a feeble line of birthday text on a social networking website was pretty insulting. In my defence, I told her that I hadn't called myself because it was always me getting in touch every few months to check if she was still alive, and I wondered if the day would ever come when it occured to her to ring me for a change.

So, once the yelling and insults subsided, my sister and I agreed to make more of an effort to keep in touch. She suggested doing so every other day, which I did, going so far as to leave myself calendar reminders. I duly phoned her every other day, or every three days, and did so about six or seven times. And then I stopped. The days have since turned into weeks, and I haven't heard a word from her. This is a terribly similar scenario - some would say exactly the same as before - whereby I'm the one who always has to call, otherwise I'd never hear from my sister again.

So I think it's fair to say I'm fairly sensitive about female contact.

Meanwhile, over in the States, my lovely American ex-girlfriend and I re-established this beautiful connection. She said I was still cute. I said I still missed her. She bemoaned not having anyone to take her out to dinner. And I wished we were still together.

So I started looking at flights. I was going to give her that surprise I thought she'd been leaving hints for. I toyed with the idea of doing it in a week or two.
Trouble was, like my sister, contact had collapsed into nought but one-way traffic, everything at my instigation, and pretty brief in return.

So last night I emailed to see how lovely American ex was doing. 'Fine', she wrote. 'Busy,' she added. And then she went to bed - None of which particularly inspired me to rush out and spend half a thousand pounds on flights and a hotel room. This morning, I checked Facebook. Her status had been updated to, "I'm all for you, body and soul."
That was odd, and more than a little strong considering how we hadn't been connecting all that well in the previous few days.

So this afternoon, I emailed to see if perhaps I'd done something untoward. It was nothing heavy, just a brief line of enquiry.

"Totally not pissed off," she wrote. "Just working a lot and nurturing a blossoming romance."

I paused. Then I re-read that line. "Nurturing a blossoming romance."

Oh.

It was then that I began to feel more than a little nauseous. What had gone from little butterflies flitting in my stomach whenever I saw her name appear in emails had mutated into a violent sense of unease coupled with a feeling of ruthless stupidity. And that was when Evil Fweng, that spiteful, gloating, malevolent little daemon in my head, began to cackle.

'You knew this was going to happen,' he crowed. 'You can't expect to just re-date someone you dumped three fucking years ago.'

And then he started insulting me, and it was all rather hostile, I can tell you. And just when Evil Fweng had finished his tirade, he held up a picture of the only other tenuously-linked woman in my 'life', the stunning leggy blonde Polish lady, the friend-of-a-friend who recently seemed so inexplicably attracted to me.

'Remember that phonecall from your friend? The one who introduced you to that stunning leggy Polish blonde?'

'Unggh,' I groaned.

'Remember how she was umm-ing and ahh-ing over her boyfriend, debating whether or not your useless fat self would make an ideal replacement? Well she's about to get engaged now, isn't she?'

I took a deep breath. I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I stood there in a towel, my hairy man-tits and distended gut looking like the body that haunts a thousand female nightmares.

'Kill yourself, fatty,' Evil Fweng continued. 'There isn't a woman on earth who deserves a worthless twat like you so just shut the fuck up, lie down in the gutter, and kill yourself now, you pointless, indecisive, wobbling sack of shit.'