Wednesday, March 24, 2010


I am a disaster zone right now. In two days time, I will be driving the van home from work and lugging boxes of accumulated bullshit to my new home, but only if I can handle it.

The problem is, I'm deteriorating. I currently make Joe Merrick look sexy, providing he's been hosed down and crowbarred into a Ted Baker.

And yes, I'm aware he's dead.

And the Elephant Man.

I can't breathe very well; my nose is blocked. I have a sore throat, just a couple of weeks after I got rid of my last sore throat. I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and can't get back to sleep, and I'm going through those medicated balm tissues quicker than a Premiership footballer goes through dim orange women.

And last night, as I sat staring at the TV double-sneezing and with my left eye weeping, I noticed the (thankfully very weak) skin condition I've had for years on my knees and elbows starting to explore my calves and ankle regions.
I'm basically turning into a giant wart.

But it's - ugh - this throaty sinusey thing though. Somewhere up behind my nose and at the back of my throat is a sea of gunk, a bit like that underground river in Ghostbusters 2, except this is solid and not running as freely, and Dan Aykroyd hasn't fallen in it.

It's completely impervious to Lemsip, and it's itchy too, which is irritating as I can't quite reach in to scratch it.
I don't know, this is all like some kind of cold.

It's an odd one though, as I still have my sense of taste. It's like full-on illness, except just a notch below it, just one stage under 'Close The Door and Go To Bed', thus I get to go to work to cough and complain and eat shit sandwiches.

Oh yeah, and I have a painful mouth ulcer, not to mention a rectum that feels like a bleeding Hula-Hoop trying to pass a tank.

"Hello Doctor, please can you probe my anus?"

I think this is Zen, pissing on my housemove.

Fucking planet.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Pack Waitmove Thingy

My life is currently on hold as I wait to move house. I should be writing stuff, any stuff, but I can't. It's not in me. My mind is blank, my muse missing, presumed dead - at least until all this flat-buying nonsense is over.

I can't even come up with decent titles anymore.

But then, the theory goes, I'll be living in my own one-bedroomed bastard house flat with a greater sense of my own destiny, and all that writing 'n shit should just fly out of my head.

(Yes, I'm aware that it won't.)

Truth is, buying my own place, and fulfilling all those (admittedly tragic) fantasies about what sofa to own and what type of wood veneer I should get for my Ikea bookcase, is all rather fun and life-affirming. I got to measure the rooms up last week during the home tour, an event that half my family attended and where my sister mentioned to the site manager at least three times that she was my sister, presumably to prevent him from assuming that she might be romantically linked to the abhorration that is me.

I am used to women doing this.

I've already started packing, and slung out a worrying amount of pornography I forgot I had. I shall be borrowing the work van this coming weekend for the Big Push to a different part of London, seeing out my life alone as I cry into my Tesco's meal-for-ones. (This differs from my current life, where all my gluttony is conducted under the jealous gaze of Large Northern Flatmate. He'll be moving in with his girlfriend, telling me and moreover himself that it's only temporary, and it's absolutely not a commitment.)

But I am aware that all I'm doing now is counting down the days, and with a smile on my face. When things are this good, and when my work colleagues are commenting that I'm uncharacteristically happy for once, it's rather difficult to keep up a miserable and self-deprecating blog. (Oh, and hello colleague, by the way. I'm assuming you've found me due to my unfortunate habit of having a backlog of 'I Hate the Earth' headed emails visible at the exact moment you're looking over my shoulder at the work I'm not doing.)

But anyway, that's why there's been a lack of posts lately. Things are going okay. I can't write miserable and sucky during okays.

But thanks for all your comments. I will not be killing this blog just yet. After all, things are about to get very, very lonely, and I might just find myself with a whole raft of new shit to complain about.

I dunno. Consider yourselves lucky.

Monday, March 15, 2010


And to think I pride myself of being all zeitgeisty 'n stuff.

This is only, erm, six years old - an excerpt from AD/BC: A rock opera, a parody of Jesus Christ Superstar with a bunch of my favourite comedians. No idea it even existed until about twenty minutes ago...

Towels and hot wateeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Moving On Up

I know it's been a while. I know I've not written for three weeks, and during the last month of February, I'd shat out just one post.

But things are happening; "Moving House" things. It isn't the moving house that's stressful. I haven't physically done that, for one thing, but it's all the bullshit that surrounds it.

Tonight, as I crawled back from work, I noticed a letter from my solicitor (Check me out with my Solicitor, n' shit). Apparently, they'd received the mortgage offer I'd got only last week, and can I sign here and here, and have it witnessed here?

This is not a moment too soon. In the absence of anyone getting back to me, I've had to go for broke on Monday, telling my landlord in writing to "Go Fuck yourself", and "use my deposit as this last month's rent, because after four and a half years of ignoring our pleas to stop the damp, repair the taps, and remove that mouse in the hope that we might just fuck off and leave you alone instead, I now have every confidence that you will plunge into our deposit in one last, desperate moneygrab. Well you can't. That deposit is now 'March'. You are the worst landlord I have ever had, I've never even met you, and I hope your rectum develops a very painful rip."

Something tells me he's not going to take that lying down.

Meanwhile, back to the move, I am soon to be 'Exchanging Contracts,', whatever that means, in about a week. Then I will be travelling to my brand new bachelor pad - henceforth known as Magnificent North-ish London Shag Palace, or Pit Of Filth And Doom Where I Lock Myself In To Masturbate With Greater Frequency And Enthusiasm Than A Caged, Demented Chimp - to measure rooms and windows in preparation of the whole furniture buying shit.

But I'm tired, so very, very tired. I'm not stressed yet - at least I don't think I am - but this is consuming every part of me. I've got about 3 weeks left in this flat and with Large Northern Flatmate (soon to be relegated to 'Large Northern Mate'), and then it's Operation: Grow The Fuck Up.

It all seems too good to be true, to be honest. I've even considered closing this blog, as it feels as if I have some kind of 'ending' now.

Of course, there are too many loose ends; My job, for one, my sex life (or rather my lack of it), that dead body under the driveway.

So that's that. I know I've been neglecting many of you, and I'm sorry, but please bear with me. You see, I'm movin' on up now, getting out of the darkness. My light shines on, my light shines on, my light shines on.

Thank you.