I'm in the 'explosive hatred' business

Some things fill me with joy (no examples spring to mind) while others enrage me almost beyond human endurance (this would best be described as 'everything else').

This morning, for instance. As I glance at the clock on my monitor, I see the time is 05:18. Yes, it's a Saturday and I'm wide awake at just after 5 am. Considering that on weekdays I normally have immense difficulty dragging my stinking carcass out of bed any time before 7 am without much foot-stamping and folding of arms, this is a source of huge irritation to me.

Part of the reason I'm awake so early is that I was having a rather vivid dream in which I had to travel to Iceland for work purposes and had, somehow, forgotten all about it. I was in a panic of epic proportions and seemed to be dithering and shouting a lot.

I woke up immediately, confused and anxious about something that simply isn't happening. A perfect way to start the weekend.

The first thing I noticed upon waking was that a little green light was flashing on my mobile phone, indicating that I had either a text message or email. Flicking the phone on, I saw that it was an email telling me that I have a new follower on Twitter, a chap by the name of Tim Cumming. Wonderful, I thought, more Twitter spam most likely. I was wrong, yet strangely right.

You see, when I clicked on his profile I saw that Tim was one of those people who likes to motivate others via the medium of pointless, trivial sayings and trite cliches. But, with mounting amusement and anger, I saw that Tim has raised his game somewhat by including some of the most inane, nonsensical drivel that I've ever had the misfortune to cast my eyes over.

Thus, this blog post is dedicated to Tim and his unstoppable tsunami of bullshit. I shall present some of Tim's nuggets of wisdom and describe my own thoughts. Enjoy.

"Insert a smile into every conversation."

In theory, a nice idea. But let's see how it operates in what I like to call 'the real world'.

"Well, Mrs. Taylor, it appears that at the speed your husband was travelling, the fence post would have penetrated both the windscreen and his sternum at something approaching 60 miles per hour. It appears that in a moment of extraordinary good fortune, the nanny goat on his lap that he appeared to be sodomising when his vehicle left the road, actually slightly deflected the impact and caused the post to miss all of his major internal organs. Unfortunately, that does cause me to conclude that he literally bled to death in an agony that the human mind can barely begin to comprehend. If he hadn't perished over a period of six hours from exsanguination, the sheer horror of his experience would have rendered him quite, quite insane and most likely have led to his permanent confinement in an institution for the rest of his life. Fortunately, that didn't happen because he's now dead. Whilst buggering a goat." *Beams broadly*

See? A smile really helped in that conversation didn't it? What better way to sweeten the bitter pill of a recently departed loved one engaging in 'the love that dare not speak its name' than with a big old smile? This man is a genius.

"Push is better than punish."

I think Tim has tapped into something hugely important here that could absolutely transform prison services across the globe. We're all aware that levels of overcrowding are at an all time high and I think he's hit on an idea that could see our correctional facilities emptied almost overnight.

"Mr. Fitch, in my thirty-six years as a high court judge, I have rarely come across such heinous acts of barbarism and wanton blood lust. The very sight of you chills me to the bones. You displayed no compassion for your victims, instead choosing to snuff out their lives in the most perverse and sadistic ways imaginable. Rape, torture, murder, necrophilia, the list is endless. You have broken every taboo, flown in the face of common decency, and committed crimes that are scarcely within the realms of human understanding. You have been found guilty by a jury of your peers and it is up to me to pass sentence. Gerald Fitch, I sentence you to take some time out. Buy a half-caff latte, read a Sunday newspaper, go for a long walk. Just try and clear your head, spend a bit of time thinking about what you've done wrong, and try not to do it again. I think that you could really benefit from a long, slow swim in lake Gerald. Now, if I see you in this court again, I really will be quite miffed, so think on."

I think it's an absolute winner.

"The reality is much more fun than your fantasy."

I'm sorry, but I really must take exception with this one. To clarify my adversarial position, I present the following evidence.

Here's my fantasy of what happened last night:
I arrive home after a couple of days working away and, upon entering my flat, am somewhat surprised to detect the unmistakable aroma of cooking lamb. Trudging up the stairs, I wander into the kitchen and see two slow-cooked lamb shanks nestling on piles of fluffy mashed potatoes, with a bottle of good red wine open nearby. My mouth involuntarily curls into a smile and I look around, confused. "Hello?" I call out. From within the bedroom, I hear a rustling. Dropping my bag, I walk into the bedroom and there, reclining naked on the bed is Angelina Jolie, finger playfully drawing around the outline of her full, eminently kissable lips. "Hey Dan, thought I'd surprise you with something nice to eat."

I grin and slide onto the bed next to her. She wraps me up in her arms and presses me to her ample bosom. We start to kiss, eager hands exploring each other. Cue romantic music and a slow fade to black.

The reality:
Got home. Realised the milk in the fridge was off. Consumed a meagre repast of instant soup and stale bread. Had a wank. Went to bed.

Now, which one is 'more fun'? You tell me. Come on Tim, which one is fucking better? Eh? EH? The reality is most decidedly NOT better than the fantasy and to suggest otherwise is stupidity of the highest order.

"Don't tell me it can't be done. The world is full of impossible things we do regularly. Like airplanes!"

I think it's important to dedicate a little time to breaking this one down.

First, let's perform a search for 'airplane' in Google pics. Immediately, we see there are over 13 million pictures of planes. If we search for 'aeroplane', the correct English spelling, we get another 2 million results. I think, on the basis of this simple experiment, we can reasonably assume that planes exist. However, I think what Tim was getting at was that planes actually flying in the air is 'impossible'. We need to dig a little deeper.

Let's visit an on-line Dictionary and find an appropriate definition of the word 'impossible'.

Impossible: not possible; unable to be, exist, happen, etc.

OK, good. We're making some headway. Now, let's just check out some basic facts regarding aviation. According to Arthur Arnelt at ABC Aviation, "There are four forces involved in flying: drag, thrust, lift, and weight. The lift force pushes the plane upward. Thrust is the force that makes a plane move forwards. Drag is the force that slows down the plane. The force of drag counters the thrust."

OK, so all this sciencey physics stuff sounds plausible in theory, but I remain unconvinced without hard evidence. Let's visit the website of the National Air Traffic Controllers Association to see if there's any truth to this flying nonsense.

Well lawks-a-lordy and criminy, it appears that in the United States alone there are something in the region of 87,000 flights per day. This is an interesting statistic, but I'm still not sure. After all, it could be part of some extraordinary conspiracy. I want something I can see with my own eyes.



OK, OK, the evidence is overwhelming. Planes, it would appear, can actually fly. It's not magic, pixie dust, the power of positive thought or anything else. It's merely physics.

Let's now take a moment to consider whether a plane flying is "not possible. Unable to be, exist or happen."

Ummmm.....no. On the basis of the available evidence, it would seem extremely likely that the phrase "The world is full of impossible things we do regularly. Like airplanes!" is not entirely accurate in the strictest sense of the word. Indeed, one might even be tempted to suspect that Tim is talking utter bollocks. But then, that does seem to be his stock in trade.

"Just because they say you can't, means jack!"

This is one of my favourites, if for no other reason than IT MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER. I think Tim might have been a bit angry when he wrote this one, hence the lack of anything approaching meaning or sense. I envisage him at home emerging from his study, naked from the waist down, unshaven and wild-eyed, clutching a sheaf of hastily scribbled pages, shaking his sleeping wife awake and screaming at her, "Eggs! Eggs from cows! Cow eggs! It's a revolution!"

His wife then patiently explains that the biology of cows simply won't allow them to lay eggs - it's a physical impossibility. Tim babbles on for several minutes about calcium supplements, subliminal images of hens piped directly into the barn, and fervent whispers of "Eggs. Eggs. Eggs." into the ears of sleeping cows whilst wearing a chicken suit, whereupon his wife slaps him, crumples up the sheaf of papers and shouts, "God, Tim, you're tearing this family apart, can't you see that? What happened to the man I married? Please, stop. For the love of God, stop." before breaking down in tears, hands over her face, shoulders wracked with sobs.

Tim, shocked and with tears springing to his eyes, marches into the other room where he logs onto the computer and types "Just because they say you can't, means Jack!" before smoothing out his papers, picking up a pencil and rocking back and forth while repeating "Cow eggs" several thousand times.

Occasionally, Tim will tweet a comment that hints at something dark and brooding in his private life. This absolute gem from a few days ago is one such example:

"So she said she doesn't love you any more. Imagine what she'll look like in 60 years. It makes breaking up easier."

Clearly, things are starting to fall apart Chez Tim after the cow eggs incident. I feel it's only a matter of time before the inevitable "She won't let you see your kids? Imagine her with a knife in her face, buried up to the handle. Then laugh." tweet appears. Or, perhaps, "Your wife won't speak to you on the phone and has filed a restraining order? Fantasise about staking her to the ground and repeatedly running her over with a ride-on lawnmower. Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha! Oh God, please come back Marion, I miss you."

I worry for his mental health, I really do.

I could pick apart more of Tim's pearls of wisdom, but some of them are just too inane for anything other than derisive laughter. I present to you here, the cream of the crop:

"Your brain is a high tech instrument running on low tech love."

"A pile of smiles goes a mile."

"Don't just stand there, wave at a stranger and smile!"

"I'm in the explosive hope business."

"Make room for zoom and banish doom."

And, finally, another favourite of mine purely because, in the ultimate act of irony, it makes me very, very angry indeed:

"If you're going to fly into a rage, fly into an encourage."

Tim is a man for whom happiness exists in small snippets of bullshit. If you're the sort of person who's actually inspired by these proverbs, then I wish you the best of luck, but would like you to know before you go on your moronic way that you're an idiot who deserves nothing but scorn. I hope the laughter of the world rings in your ears until the hungry maw of death bids you enter.

On a final note, Tim currently has over 72,000 followers.

Sunday Roast

Sometimes you find yourself in a position where you suddenly stop, take a step backwards, look around with a bemused expression and think, I'm not entirely sure I know how I got here, I know it's not good, and I'm uncertain what I should do next. This happens to me a lot.

The other day, for no apparent reason whatsoever, I remembered one such situation that occurred to me and immediately knew I should preserve it for posterity. This is that story.

About four years ago, I was something of an itinerant wanderer, moving from flat to flat, house to house, never really settling down anywhere in particular. At this time, I'd just moved in to my good friend Ben's house, based in Tintern Avenue, Westcliff. I was renting the front bedroom and quite enjoying the cosmopolitan feel of the area. By 'cosmopolitan' I mean that the chavs and ne'er-do-well's were from an impressive array of countries and continents, thus introducing a real 'United Colours of Benetton' type vibe, except with terrifying violence and snarling dogs.

5 minutes walk away was, and indeed still is, a pub called 'The Trading Room', which is one of those public houses that sprang to life from the empty shell of a closed-down bank. The decor was pleasing to the eye, the clientele were a varied selection of office workers, builders and 'miscellaneous', and the prices were a little on the high side, tending to drive away the lager-swilling riff-raff whose idea of culture is bare-knuckle boxing with their mother.

One Saturday night, kicking around the house on my own, I pooled my limited resources and decided to treat myself to a few pints. After all, this is what normal people do isn't it?

Unfortunately, my night was to be far from normal.

Standing at the bar, I sipped my bitter and looked around at the good-natured, straight-toothed people sipping wine, exchanging pleasantries and generally having a rather jolly, oik-free evening. At one point, I even treated myself to a beatific smile which, frankly, didn't sit particularly comfortably on my face but I thought I'd give it a go.

A chap in his early fifties was standing close by and engaged me in conversation. We drank a couple of beers together, chatting about this and that for a while and it was all very pleasant.

I became aware that he wasn't alone as he had a girlfriend who was lounging around in the corner downing large vodkas like they were going out of fashion and silently perusing the other patrons of the pub. She seemed nice enough, but didn't say very much.

For the purposes of this reminiscence, I shall call the man Bernard and the woman Tiffany. I have no idea of their real names as that particular detail has long since been lost to my memory.

Eventually, the bell rang for last orders and we managed to sneak another drink. As the other patrons started to file out, my new friend Bernard turned to me and said, "We're going to get something to eat and then have a couple of drinks at home. Come and join us!"

Now, normally, I might have stood back and thought, Right, I've only just met this guy, I don't really know who he is, so it's probably best not to head back to his house where I might be raped or murdered. Unfortunately , I'd had several drinks and was now in 'the zone'.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, being in 'the zone' means that the alcohol you've already guzzled is racing around your system at a rate of knots and giving you a happy, 'all is right with the world' buzz. It feels good, it makes you believe yourself to be cleverer and wittier than you actually are, and it demands constant topping-up. The filter in your head which says "OK chief, time to call it a night" is set to the 'off' position and all you crave is additional alcohol, consequences be damned.

The off licence was closed and there was no booze indoors, so this was my only opportunity for a cheeky snifter. Casting caution to the wind, I nodded at Bernard and said, "Yeah, that'd be good. Cheers."

We filed out of the pub, me, Bernard and Tiffany, and visited a Chinese takeaway down the road. Having no money left, I chose the 'standing outside smoking' option while they organised their food. A few minutes later, we were heading off to his flat which was a ten minute walk away.

When we arrived, just after midnight, we entered the flat and I could see that it was a pleasant enough place, a bit rough around the edges, but habitable and not at all grimy. Good, I thought, these seem like decent people.

My host directed me towards the living room which housed the usual fixtures and fittings with the addition of a small dining room table and a few chairs. Pointing me towards a chair he said, "Right, drink?"

"Fantastic, yes. What have you got?"

"Tea or coffee?"

I paused. Tea or coffee hadn't been on the bill of fayre floating enticingly around in my head. I'd envisaged whisky or vodka. Perhaps a good quality brandy or a fine vintage port. A glass of champagne, perhaps, or a gin and tonic. Casting my eyes quickly around the living room, I could see no bottles of delicious booze so resigned myself to the fact that Bernard had dragged me here pretty much on false pretences and all I was going to get was a decidedly uninspiring non-alcoholic beverage.

"Coffee please, thanks," I grumbled.

"How do you take it?" Bernard asked.

"Black, two sugars."

This, it transpired, was a mistake, but I was not to discover this until a little later.

Bernard scurried off to the kitchen where Tiffany had disappeared some moments earlier and I heard the recognisable sounds of water being poured, a kettle being flicked on and spoons pinging against mugs. In addition, they were munching their special fried rice in the kitchen while I sat there silently in the living room.

After a couple of minutes, Bernard brought my coffee out and placed it, steaming mightily, onto the table in front of me. I looked up at him and could see that numerous grains of rice had collected at the corners of his mouth as he chewed his takeaway.

He smiled at me conspiratorially and said, "Want to see something good?"

I nodded dumbly and tried to smile, the first stirrings of "I have a bad feeling about this" jerking into life at the back of my brain.

Bernard wandered over to a cupboard, opened it and fumbled about for a few seconds. Then, closing the cupboard, he turned to me and I could see he was holding what appeared to be a metal bar in his hands.

"Extendable baton," he grinned, flicking his wrist and causing the metal bar to extend to its full length. He smiled, swishing it about, and said, "A few thumps in the head with that and you wouldn't be getting up again."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly frightened. I was, in a matter of seconds, stone-cold sober. Soon, I thought, I might be stone-cold dead.

He continued to stand there, brandishing the baton, swiping it through the air and slamming it into the palm of his hand. Bizarrely, my eyes were still focused on the rice at the edge of his lips. I think my rationale was: I can't possibly be beaten to death with an extendable baton by a man who has part of a Chinese meal on his face. That wouldn't be proper so it can't happen.

It turned out that my logic was absolutely correct as Bernard proceeded to hand the baton to me, instructing me to "have a go".

I weighed it in my hands and, politely, nodded my head appreciably at its impressive weight. He urged me to swing it about so I feebly swished it back and forth, nodding my head and complementing him on his choice of weapon.

He smirked and took the baton from me, saying "Here, I'll show you something else", before going to his cupboard once again.

Pausing only briefly to show me his cricket bat that "I normally keep downstairs by the door", he proceeded to produce a handgun and wave it in my general direction. Yes, you read that right - he was holding a handgun.

Cradling it lovingly, he then told me about what type it was, the ammunition it took and its destructive power. Sadly, these details are forever lost in the mists of time as I was, by now, utterly terrified. Fortunately, as he explained, he kept the bullets in the attic so at least the thing wasn't loaded. Or so I assumed as the alternative didn't really bear thinking about.

After a few moments, he returned the handgun to his cupboard of deadly weaponry and returned to the kitchen to polish off the rest of his rice.

Left alone, I looked around nervously wondering how best I could make my escape. This man, a complete stranger, had invited me into his home and waved a selection of illegal weapons at me. Indeed, he'd actually pointed a gun at my face. This was not, to the best of my knowledge, normal behaviour. I had no choice but to leave. This was way outside my comfort zone.

Unfortunately, what was also outside my comfort zone was the fact that to escape immediately would mean I'd be leaving a full cup of coffee on the table which was nothing short of rude. Yes, yet again, my pathetically English sense of decorum had kicked in and I couldn't possibly leave without drinking the coffee first. The thought of sneaking out leaving a fresh beverage un-sipped mortified me, if for no other reason than Bernard might pursue me down the road with a sawn-off shotgun, outraged at my casual refusal of his courteous gesture.

This, unfortunately, was where my decision not to have milk in my coffee had backfired. The cup of liquid in front of me was hotter than the surface of the sun and completely undrinkable without inflicting serious oral burns on myself. I sat in the living room, frantically blowing on it in a bid to reduce its temperature.

After another few moments, Bernard returned, chewing more food, and said "I'll just put the TV on", which I thought was very nice of him as it would give me something to look at while I weighed up whether I was going to make a bolt for the door or just leap out of the window and hope for the best.

The TV flickered into life and he started sorting through some video tapes in a pile on the floor. He picked one up and inserted it, grabbing the remote control and pressing the play button.

Immediately, the screen filled with images of hardcore pornography.

Bernard turned, winked lasciviously at me, and returned to the kitchen.

Now, on occasion I've had friends round on a social basis. We listen to music or sometimes watch the TV. Occasionally, I'll put a DVD on of the latest Hollywood blockbuster so we can guffaw at the plot holes and feel superior. We've even sat and played games on the xbox 360. What I've never done, however, is decide that what would really set the mood for the evening would be to put on a video of two men vigorously violating a woman in a nurse's outfit. Maybe I'm old-fashioned and out of touch with modern behaviour and for that I can only apologise.

I was starting to feel uneasy, which was manifesting itself as anger, a classic defence mechanism. In this confusing scenario of guns, porn and extendable batons, I needed a scapegoat, something on which I could blame this whole ordeal; an item, person or concept that I could jab my finger at and bellow, "J'accuse! This is all your fault! What the hell were you thinking?"

In the depths of my bewilderment, the only possible thing I could get angry at was the cup of coffee. This steaming mug of devil's brew was the only thing preventing me from making my polite, socially-acceptable escape. You instant bastard, I thought, directing my fury towards the coffee. You irritating receptacle of boiling, pitch-black doom. When I get home - IF I get home - I'm going to find a jar of Mellow Birds and smash it to pieces with a rolling pin.

Suddenly, Tiffany entered the room, walked towards the sofa and laid down on it, eyes glued to the pornography on the TV. We sat there in silence, save for the sound of slapping thighs and animalistic grunts coming from the porn video.

Then Bernard walked in, crossed the room, knelt down by his reclining girlfriend, leaned over her, and started to kiss her passionately whilst jamming his hand between her legs in an alarmingly non-erotic fashion, all the while looking directly at me.

Finally, the pieces dropped into place. I had been invited back here to engage in a threesome with a man in his fifties and a tired, drunk blonde woman. They'd decided to indulge in some sort of sordid, sex festival and I was the guest of honour.

It was an horrific tableau. Me, mug in hand, lips pursed at the rim, puffing air over the simmering liquid, Bernard, tongue bulging grotesquely out of his mouth and into Tiffany's, his hand kneading at the crotch of her jeans, eyes locked on mine.

I started to gulp the coffee as fast as I could. My mouth burned, my throat constricted, but I was going to drink that damn coffee and get the hell out of there. I whimpered, took a gulp, gasped, drew cool air into my burning mouth, then took another gulp. It was not dissimilar to some sort of endurance test that you'd see on a Japanese game show performed by a businessman in an ill-fitting leotard while cackling buffoons in fancy dress point at him and shout.

I can only imagine that this is what it must feel like to drink lava, I thought as I continued to swallow scalding mouthfuls of Nescafe. In retrospect, I do wonder if it was Gold Blend as that would have put an interesting slant on the 'will they, won't they' adverts starring Anthony Head and Sharon Maughan. Yes, they will, but only in front of a startled onlooker after pointing a gun at him.

Ironically, just as I'd swallowed the last mouthful of coffee and banged the mug on the table triumphantly, Tiffany, who had possibly been press-ganged into the whole sorry business by the perverted Bernard, decided that she didn't want to do this and pushed him away, before tottering to her feet, picking up her shoes and walking out. He dashed after her, trying to talk her back into the room but, within a few seconds, I heard the sound of the front door slamming shut and his dejected footsteps slowly climbing the stairs.

He shuffled into the room, switched off the porn and turned to me. We regarded each other silently, him with unmistakable disappointment, me with pleading terror.

Eventually, Bernard spoke. "I don't think she's feeling very well. I'm going to bed. Thanks for coming over."

And with that, I leaped from the dining room table, grabbed my coat and darted towards the door. Astonishingly, I thanked Bernard not only for his hospitality, but for the coffee too.

I stepped outside into the cold night air, sucking it gratefully into my raw, stinging mouth and walked home, furtively casting my eyes over my shoulder every few steps just in case Bernard was following me with a scimitar tucked into his belt.

Reaching Ben's house, I let myself in and walked straight upstairs to my room, flinging my clothes off and climbing wearily under the sheets, already wondering if I'd actually experienced what had just happened. I fell into a troubled sleep.

It has often been said to me, "It could only happen to you, Dan." I must regrettably agree.

Death Pays A Visit part 2

This morning, at 3am, I awoke to the sound of someone being murdered.

How's that for a hook-line?

It had been a most eventful Friday evening indeed. After leaving work, I braved the hordes of meandering, slack-jawed oiks in Sainsbury's to purchase supplies for the weekend.

Now, ordinarily I'm uncomfortable with using the phrase 'purchase supplies' as I consider it most disagreeable and aggravating. Rather like the phrase 'a good bit of kit' I find that it's used largely by armchair warriors with an unnatural predilection for spouting vaguely-military sounding jargon in the vain hope, presumably, that it will make them sound dangerous, knowledgeable and exotic.

Well it doesn't. It simply makes them sound like idiotic wannabes, re-reading Andy McNab books and mentally masturbating over pictures of MIG 29's. Such people will often claim that they are "going out to 'recce' the pub situation" before trotting off down the road to smugly quaff warm ale while standing at the bar, surveying the other punters and considering which ones they could take out with a well-aimed karate chop to the neck. (Answer: none)

Nobody is impressed, so stop it at once.

However, in this particular case, the 'supplies' comment was actually fairly accurate for the following reason. When I go home on a Friday night, my ultimate plan is to walk in through the front door, close it and then not re-open it until Monday morning. To spend the whole weekend indoors (or partly out on the balcony if I'm feeling particularly adventurous) without having to rub shoulders, look at or talk to another human being is a thing of joy and I recommend it to all. And, of course, getting in enough food, booze and cigarettes to see you through is an integral part of this.

Having purchased lasagna, milk, bread, eggs, booze and plentiful cigarettes, I was ready to 'dig in'* for a couple of days.

*Yes, another military term. I was using it ironically. Fuck off.

Due to a minor week-long obsession with coconut which has involved the consumption of several bounty bars, I took the unusual measure of buying a small bottle of Malibu as the thought of delicious coconutty alcoholic drinks seemed like rather a jolly idea. Sadly, the reality wasn't as satisfying as the fantasy. Despite the deliciousness of Malibu, it is only 21% proof which means you have to drink 3 litres of it just to dull the shame of actually having bought the stuff in the first place.

Still, it was rather pleasant and I topped up my alcohol quotient with several very large, very harsh, dark rums, whilst eating a pleasingly cheesy lasagna, to which I had added extra cheese for the lovely bubbly, crispy topping effect.

I was in bed asleep by about midnight, belly full, and was dreaming by 3:00. I seem to recall that I was involved in a telephone call about work in which I was talking on my mobile to a group of people in the next room. For reasons unknown, one of the people was Simon Cowell, so it already had something of the nightmare about it. I was explaining the work I do, why it's important to the organisation, how I 'add value' and various other things that had me cringing in embarrassment as I remembered the details this morning.

As I schmoozed my way through the telephone call, I was staggered to suddenly hear the sound of someone being attacked.

A high-pitched shrieking could be heard over the phone, punctuated with furious, frenzied growling and roaring. In my dream, I ran into the other room to see what the hell was going on.

As I entered the room, I immediately saw several mutilated corpses littering the chintzy sofa and one person in particular being savaged to death by some sort of invisible force, rips and gouges opening up in their flesh right in front of my eyes.

It was such a shocking visual image that it actually woke me up and I lay there in bed, on my right hand side, eyes wide open. It took 2 or 3 seconds for me to fully move from dream-state to wide-awake, during which time I came to an awful dawning realisation that I could still hear the screaming.

This was no dream.

I froze, absolutely rigid, eyes like saucers, breath caught in my throat. There, unmistakeably, was the sound of some horrific creature roaring, spitting and shrieking. I listened, blinking myopically, still rooted to the bed, desperately trying to ascertain where the sound was coming from.

Was it outside? No, too close for that. Too loud. Which meant that...it was inside.

I still lay there, hearing that awful sound, as my brain flickered through the possibilities - was it in the living room? The kitchen? The bathroom?

The answer to every one of these questions was a resounding 'no'.

It was coming from the bedroom - the very room I was in.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I was absolutely terrified. In a ridiculous, instinctual move, I slowly started to lift the duvet over my head in the hope that it would make the sound go away. I stopped after a few seconds though, scared that I might attract the attention of whatever was in the room. I hesitate to admit this, but I was almost on the verge of tears.

What is this? What's making this noise? Am I going to die?

I was half-asleep, confused, frightened out of my wits and sort of wished that I was already dead so I wouldn't have to listen to it anymore. I know that you're all used to my exaggerations for comic effect, but I'm telling the absolute truth when I say that I can't ever remember being that frightened in my life, and I genuinely thought I was going to die.

I played out my own death in my imagination and it seemed to go on for hours. In reality, of course, it was merely seconds. But I lay there and almost accepted that I would probably no longer be alive in a few more moments. All common sense and rationality completely evaporated. I kept telling myself "there simply can't be something in the room. It's impossible", but my mind wasn't listening. A deep, primal fear had kicked in and I was convinced of my impending doom.

Then, after a few more seconds, my eyes adjusted slightly and I realised that the room wasn't in complete darkness; there was, in fact, a bluish tinge to the walls, rather like the one you get when the television is on...

If I hadn't been clutching the duvet between my fists and silently weeping into the pillow, I would have slapped myself on the forehead with a sound like a starting pistol.

All at once, I recalled what I'd been doing when I'd gone to sleep 3 hours earlier...

...I'd been laying in bed watching An American Werewolf in London on DVD.

Turning over, I looked to my left and saw the TV was still on, and the DVD was endlessly looping. Griffin Dunne was on the screen, slathered with blood and gently steaming in the cold air of the moors.

I almost wept with relief.

Yes, folks, I fell asleep watching a horror film and woke up thinking there was a monster in my bedroom. I appear to have reverted to being 8 years old again.

I'd hoped that if I wrote about this, it would somehow cathartically absolve me of the enormous shame that I feel. Sadly, it hasn't worked. I am a moron. A blithering idiot of such extraordinary magnitude that I can barely believe it.

Thus, we learn these important lessons:

1) Don't eat 'extra cheese' before bedtime.
2) Don't fall asleep watching a horror film.

Oh, and:

3) Don't use military jargon. Ever.



Related Posts: Death Pays A Visit

Music Review of 2009

Steal from the best*. That's my philosophy on life. So, in that spirit, I have decided to pinch an idea from Piley, the author of the excellent 'Start The Revolution Without Me' blog. The idea, as presented on his blog, was thus:

E. F Rice hit on the genius idea that we all create a CD made up of your favourite tunes from the last 12 months, burn enough copies for everyone and then dish em out. The rules were simple, all of the tracks had to either: a) be taken from an album released in 2009; or b) from an album you bought in 2009 Either way, the CD was to contain songs that had shaped 2009 for you.

Seems like a rather good idea. Therefore, for your listening pleasure, I present to you my songs of 2009.

Note: I have removed all links to music where there is a potential copyright claim. Blame the Digital Economy Act. Those that remain are either available for free online from the artists in question, or in the case of Baddies, one of them is a friend of mine and I'm sure won't mind me giving them some free advertising.

*Stolen from Francis Ford Coppolla.


Artist: Cybraphon
Album: Automaton Number One (2009)
Track: Coxsackie

This is an odd one. 'Cybraphon' is a project by an Edinburgh-based collective called FOUND. Essentially, it's a collection of robotic instruments residing in an antique display case, and the music it plays is affected by any comments made online about itself. It's mood changes from 'Desolation' all the way up to 'Delirium'. Utterly bizarre, of course, but it's been producing some rather impressive music. This track in particular, 'Coxsackie' reminds me a bit of recent Tom Waits' fare like his 'Black Rider' album and I keep half expecting a gravelly drawl to begin floating around over the whole thing. A very interesting piece of esoterica.

http://cybraphon.com/

Artist: Brand Violet
Album: Retrovision Coma (2005)
Track: Alien Hive Theme

I'm not sure what's happening with these chaps as their website states "Brand Violet have released two albums and have plans to release a third album in 2009", yet this fabled third album has yet to make an appearance. Despite this, their first album, 'Retrovision Coma', makes my list of 2009 purely because I'd never heard of them until a few months back. They were brought to my attention by a Twitter chum, @GarethDEdwards who has been responsible for directing me towards some fantastic music this last year. This track in particular simply delights me every time I hear it.

http://www.brandviolet.com/index.htm

Artist: Sparks
Album: Hello Young Lovers (2006)
Track: Dick Around

If you're a follower of Piley's blog 'Start The Revolution Without Me' (and if you're not, then shame on you) you'll be well aware of his devotion to, indeed 'obsession with', those insane Mael brothers and their creation Sparks. Like many others, I thought Sparks had done one song years ago and disappeared off the face of the planet. I was very, very wrong and Piley has successfully coaxed me onto the path of enlightenment. Sparks are very much alive and kicking, having produced something like 22 albums, and their later work is absolutely wonderful. Their 2006 album 'Hello Young Lovers' is that CD you simply can't stop listening to, no matter how much you might want to. I've played it so many times I should really be sick to death of it, but it's a truly wonderful accomplishment. Piley himself has described this track 'Dick Around' as a song on a par with Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in terms of its epic scale. Worryingly, I don't disagree with him...

http://www.allsparks.com/

Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: If it works for the cast of LA Law, it's going to work for me

Another recommendation from @GarethDEdwards of Twitter fame, this album has been a firm favourite on my MP3 player for some months now. How to describe Thumpermonkey Lives!? Well, their own website says, "Over-egging the pudding of good taste, Thumpermonkey shake up an ill-advised cocktail of post-metal sludge, Bowie-esque warcries and mathematics homework; dropping in a brine-tinged olive of 70's progressive rock, and finishing it off with a gaudy little umbrella."
I think that sums them up quite nicely, actually, even though it is cheating for me to use their own press in such a lazy manner. This album is, quite simply, wonderfully moreish. Most times I listen to it, I immediately put it back to track 1 again and sit through its insanity at least twice more in a sitting. Amazingly, their earlier albums are available online completely free of charge so, as the man says, "Fill your boots".

http://www.thumpermonkey.com/



Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: Abyssopelagic

Thumpermonkey Lives! again. I make no apologies. They're wonderful.



Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Doctor's Wife

OK, I have to admit that I'm a fan of Steampunk - that glorious medley of Victoriana and steam-driven futurism. It's an extraordinary world. But, for me, there has never really been a Steampunk band that I could get behind. Sure, there are some who claim to carry the Steampunk banner, but as soon as I hear an electric guitar in there, the bubble is burst and I'm no longer lost in that world - yes, I'm looking at you Abney Park. Until, that is, The Clockwork Quartet came to my attention. This group of people (actually 13 of them, not 4 as the name suggests) create their music with banjos, accordions, violins and even typewriters. Yes, that's right, typewriters. Their sound is quite unique and utterly addictive. They have an album in the works, but there are two songs available on their website, both of which I have played far more than is actually healthy or sane. I'm actually giddy with anticipation about the release of their new album which, I'm hoping will be available some time in 2010. Listen to them. Fear them. Then love them.

http://www.clockworkquartet.com/index.php



Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Watchmaker's Apprentice

Another from the undisputed masters of Steampunk music. Did I mention that they're brilliant? OK, just checking.



Artist: Baddies
Album: Do The Job (2009)
Track: Open One Eye

I've mentioned Baddies in the past and I continue to be amazed by them. Their debut album is an utter joy and has been in my CD player so many times over the last few months that I've now resorted to just leaving it in there at all times. I saw them play live in Southend around Christmas time and it was a fantastic gig. Piley was there too and seemed to really like it, so I feel I've repaid the favour of him introducing me to Sparks. This particular track was my favourite from day 1 and continues to be the one that always makes me grin like a shitting chimp. Buy it, listen to it, then thank me later.

http://www.listentobaddies.co.uk/



Artist: Diablo Swing Orchestra
Album: Sing Along Songs for the Damned & Delirious (2009)
Track: Lucy Fears The Morning Star

Diablo Swing Orchestra are, I believe, clinically insane. But I love them all the more for it. They're a Swedish avant-garde metal band who...wait, wait! Come back! Trust me, these guys are good! Right, what these lunatics produce is some of the most epic, swelling, thumping, tracks you're likely to hear. It's utter madness and sounds rather like a Friday night in the bowels of Hades where, of course, you can most definitely still smoke at the bar while sipping your fire-water. I'd like to see this group live, but fear I might never recover. You'll love them or hate them. Or fear them.

Artist: Matt Stevens
Album: Echo (2009)
Track: Spencer Park

Of course, no review of 2009 would be complete without mention of Mr. Matt Stevens. He was, you may recall, my blog pick for this year. You know that bit in The Big Lebowski where The Stranger says, "It's good knowin' he's out there, the Dude, takin' her easy for all us sinners." Well, I kind of feel that way about Matt - I find it strangely comforting that in the helter skelter insanity of modern life, he's out there somewhere, with his guitar and a bottle of something beery, happily making this wonderful music. The dude abides.

http://www.mattstevensguitar.com/



Artist: MooV
Album: Fold (2008)
Track: Fall Away

In the continuing spirit of lazy theft, I shall quote this: "Led by composer Colin Riley and featuring the distinctive voice of Norwegian vocalist Elisabeth Nyågard, MooV are made up of the enticing combination of voice, 'cello, bass guitar, percussion, keyboards and electronics'. Following three years of exploratory recording and development this bewildering band of cross-genre musicians has put together a musically aesthetic & evocative album of songs which challenge the rich territories between pop, electronica, the avantgard and jazz. Categorise if you can."
Yep, that about sums them up. One minute you're listening to a track which reminds you of early Diamanda Galas and her insane glossolollia, the next there are beautiful Bjork-ian melodies. This one, as they say, is a keeper.

There were, of course, many other songs/albums that I loved over 2009, but these are the ones that have sprung to mind. I hope they give you as much pleasure as they did me.

Next time on The Blog of Eternal Disappointment: something shouty about an unimportant event that is of little consequence even to me. Stay tuned!

2010. New year, same disappointment.

I have no idea where this blog post is going, so I'm going to randomly start typing words in a bid to kick some life into my head. Daffodils and sausages and limericks and fellatio and Joseph Stalin and ignorance and javelins and moonbeams and lentils and soda pops.

That, right there, was a genuine train of thought. A technique used by many psychiatrists (at least in the films I've seen) is to say a word and get the patient to respond with the first thing that comes into their head. Those were the first words that I thought of. Sausages (nom) and fellatio (er, nom?) are pretty obvious choices for a man, but I'm buggered if I know where Joseph Stalin came from. If anyone reading this has a background in psychology, I'd love to know what it all means.

Right, back to the blog. My fingers are sufficiently limbered up and my brain pan has been lubricated by the judicious application of a couple of glasses of booze.

**************************************

There has been little action on the blog lately, mostly because I've been too angered by Christmas to even think straight. Additionally, nothing of interest has happened.

I did have one idea that briefly excited me - to write a review of 2009 in which I would visit a single event from each of the last twelve months and moan about it at length. I even decided that it would be a two-part post, each part covering six months.

Sadly, I soon realised it was turning into nothing more than a rather disturbing record of me gleefully cackling and rubbing my hands together over a selection of celebrity deaths. So, pretty quickly, that idea bit the dust. I'm not a monster.

So, I'm left with little choice but to recount to you something that happened to me earlier today. Make yourself comfortable, pour a drink, light a soothing pipe of dark Moroccan tobacco and read...

After a hard day at work, I decided that rather than walk home in the grimy Essex slush, I'd treat myself to a cab. As a single man, my pleasures are few and far between - a cigarette; a glass of something alcoholic, cheap and nasty; striking a recalcitrant child; frenzied self-abuse; or a taxi journey. These are the things that temporarily bring joy into my dull life.

Trudging over to the taxi rank, I found myself walking at the same pace as a young man in a suit. Being a generous chap, I slowed down, extended my hand in the universal gesture of 'no, after you' and he stepped into the first taxi on the rank and was driven away into the night.

I walked over to the second cab on the rank where a portly, silver-haired gentleman was sitting in the driver's seat reading a book. As I approached, I was startled to see something vaguely resembling panic in his eyes but, after a moment of initial concern, dismissed it as a trick of the light. Clambering into his sweltering cab, I quickly realised the reason for his wide-eyed horror at my approach...

Some thirty seconds prior to me bumbling down the street, the cab driver, possibly suffering from some particularly painful form of gastrointestinal dysfunction, had decided to loosen his sphincter and emit a lavish fart of such extraordinary pungency that before I could even say "Good evening" my face was frozen, mouth partially open in a silent retch, nostrils flaring at the absolutely astonishing reek.

By now, I was sitting in the back with the door closed, so it was too late to climb out again muttering some feeble excuse about forgetting to buy something in the shop.

There was a moment of silence. We were, briefly, at an impasse. He knew he'd done it. I knew he'd done it. But, of course, neither of us could say anything. He knew he couldn't apologise. I knew I couldn't make a comment. Thus were we locked together in a grotesque pantomime of societal politeness and mutual embarrassment.

Eventually, the silence was broken.

"Where you going to?" he stammered.

I replied with the name of my road and off we went.

Now, it's barely 5-minutes drive to my house, but I'm sure you can understand that it felt like several hours. For the entire duration of the journey, every breath I took caused a fresh wave of nausea to ripple through my body, starting at the stomach and ending in my mouth, locked away behind gritted teeth and a grimace so fierce that any witnesses might be led to believe I'd just eaten a dog turd dipped in lemon juice.

The cab was hot, stuffy and so extraordinarily odorous that I can only compare it to sitting in a fan-assisted oven on Gas Mark 8 with a 4-inch stack of used nappies on your lap.

Now, an hour later, I still don't know how I managed to stop myself spraying vomit over the back of the driver's head.

I considered opening the window, but things are rarely that simple. You see, if I'd opened it immediately, he would have known the game was up and his subsequent embarrassment would have made me feel guilty. Therefore, I had to leave it for a few moments. But how long? If I'd waited for a minute, he'd have thought "Phew, got away with that one. Maybe it hasn't travelled into the back yet" and visibly relaxed, grateful that he hadn't been caught out, whereupon I would open the window and he would immediately stiffen, silently mouthing the words, "Shit Shit Shit".

Therefore, I decided to wait a bit longer. Unfortunately, this was a very foolish and naive move. If you sit there for 2 minutes without opening the window and then you suddenly cave in and wind it down, the taxi driver might think, "Hold on. He opened the window but sat there smelling it for a couple of minutes first? What is he, some kind of olfactory pervert?" before kicking me out of the cab.

I was trapped. I'd missed my opportunity and the window HAD to remain closed.

At one point, he tried engaging me in conversation, presumably in a desperate bid to show that everything was fine and the taxi didn't smell at all like a latrine at Glastonbury, but I simply wasn't in the mood to exchange pleasantries as I breathed in his flatulence.

Now, on a side note, I should tell you about my aversion to beans.

Nothing on Earth is as mouth-watering as the smell of a cooked breakfast. Bacon sizzling under the grill; hot, plump sausages baking in the oven; the warm, nutty aroma of bread frying. The English Breakfast is an absolute treat for the senses and if there's one thing that can ruin it in a bloody heartbeat, it's the addition of a big wet puddle of baked beans. The cheap, sweet juice gets over everything and instantly taints the flavour of every other item on the plate. Baked beans are, quite frankly, an abomination and I despise them. The way they look, the way they taste, the way they smell - nothing about them is good and they make me very angry indeed.

Thus, it was with mounting horror, that I slowly realised the smell pervading every corner of the taxi, the stench that I was drawing into my lungs, smelled of beans.

I almost sobbed.

"Don't worry," I thought to myself, "you're nearly home. Just a bit further and you can get out into the fresh air. Keep your shit together, man."

I blinked away the tears and looked out of the window, eager to get a glimpse of the street sign that would announce I was only moments away from liberating myself from this dutch-oven of feculence. There it is! There it is!

I watched, mouth agape, head slowly turning 180 degrees as the taxi sailed straight past my road. The taxi driver had missed the turning. I was so distraught, I couldn't even speak. I genuinely sat there in complete silence, a tear springing to the corner of my eye as another wave of nausea surged through my body.

After a moment, the taxi driver said, "Oh, you wanted that one didn't you? Sorry."

I nodded dumbly, bottom lip quivering.

Of course, he didn't turn around straight away, oh no. Instead, we trundled down the road for another 45 seconds, as I continued to inhale his beany stench, passing several turnings that could have very easily taken me home. I was too upset to think, let alone say anything. After a moment, he turned and soon we were outside my flat.

The taxi ground to a halt and the driver looked at me in the mirror.

"Four quid please."

I paid him, wordlessly, scrambling at the door handle like an excitable puppy. I flung the door wide and leaped out, sucking in a huge lungful of fresh, untainted air. I was giddy with the rush of cold, clean oxygen. I'd made it. I was home. And I hadn't been sick over myself. This was indeed a victory.

And then, in a truly staggering moment of idiotic courtesy, I turned around, put my shaking hand on the door and said, "Thank you" before slamming it shut.

There's something quintessentially English about that which makes me simultaneously proud and so ashamed of myself that I could sob like a baby...

The Curse of Christmas

Never, ever try to do your shopping in a supermarket a week before Christmas. If you do, you will seriously consider murder, suicide, or murder followed by suicide.

My local Sainsbury's have gone the whole hog this year; jolly decorations in the most festive of reds and golds; cholesterol-laden cakes at prices so low you'll be haunted by visions of starving children for weeks afterwards unless you've already succumbed to a heart-attack so severe it feels like someone's applied a jack-hammer to your chest; intrusively joyous music so aggravating that you'd rather cut your ears off, eat them, vomit them into your cupped hands and smear them on your face than listen to another nanosecond of Slade, and dead-eyed staff with red felt hats jammed onto their heads in a display of enforced jollity so pernicious that you feel it could only be topped by Hitler making the Waffen SS attach glitterballs to the ceiling in Auschwitz in a bid to raise morale amongst the Juden.

Throw several hundred dull-witted imbeciles into the mix, all pushing trolleys piled eight-feet high with shit they can't possibly need, and you've just created my own personal hell, thank you.

None of this was helped by the dawning realisation that I seem to be the only human being on the face of the planet with the vaguest understanding of 'spatial awareness'. They dawdle about in a fucking dreamworld, screeching to a halt without a single moments thought, glaring at me when I smash into the backs of their legs. Here's a handy tip - treat your shopping trolley like you would a car. Look around. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Don't blindly swerve about like Stevie Wonder at the dodgems with a ferret in his undercrackers, USE YOUR BASTARD EYES!

Fortunately, I was only buying a reasonably small selection of delicious breakfast items, so didn't have to stick around too long. Within ten minutes I was on my way to the tills.

Side Note: When I go to Sainsbury's, I write a list. This alone has earned me the opprobrium of certain friends who prefer instead to just browse and pick up what they fancy as the mood takes them. To me, that is insanity. If you don't have a list, how on Earth can you be sure you've purchased everything you require? Imagine wading through the river of faeces that is a supermarket in Southend only to discover when you burst through your front door, tears of hatred in your eyes, that you've neglected to pick up eggs. It doesn't bear thinking about.

Side Note 2: I also write my shopping list in order of where the items are in the supermarket. This, I will concede, is a bit mental. However, in my defence, there's nothing worse than getting all the way to other end of the store only to realise you didn't pick up the button mushrooms in aisle 1. My method is as follows:

1) Make a shopping list.
This is where you sit, gazing into space, jotting down tasty items of nommage as each one springs into your mind. "Home-made meatballs? OK, I'll need fresh beef mince, onions, Parmesan, garlic and eggs." Those items then go on the list, in the order you think of them.

2) Pick up a fresh sheet of paper and lick the end of your pencil.

3) Make a second list.
This is where you take the items from list one and put them in order of location. The fruit and veg aisle is first in the shop, so onions and garlic take pride of place at the top. The meat aisle comes next, so you write down 'minced beef x 1'. And so on.

In this manner, you avoid unnecessary buggering about and have a shopping experience that doesn't so closely resemble rubbing Scotch Bonnet peppers onto your cornea until you scream your lungs up so they hang down the front of your shirt like the ends of a particularly bulbous scarf.

Arriving at the tills, it appeared that in their rush to foist Christmas upon me whether I wanted it or not, Sainsbury's had neglected to address the reasonably important measure of actually hiring any staff. The queues were ridiculous.

In a moment of insanity, I ended up queuing behind a woman and her husband. The woman was one of those strange creatures who, in her younger years, was probably slightly eccentric in a way that was both amusing and very attractive. I could imagine the man, dark of hair and lean of stomach, looking at her and shaking his head, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks, chuckling "you're mad!" and giving her a hug, convinced that she was the loveliest thing he'd ever laid his eyes upon. Fast forward thirty years and he clearly wanted to kill her. Fast forward thirty seconds and I wanted to kill her too.

Now, I should point out that when I'm unloading my trolley, I have a bit of a system. This involves placing items for refrigeration in a general heap and everything else can then be scattered around and about. Bread and eggs have to be placed at the end of the conveyor belt, obviously, or you end up with a loaf of wholemeal the size of a house brick and a fine smearing of albumen on your Coco Pops.

This insane woman in front of me, however, took the biscuit. Not only was she taking the items out one at a time, she was telling a little story about each one.
Broccoli - "Oh, we'll need this for dinner tomorrow. That can go next to the chops."
Paracetamol - "Right, I've got two of these, just in case. They need to go here."
Jelly - "Now, Mr. Jelly, you need to be over here, next to the evaporated milk."

Minute by painful minute, she cradled each item in her crazy hands, told a tiny story about it's history, what meal it was required for, or what bizarre scenario it might become an integral part of later, then reverently placed it on the conveyor before returning her gaze to the trolley, tapping her bottom lip, deep in thought, and picking up something else that she could have a conversation with.

Her husband stood at the far end of the till, desperately wishing he was somewhere else, like Baghdad for example, and failing rather spectacularly to do anything about the old witch.

My temper was starting to deteriorate and I was in real danger of shouting something inappropriate like, "Oi, Rainman, get a fucking move on!" but, of course, I didn't for fear of her suddenly rounding on me and tearing at my face with her clawed fingers which, I'm convinced, had probably dissected a thousand steaming turds over the years and smeared them across the bedroom walls.

My furious gaze turned to her husband who was still milling around six feet away, suddenly fascinated with a speck of lint he'd discovered on the lapel of his tweed jacket. She gave you a blowjob, you gave her a wedding ring, and you've regretted it ever since. Just because you've ruined your own life, it doesn't mean you have to ruin mine as well. Take some responsibility for your eccentric, grocery-loving wife and move the bloody queue along a bit.

Eventually, after she spent 3 whole minutes (I'm really not exaggerating here) examining the plastic wrapping on a fruit cake (the irony was not lost upon me) their trolley was empty and I was able to start unloading my own purchases.

Once they'd moved on, the till-assistant (is that the right word? I didn't want to say 'monkey') adjusted his Santa hat, flashed me a half-smile and apologised for the delay.

I told him it wasn't his fault, smiled (although it was probably closer to a sneer) and started to pack.

Thank you, world

For the last week, I've been suffering from headaches. Not constantly, just the occasional one that hits hard and sticks around for far too long.

On Monday, a headache hit me in the morning as soon as I woke up. Ah, those are the moments you cherish, when as you stir in your warm bed, the first early rays of sun creeping through the curtains, you're jolted into consciousness by raw, undulating pain beating ceaselessly through your cranium.

I stumbled in to work, vowing that I'd sort out some urgent business and then take the afternoon off to recuperate. Sadly, that particular dream was whisked away from me when my colleague snuck away from the office at noon never to return. Checking his calendar I found that he'd secretly booked the afternoon off without telling anyone. Being the dedicated little drone that I am, I decided it would be a bad idea for me to sneak off too, so I stuck with it, snapping grumpily at my co-workers if they so much as looked at me.

On Tuesday, headache still present, I crawled in to work and immediately booked the afternoon off before any other bastard could get in there. I viewed this, quite rightly, as a WIN.

I left work at 12.30, came home and went to bed, sleeping right through until 7. A little bit of internetting, several paracetamol and then back to bed until the following morning.

Wednesday - no headache.

Thursday - a bit of a headache. It passed.

Friday - 3 am. I woke up, head pounding like a kettle drum in a particularly violent production of Carmina Burana performed by the National Percussion Orchestra of Bolivia. Pills were scoffed, fruit juice was guzzled and I sat down in front of the laptop to try and fill my waking moments with some mindless entertainment in the vain hope it would take my mind off the agony. After a while, I went back to bed and watched a DVD. Then another one.

By this time, it was 8 am and there was no end in sight to my headache. I was, obviously, starting to wonder if I'd done something wrong in a previous life to explain the endless suffering that I'm experiencing in this one. I soon realised a startling universal truth - bad things happen to bad people. However, as I'm a wonderful person, this was clearly just some sort of blip and would soon pass.

I phoned work to let them know I wouldn't be in, which was a nightmare in its own right. The trouble with a headache is that you can't convey it over the phone. To all intents and purposes, it appears you're simply calling in because you can't be bothered to attend work. If you're fortunate enough to have the flu or a throat infection, you can cough, hack, bark and dribble down the line, leaving the person on the other end in no doubt that you're clearly very unwell. Headaches don't allow you that luxury. Additionally, it's a Friday so even if you're dying of consumption, your co-worker will simply nod at the other end of the phone, make unconvincing sympathetic noises and secretly curse you for your laziness. Fuck them, I say.

Soon, it was 11 am and I was in bed, just about fading into a much-needed sleep, the pain in my head subsiding slightly.

The doorbell rang and my eyes flickered open, rolling towards the ceiling. Can't I even die in peace now? I honestly think that one day I'll get hit by a truck, fly through the air like a rag doll, crumple to the ground in a flurry of broken limbs and, as my blood cools and congeals on the greasy tarmac, someone will tut and nudge me aside with their foot so they can get their shopping home before it defrosts.

Obviously, I ignored the doorbell. "Whoever it is, they can fuck off ", I thought.

Unfortunately, they obstinately refused to fuck off, preferring instead to ring the doorbell again. And again.

I crept out of bed and went to the living room, peering down from the window to see who it was. It turned out to be the elderly lady who lives in the flat below me, standing there with her niece.

Grumbling and whingeing, I shrugged on a shirt and went to open the door. I purposely didn't put any trousers on, deciding that the appropriate punishment for disturbing my peace and quiet was to be greeted by the sight of me in my shirt and pants. They'll think twice before ringing my doorbell again, I can tell you.

The niece took one look at me, resplendent in my shirt and pants combo and involuntarily shuddered - I saw the revulsion ripple through her body. She actually took two steps backwards, even though this meant her back was now pressed against the opposite wall. If she could have punched through the brickwork and crawled into the next room to be an extra two feet away, I'm sure she would have done so.

Through sheer force of will she managed to curl her lips into something approximating a polite smile and said, "Sorry to disturb you, but my aunt has locked herself out."

It seemed appropriate to explain why I hadn't answered the door so I said "Sorry I didn't answer, I was in bed. I've got a really bad headache."

Except I didn't say that, did I? Oh no.

For reasons that I simply cannot fathom, those words left my brain, travelled down my neck, shot into my jaw, and something entirely different came out. What I actually said, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why, was this:

Me: Sorry I didn't answer the door, I was in bed. I've got a really bad hangover.
Niece: (smirk)
Me: No! No, I meant headache.
Niece: (small nod)
Me: I don't know why I just said hangover, I'm just...I can't really think straight at the moment.

It was too late. The damage was done. The forced smile had left and the knowing smirk was there to stay. I immediately wanted to knock it off her face with a length of four by two.

No amount of protestation on my part could cause those words to be sucked back into my stupid mouth like they'd never existed. As far as they were concerned, I'd clearly been a very silly boy and was paying the price for my lack of self-control.

It transpired that the elderly neighbour had managed to lock herself out. She'd gone shopping on her mobility scooter and accidentally left the front-door chain on. She'd also accidentally locked the back gate when she'd gone out, so couldn't get in that way either.

Quite what they expected me to do, I don't know, but I felt that I should assist in some way if for no other reason than I could then go back to bed.

"Let me put some trousers on and I'll see what I can do."

I trudged upstairs and donned jeans, shoes and a coat, remembering to pocket my keys so that I didn't get locked out. See? Not difficult is it, elderly neighbour?

I could have just charged the front door bellowing "Hulk smash!" and taken the chain off with sheer, bullish force, but it didn't really enter my head. In retrospect, I rather wish that's what I'd done. Instead, I thought I'd be crafty and clamber in through the back garden. This proved to be both effective and very harmful.

There's an alleyway at the side of the property with gates branching off from it into various back gardens. Elderly neighbour's is first, mine is second. I headed through my gate and, wading through the viciously barbed plants that have taken over my small plot of land, I approached the fence that divides our gardens. It's only about 4 feet high, but I had to scale it in now muddy shoes which slipped dangerously every time I tried to get my footing. After no small amount of struggling, I was now standing precariously on top of the 4 foot fence, a wild tangle of thorns behind me, a large bush in front of me. I couldn't climb down into elderly neighbour's garden - I was going to have to jump.

Through the exertion, my head was now once again pounding like the interior of a chav's Citreon Saxo and beads of sweat were forming on my forehead. I looked like the anti-Spiderman, all clumsy bumbling and grazed elbows.

Deciding that I'd reached the point of no return, I braced myself and leaped forwards with cat-like agility and grace, arcing over the bush and promptly plummeting to earth like a concrete slab, slamming into the ground with jarring force.

I hit the grass, slick with dew, and crumpled to my knees, leg suddenly screaming with pain, glasses flying off my face and skittering across the garden. I imagine the sound was not dissimilar to someone dropping a large bag of potatoes from a first floor window directly onto a patio.

The wind was knocked out of me completely and, wheezing like an asthmatic hyena, I scrabbled about in the damp grass, squinting myopically for my glasses. I found them, wiped off the mud, crammed them onto my face and limped over to the gate, unlocking it and swinging it open.

There, on the other side, stood elderly neighbour and her niece. I couldn't even look them in the eye.

They thanked me profusely as I waved a filth-encrusted hand and limped my way back upstairs, sore, breathless and thoroughly fucking miserable.

In the past you've probably read my blog and figured that I'm just a whining loser with an irrational hatred of everything and everyone. Perhaps you're finally starting to see that it's not my fault. This shit just happens to me, whether I want it to or not.

I can't even lay in bed with a throbbing migraine without the universe conspiring to propel me, unbidden, into perilous situations where I end up either a) hurt, b) humiliated, or c) hurt and humiliated.

The final icing on the cake is that, without fail, elderly neighbour always rewards me for my endeavours. Whenever she locks herself out, or electricity goes off, she knocks on my door and I rescue her. It usually only takes a few minutes, but she's eternally grateful and I find, a few hours later, a little carrier bag outside my flat door with a gift in it. The first time it was a bottle of wine, the time after that a six-pack of Stella Artois. Gradually, however, these gifts have decreased in value. A few months back, there were two bottles of Old Speckled Hen (vastly preferable to the Stella, truth be told) and then, on the most recent occasion, a 4-pack of Co-Op own brand bitter.

Christ knows what it'll be this time. A carton of Ribena perhaps, or a half-eaten ham sandwich. The mind boggles.

Anyway, my head's throbbing like a bastard and I'm feeling so grumpy I may implode, so fuck off the lot of you.

UPDATE - It is now 8 hours later. Time for an update.
Headache: Temporarily abated. This is good.
Leg: Hurting like a motherfucker. I can barely walk on it and have become convinced that it's broken.
Gift: No gift whatsoever. Not even a can of Special Brew. Ungrateful old cow.

Exposing The Wizard

SPOILER ALERT: If you don't want to know how I create these magnificent blog posts, then stop reading. Don't spoil the magic. I'm pulling back the curtain to expose the wizard. No, that's not a euphemism for something filthy. Grow up.

Normally when I start writing a blog post, I have a hazy notion of where it's going and just let myself get carried there on a wave of preposterously over-worked similes, scatological comparisons and unnecessary swearing.

There's also something vaguely approaching a template that I tend to follow. It goes like this:

1) Start with a hook line to draw people in. This might be something like "I nearly had to call the police because I got trapped in a piece of plastic" or "This morning I was almost bitten by a dog". To you, these probably seem like amusing occurrences. For me, they're the ONLY occurrences. My life is, in general, so utterly bleak and uninteresting that I'm amazed my heart hasn't stopped beating out of sheer disgust just to put me out of my misery. Occasionally, when laying in bed at night, trying to envelop myself in the sweet release of unconsciousness, I suddenly realise that I've stopped breathing and have to take a panicked breath. I'm convinced that my body is conspiring against me - desperate to release itself from this hellish tragedy that I laughingly call a life.

Anyway, these hook lines are designed to pique the reader's interest, compelling them to wade through the rest of my hastily written, poorly conceived words. Sometimes I don't bother with the hook line at all, so I think you can safely assume that the next few points I make will be equally meaningless and open to interpretation. It's important to set out your stall early.

2) Waffle on for a while to give a little background into what it is you're going to be ranting about. This lets the reader settle down into the main thrust of the piece which, in fairness, is usually me being angry about something of no importance whatsoever.

3) Go off on a tangent, moaning about how dreary everything is, calling people made-up terms like 'fuck-knuckle' or 'rage-pig'. Using these sorts of words means you can avoid having to widen your vocabulary. You may wish to write single words on pieces of paper and then draw them, two at a time, to create exciting new combinations. For example, "fuck", "cock", "twat", "monkey", "bag" and "tard" are all excellent starting points. (note to self: use 'cock-tard' at some point, that appears to be a new one...)

4) Create some bizarre mental images usually involving bulging, tumescent genitalia, faeces, mindless violence and angry, simian shouting. These are all tried and tested techniques. The act of zoomorphism (the opposite of anthropomorphism) is particularly effective. You will notice that I often refer to myself as "hooting like an ape" or "bellowing like an enraged gorilla". This sort of animalisation works very well. Particularly when, like me, you actually do resemble a disgruntled orangutan.

5) Finish the whole thing with either a cyclical reference to an earlier part of the post, neatly tying the two ends together, or just let it fizzle out pathetically. The latter tends to happen a lot when I've grown tired of the sound of my own written voice.

So that's the template. It's not something that I actually stick to, it seems to just happen. Now that you know about it, you can create your own blog! Unfortunately, I will have to sue you for copyright infringement. Sorry about that.

Anyway, this particular post has fallen at the first hurdle as it's being written with absolutely no direction whatsoever. It's 2.30 a.m. and, due to me falling asleep in the armchair while watching The Ballad of Cable Hogue on TCM, I'm wide awake and a bit bored. I had a cup of coffee earlier which was a truly awful idea in retrospect, made some toast with marmite which was utterly delicious as one would expect, and am now desperately trawling around the Internet for something to look at that isn't pornographic in nature.

Twitter is pretty much dead at the moment because most of the UK folks are asleep and most of the Americans are out either enjoying their Friday night post-work celebrations or invading oil-rich countries (I went a bit Ben Elton there. Sorry about that.)

Frankly, I'm bored. Really bored. I've smoked far too many cigarettes in the last few hours and if I had something alcoholic to drink I would have guzzled it with gusto within minutes.

Philip Glass is flowing out of the speakers, the gentle repetition ebbing and flowing like the waves of a mighty yet gentle ocean. Normally, I love Glass' stuff but tonight his music seems to be mocking me - the endless re-occurrence of the same notes mirroring the pointless cycle of my own life. At least with Glass' music it builds and transforms, becoming something new and exciting. For me, this shit goes on and on every day without hope or mercy. It really is interminable.

I haven't even got anything to rant about. The last couple of days have been predictably uneventful to the stage that I've had to consider whether I should put myself into positions of mortal danger just to have something to write about.

The Stupidity of Me Part 2

"Today, I nearly got savaged by a lion when I accidentally fell into the enclosure at Colchester Zoo dressed as a springbok. LOL!"

See? Wouldn't work.

So here I sit, awake, bored, listless, unable to think of anything to write about. And yet, despite these seemingly insurmountable hurdles, I've still managed to produce a thousand words about precisely fuck all.

Frankly, I'm either a genius or a cock-tard (wink).

You be the judge.

Time Makes Fools Of Us All

Whether it's biological coding, learned behaviour, or just simply fate, they say we are destined to become our parents. Yes, those irritating gits that wouldn't let us do what we wanted when we were teenagers, who always had a negative opinion of what we wore, said, watched or did - we will become them.

As youngsters, we said, "I'm never going to behave like my parents. I'm going to learn from their mistakes and be a better person for it."

Sadly, time makes fools of us all.

Something happened last week that made me realise my metamorphosis into my father has nearly concluded.

When I was in my teens, my father would sometimes be a little embarrassing when out in public. If he was in a shop waiting to be served and the assistant behind the till was chatting to their friend rather than doing their job, he'd say "Are you going to serve me or talk to your bloody mate?" If they dared to back-chat him, he'd slam the item on the counter and bellow, "Stuff it up your arse!", before walking out empty-handed. I like to think I've inherited his charm.

Often, he would then be forced to return home without the item that he wanted. To him, however, this was a victory. I believe the phrase is 'cutting off your nose to spite your face' and my father is an expert at it.

Back then, I was terribly embarrassed by his behaviour, completely failing to understand why he had to be such a grumpy old sod to everyone.

However, when I reached my twenties I suddenly found that when encountering poor service at a shop, restaurant or pub, my father's words would drift, unbidden, into my mind. Of course, I wouldn't actually say them out loud because that would be terribly rude, but they were there echoing around inside my cranium, straining to get out like hot, urgent flatulence during an important business meeting.

I'm now in my mid-thirties and have pretty much become my father, without the nose-cutting-off part of the equation.

Last week, I went into a pub to meet a friend. The pub (The Slug and Lettuce in Southend, if you're interested) is big and expensive-looking. It is also, on the whole, pretty empty for much of the week. This particular day, I wandered in and there were only about 8 people in the entire place, gazing listlessly at their pint glasses, or squinting at the tarnished coins in their hands wondering if they could afford another half of Fosters, desperately trying to delay the inevitable walk home to their depressing, nicotine-stained bedsit, full of scratched furniture, scuffed skirting-boards and stained bed linen.

Walking up to the bar, I perused the impressive selection of fine ales. Well, I say 'selection', a more accurate description would be "2". They had Bombardier or their special ale of the week, the name of which escapes me. This special ale apparently had a subtle flavour of chocolate and orange, making it a rather Christmassy affair. Intrigued, I smiled and engaged the stony-faced barman in pleasant conversation:

Me: Good afternoon.
Him: (silence)
Me: This chocolate orange beer, is it a bitter or a stout?
Him: Stout.
Manager: (from further down the bar) No, it's a bitter.
Me: Oh, a bitter. Good. What's it like?
Him: Dunno.
Me: It looks intriguing. Can I have a little taste of it?
Him: No, we don't do that.

Now, at this juncture I should point out that British pub etiquette suggest, nay demands, that if a customer asks about an unusual beer, the barkeep will (normally without being asked) pour half an inch of it into a glass for you so that you can sample it. It's a given. It occurs in every pub I've ever been to.

But no, not the Slug and Lettuce. In this pub, if you ask to try a beer, they'll look at you like you've just burst into their home on Christmas day, genitals extruding grotesquely from your trouser fly, and belched loudly into the face of their grandmother, all whilst tracking fresh dog shit across their cream carpets.

The barman was clearly an utter cock and completely failed to understand that I'm the customer and, as such, am always right.

As an aside, I should point out that I worked in a pub myself at one time. My philosophical approach to this was as follows: I'm being paid to provide a service. If the customer is slurring, can't make their mind up or is generally being a dick, then that's their right - I will not roll my eyes or sigh deeply. If the customer wants to talk to me about something or tell me a long-winded, deeply unfunny joke then as long as nobody's waiting to be served, I'll stand there while they do so. Most importantly of all, even if I was in a really bad mood, I would always smile when they approached the bar, always call them Sir or Madam, always say 'please' and 'thank you'.

The thing I was not there to do was read the newspaper disinterestedly at the end of the bar, sighing gloomily each time a customer wanted a drink, aggravated that they'd disturbed this special 'me time'.

They are the rules of the game. If you think you'll be unable to treat your customers in an appropriate manner, then I suggest you fuck off and let somebody else do the job.

This particular barman clearly viewed my presence there as an inconvenience to him. I started to lose my cool somewhat.

Me: You "don't do that?"
Him: No.
Me: Seriously? Every other pub does it.
Him: (Silence)
Me: Forget it then. Pint of Bombardier.
Him: (Silence whilst pouring the pint)
Me: I'm quite surprised actually. Every other pub in the known world will give you a taster of a beer if you ask for it.
Him: (Silence)
Me: It makes sense really. The customer may take a shine to that particular beer and decide to come back again later that week whereas, ordinarily, he might not have bothered.
Him: (Silence)
Me: Speculate to accumulate, and all that.
Him: Two pounds ten.

I handed him my money and flounced off to a table to occupy the moral high-ground of righteous indignation.

A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of behaving like that. I would have just looked puzzled and ordered something else, averting my gaze and inwardly shaking my head sadly. But now, as middle age approaches, I'm changing. This is most obvious in the way I hold doors...

Now, I always hold doors for people. It's not a sexist thing, I don't think that women need to have the big heavy door wrenched open and held so that they can totter their fragile bodies through without fear of breaking a bone or dropping their shiny handbag - I'll hold a door for anyone, young, old, male, female, you name it. It's called manners.

However, when I'm standing there in the rain, arm outstretched so you can walk through without 8 feet of plate glass slamming into your skull, I do expect something in return - recognition. You don't have to suddenly drop to your knees and take me eagerly in your wet mouth, just a simple "thanks" or nod of the head will suffice. Even a smile, for fucks sake, would be something. But the sheer number of people who will breeze straight through without even a glance is utterly bewildering to me.

I've even had some people look at me with suspicion as they've walked through! This, of course, causes me to instantly fill with an incandescent rage so powerful that I worry a vein in my temple will burst, showering innocent passersby with jets of blood.

Why in the name of Jesus suffering Christ would you look at me suspiciously for holding a door open? I'm not expecting you to lend me one of your children for a romantic evening of The Little Mermaid and 'special hugs'. It's called common courtesy, you steaming bag of shit.

Now, in the manner of my father, I've taken to saying "You're welcome!" in an overly jolly manner to any scum-fuck that won't engage in civility. Even better, I sometimes say "Don't mention it!" in a jaunty bellow. This pleases me enormously because, you know, it's like ironic and shit?

How the hell has the world changed so much in just a few short years? Customer service, politeness, manners - they've all gone to hell and it irritates me enormously.

And do you know what the worst part is? I'm actually looking forward to the final leg of my journey, when my transformation into Rablenkov Senior is complete; when I can tell people to stick things up their arses in shops; when I can swear at complete strangers because they've had the audacity to ignore my courteous behaviour. I long for these things.

One day I will, obviously, say something to the wrong person and end up being beaten to death by a man with arms like ham hocks and thick, muscular hands adorned with sovereign rings, but by God it'll be worth it. As the blows rain down upon my cowering head, brain-pan rattling like a charity collector's tin, I will at least know I was absolutely justified in calling his wife a cum-whore for failing to say thank you.

I'd be happy to go like that.

Blog Tagging - Winner Announced

If the last few days have taught me anything, it's that there are an awful lot of people out there on the Internet with precisely nothing to say and, generally, they're saying it far too often for my liking.

I'm reminded of that scene in The Matrix where we see fields of glowing pods being harvested by machines before getting linked up to the matrix where they can then interact with their chums. Replace the glowing pods with perfectly cylindrical logs of faeces and you've got a pretty close approximation of how I regard the blogosphere - an almost infinite collection of winking brown-eyes popping out globs of steaming excrement with the same frightening regularity of a 20-something, chain-smoking single mother introducing her latest 'little miracles' into a world of Stella Artois, Sunny Delight and chicken nuggets.

(Note: That was misanthropy, not misogyny. Grow up.)

To say that I really didn't fancy having to wade through another batch of pointless blogs in a fruitless quest for something approaching 'interesting' would be an astounding understatement. The very thought of it was horrendous and made me want to crawl inside a bottle of vodka forever.

Funnily enough though, I was spared that awful task when, quite by accident, I realised that the person I wanted to blog-tag had been right in front of my eyes all along.

This person is someone I follow on Twitter and who, for reasons that can only be guessed at, follows me too. He (for it is a man) is always popping up and making the occasional comment, whether it be about the latest Doctor Who episode, a homemade Tauntaun costume he's seen on the net, or something truly wonderful like bacon-flavoured envelopes.

What he's really passionate about, however, is music. That passion, that absolute love for the art form, is extremely clear from the writings on his blog. He plays live gigs at venues, he also plays live gigs via the net on Ustream. A few months back I tuned in to one of his Ustream gigs and I was extremely impressed with the guys music. I haven't watched another one yet and will have to remedy that very soon indeed.

He is, currently, conducting a Radiohead-style experiment by selling his album in a 'pay whatever you think it's worth' manner. And, so far, it seems to be working, slowly but surely. His approach to the music industry can, perhaps, be best summed up in the following quote from his blog:

"Give some of your music away - if they like it they will most likely buy something later - win hearts and minds first and make friends. If they are interested in your music they are probably people you have loads in common with. Build a community and worry about making money later on."

I really like that approach. Here's someone who's all about the music first. To him, that's the most important thing - writing, performing, recording and above all, ENJOYING music.

For me, this whole blog-tagging thing is about taking someone who you admire and giving them a shout out to the people who already follow you. This guy is the perfect - the ONLY - candidate for that.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Matt Stevens.

And so, finally, after much heart-break and pointless web-clickery, I can tag a blog.

1) Post a song that makes you happy.

Burning Bandstands - Matt Stevens



2) Tag another blogger.

Matt Stevens Guitar

3) Say at least one thing about the blog that will make the author smile.

Hopefully, I've covered this third part above with my effusive rambling. Go and see what Matt's up to. I think you'll like what he's doing.

EDIT: What I failed to do, and am correcting now, is mention the tagging stream so far. Here goes.

L'armadio del delitto tagged Lisa who tagged Suzie who tagged Chocolate Girl who tagged Mondo who tagged Piley who tagged me. There. Done.

Blog Tagging Update

I still haven't found a blog to tag yet, but I'm working on it. According to this website, the number of blogs on the Internet in February 2008 was something in the region of 185.62 million. Factoring in an annual increase of 34% (based on figures that I've just invented, like, in my head) that brings the current number of blogs to...fuck it, I don't know. About 300 million.

Accordingly, this could take some time.

On the plus side, after considerable thought I've decided on my 'happy song'. It's a tune that always pleases me whenever I hear it. A gentle piece of music which examines the relationship between working class men, their hopes, struggles and fears, I think it's possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life.

It is entitled, simply, Drink Motherfucker Drink.

*To gain the optimum enjoyment from this song, it is best listened to after at least 12 tankards of ale and whilst wearing a pirate costume.*



Ahh, sweet sweet music.

The artists are The Poxy Boggards, the album is Anchor Management. If you like, you buy, capisce?