Wednesday, May 25, 2011

The Life To Do List

What follows is a personal Life To-Do list, a large majority of which will never happen even if I get to relive my paltry existence a billion times over. Several aren’t compatible. Many aren’t even possible. I also note with disgust the heavy slant towards the narcissistic and vainglorious. This was an exercise that started off fun, then (unsurprisingly) depressed me once I realised how materialistic it all became, not to mention violent in places.
There are also several references to the US that makes me wonder if I’ve been brainwashed by the American dream from the wrong side of the Atlantic.
Everything else just makes me sound like a cunt.
In no particular order:-

Win the lottery
Ride in a helicopter
Take in a cricket match
Sleep with a model
Sleep with two models at the same time
Lose loads of weight and get really buff, blah blah blah etc etc etc
Drink mint juleps under a weeping willow outside a white picket fence town hall in a quiet Southern State
Go fishing
Throw a concrete egg at the swollen, engorged head of Jay Kay from Jamiroquai
Have a lads’ holiday in Vegas
Play a round of golf (well)
Look at the Grand Canyon
DJ at an Ibizan superclub
White water raft
Cure cancer. Actually, cure MS first and help my Mum to walk, then cure cancer
Finish and publish my crap book and become the greatest comic writer that ever lived
Drop acid on the proviso that I absolutely will not have a bad trip at all
Island hop on a private yacht around the Med and assorted Greek islands
Visit all 50 US states in a Cadillac (shipping the car over to the two freak states)
Have my picture taken with Boris Becker
Perform competent and amusing stand-up that is unencumbered by debilitating, crippling nerves and a shyness that is criminally vulgar
Execute Morrissey
Ride a camel
Visit Tromsø to see the Aurora Borealis
Single-handedly broker a long-lasting and genuine Middle East peace
Find the slags that stole my last two bikes and beat the unmitigated fuck out of them with a brushed aluminium bat until they plead in the name of every holy book and every non-existent deity in the sky to never again help themselves to anyone else’s belongings
Sire a battalion of charming, trouble-free children and raise them in my large detached house in central London (having first married Kelly Brook who still gets giddy with oestrogen flushes every time I wander past)
Open a bar in Thailand
Fire a gun
Fire a gun at Sir Fred Goodwin
Jump up and down on the bullet-riddled corpse of Sir Fred Goodwin
Appear in one of those ‘Top 100’ programmes as a talking head spouting devastatingly witty bon mots
Go to the Rio carnival and overdose on caipirinhas and cocaine (in a fun way)
Own a variety of morning suits, dinner suits et al, and wear them at appropriate events as I swan about with an overinflated sense of my own self-importance
Become a brick shithouse master sensei ninja or something, and take out the trash as I traverse the land righting wrongs and defending the underdog
Visit Egypt, Iran, Japan, China, Russia, Belarus, Australia, Canada, Brazil, Hull

And theoretically bungee jump, surf 40-ft waves, leap from an aeroplane, and paraglide, although I suspect it'll all be a bit scary, the end.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Things Only Women Can Say

These words are the privilege of women only. If any man uses these, they must be thinned from the herd Sparta style as they will eradicate humanity in the long run:

Scrummy (and scrumptious)
“To die for”
Foundation (unless assembling a building)
Gorge (As in “He’s gorge”, and not “Let’s gorge on hookers and crack”)
Manolo Blahniks
“We need to talk”

Sarcastically ending a sentence in “much”
Sneering at me

EDIT: Addendum - "Ew"

This post was brought to you by the Association for Crass Gender Stereotyping, Scunthorpe

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


Curse these posts. They're less about something to say, and more a vague update, particularly now I'm getting (gratefully) nagged.

Suffice to say I'm in limbo, drifting like a twig on the shoulders of a mighty stream, but it's a good limbo, like that drunk Victoria Beckham-a-like in a denim skirt with no knickers lady. (WARNING: Link NSFW!)

Anyway, I'm feeling pretty Not-Shit™, and for two fleeting reasons:

Fleeting Reason 1) ~ I've stopped working my shit novel. It was shit, for one thing. Actually, that's the main thing. I just wasn't feeling it anymore, and it was making me unhappy.

Since completing my (worse than shit) 1st draft over a year ago, I realised that my real life was more interesting that the world I'd invented. Thus I began to rewrite what was, in essence, a fictionalised account of my own biography, which as a nobody I found overwhelmingly egotistical on one hand, and pretty lame on the other.

I had Imposter Syndrome big time, that's what I'm trying to say. Whenever I tried to write, I felt like an amateur just play-acting, and when I thought about it, I was a lousy storyteller with no better story than my own.

But I'm pretty happy. I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted off of me. I'm not saying I'll never go back to the story, but in the short term I'm backing off, like people with vaginas near me in a bar.

Fleeting Reason 2) ~ I'm back on a diet again, and there's nothing quite like Doing Those Things You Know Are Good For You to give you an endorphin shot in the brain.

I regained over Xmas (and January, and February, and the last couple of months) all the weight I'd lost the previous summer and, in true Really-Not-Good-For-The-Heart fashion I'm going to relose all that shit again. It transpires I'm a Hibernator. When the cold nights draw in, I like to snuggle up on the sofa with deep-fried tubes of Pringles and a barrel of scotch. Now I'm going to fuck myself healthy with lettuce for dinner and running on a treadmill till I cry pure lard.

All this means I can concentrate on really important matters-

a) ~ Get a new job.
This may prove awkward as I returned from the Easter break to discover our 'New' colleague of the last couple of years has resigned. It's now my boss and me. And I'm not sure how to play it - the timing certainly sucks - but I have to move on.
As I may have mentioned several billion times, the pay's not great, my hours are too long, and I'm bored and irritable there. It'll be a death sentence of the soul if I stay on.

b) ~ Get a bloody girlfriend.
Because this is getting silly now. I'm completely out of practice too. A couple of weeks ago I went to a gig and met a female friend of a friend and I sweated, actually sweated, in blind, abject panic, all because I was talking to a woman - So basically I'm regressing back into a virgin.
I've got a lot of work to do, but jogging myself out of my man-tits may help, even if just turning 37 doesn't.

But on a happier note I emailed the American ex and told her to extricate off, so that's that loving chapter finally closed.

And there's nothing else. Really. Just a dull update following my recent birthday where I decided to have a post-work pub gathering which was tremendous - barring my decision to furnish my guests with some buffet snacks. I hadn't specified a limit and ended up paying £130 for a metric ton of onion rings.

I also accidentally wound up in Spearmint Rhino on the eve of my birthday, where a Brazilian lady whacked me repeatedly round my head with her fake breasts for approximately 20 seconds, a rate of £1 per second, an act I found so unerotic it was strangely erotic, as well as seedy and completely pointless and slightly humiliating.

But on the plus side, I have since had an AIDS test, following that sex I had with a Thai prostitute. I panicked when I first received my results, as it didn't read correctly. But the truth quickly kicked in, so come and get me ladies --


PS - although you already knew that. I've been out of the loop of my own blog, I forgot I mentioned that nearly 2 months ago.
Tschh. Idiot.
PPS - Oh yeah, and I mentioned the ex-girlfriend thing in the post before. Not really sure why I bother.