Bête de Jour

A Rose Is A Rose Is A Rodney

2009-11-25T23:53:00.001Z

I wonder, how much of your identity is tied up in your name? What do you think? I would say, in my case at least, none. This is partly because I’ve never felt close to my real name and indeed I’ve taken steps throughout my life to distance myself from it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently, however, and I think I might be growing into it, or about to grow into it. In fact, 2010 will be the year I grow into my name. Fingers crossed.

I was thinking the other day about a little boy called Rory. Rory is a mate’s kid, and he has a fine name, I’m sure you’ll agree. But what if Rory turns out to have a speech impediment? What if he has to introduce himself for the whole of his life as Wowy? That would be awful. Potentially a genuine tragedy which could only be exacerbated if he plumped for a career at Defra and had to spend his working life talking about environmental and rural affairs.

I mentioned this to Ben. Ben said this is exactly why people should be allowed to choose their own names. I asked him what name he would have chosen for himself if he’d been allowed to do so as a child. He said, 'Princess Leia.' I find it increasingly difficult to believe that he was ever married.

He asked me what name I would have chosen. ‘Fonzie,’ I replied. Thinking about it more seriously, however, and for reasons into which I am unable to go, I would have chosen the name Danny.

I’d still quite like to be a Danny. I wonder though, would my life have been any different if I’d been a Danny?

Maybe this is one of the reasons people have children, so they can give them the names they wish they’d had themselves. But maybe not. I’d like to think that babies’ faces suggest names, like cats. Parents must think, ‘Oh, she looks just like an Emily’ or ‘He has the nose of a Cyril’. But then people make mistakes. What about you? Did your parents make a mistake? Did they name you correctly - or are you a big Jesse trapped in a Jake? Hmm?

Feedback Wednesday :: A Curse On My Unblasted Dams

2009-11-18T11:57:00.000Z

bulk :: 13st 11
alcohol intake :: average
tobacco :: ah, well, yes, therein lies a tale
exercise :: none
sex :: none
violence :: none
drama :: lots

Things are extremely odd at the moment. This is why I’m posting pointless little nothings about Fonzie and violent dreams, the kind of things about which my dear old friends send me snippy hurtful emails late at night. Oh, Thom. How could you?

Frustratingly, this is also one of those periods about which I cannot speak, for fear of upsetting some of the people involved. This is vastly annoying for me because I’m a gusher by nature and my dams are fit to burst. My damns too.

Ah well.

Here are some things I can talk about:

…I’ve met a few people lately, new people, interesting people. One of these is a chap I met through the blog who has an opportunity to write something for a telly programme and wondered if I’d like to try and help. I did try and help but I wasn’t very good. Or at least I certainly wasn’t anywhere near as good as I wanted to be. But we scrambled something together and he sent it off. So I have my fingers crossed, but my hopes unraised.

…I also met another person through other work, a very interesting fellow who, compared at least to most people who are on the whole fairly anodyne, is clearly quite mad. Morag told me when I saw her recently, that I am quite ‘full on’. I know she didn’t mean it as a compliment exactly so much as a statement of fact. However, I took it as a compliment. So, this other fellow is quite full on too. And I mean that as a compliment also. Thankfully, and unusually, if not outright eccentrically, he doesn’t really ‘do’ the internet, so I might tell you more about him when I have a moment. Incidentally, it was with this scamp that I smoked some tobacco the other day. He had some excellent green stuff, you see, to accompany the tobacco, and I simply had to smoke it with him. And I don’t regret it. It really was good.

…Selling out is proving more difficult than I hoped it might. I got a call from the people who are supposed to be sending me my toastie machine this morning and there is a problem. The manufacturer has run out and doesn’t know when they’ll have any more. At the moment, they’re looking at 6-8 weeks. Wastrels. Meanwhile, someone else has sent me a book they want me to review, a book about sex. It’s pretty fucking grotty if you want to know the truth, and there’s no money in it so it’s not exactly selling out, but I’m going to continue with it because I can’t wait to finish the book and tear it a new anus, which is actually, as you shall see, a highly pertinent metaphor. Ouch.

…Yesterday I didn’t have enough money in my bank account to pay the rent. This is bad. I am owed money, and when it comes I’ll be OK again for a while, but it’s a bit embarrassing. At my age. Oh, God... don’t get me started. But do feel free to help out if you're loaded and stupidly generous.

...I think it was five weeks ago I tried to inflate the tyres of my bike. It didn't go well. My bike is still in pieces. I am useless. I need to be punished. Or just pull my fucking finger out. Or both!

…I’ve got a date tonight. I know, I know. But if it doesn’t work out, believe me, that’s it. I’m done with dating and saving up to go to Prague.

Thank you for listening. I leave you with this, taken by a friend in Spitalfields the other day.

No offence.

Morning Terrors

2009-11-17T11:21:00.003Z

I’ve just woken up from some of the ugliest dreams I think I’ve ever had. I was married, and evidently rich. I know I was rich because when my wife took off in the middle of the night to make skanky, horrible, bukkake-esque love with numerous menfolk, she took my convertible Mercedes with her. I know of her betrayal because she told me. She told me because I confronted her, and she told me in that horrible, vindictive, ‘I want to make you suffer’ way that people sometimes adopt when they’re brimming over with hatred.

Then there was the violence, courtesy of someone I used to know at school. At school he had mental issues – I think he was schizophrenic; in his teens he became possessed by the devil and heard messages from the government in children’s TV. In my dream he approached me and was about to beat me up. He was very powerful and there was nothing I could do. To my right, there were eight or so people seated in a large four-wheel drive vehicle. As my tormentor approached me, slowly, I looked to the people in the SUV and begged for their help. I could see by the expressions on their faces that they knew it was wrong to just sit there and watch, but that’s what they did. One of them was my tormentor’s father. I don’t know who the others were. They watched as my tormentor began to beat me viciously and relentlessly. I saw his fists hurtling toward me, and felt their impact. It went on for ages. Then I woke up.

Unfortunately, I know exactly what it means.

Have a nice day!

x

I Have Forgiven Fonzie

2009-11-16T23:41:00.001Z

Today has been very strange. For a while there, it looked like it was going to go be a really good day, but then it turned into a pear.

However, right at the last minute, a moment of slightly inebriated eBay weakness came good and I found that I was suddenly the proud owner of this...

The Fonz was something of a hero of mine when I was a little boy. I wanted to be him. But then he betrayed me horribly. I would like to tell you about this betrayal but I cannot. Not now. But hopefully soon.

In the meantime though - simply because there's no point holding a grudge forever - I think I have forgiven the Fonz.

Aww. It feels good. Welcome back, Fonzie.

'Eyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Night Terrors

2009-11-10T14:12:00.001Z

Having cut out the wonder-weed along with the demon weed, I find that I am dreaming rather vividly at the moment. Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. Well, desired me. But it was a friend of mine, so it was a bit odd. She came into my room and lay on top of me, on top of my duvet too, so that I couldn’t move. Then she kissed my face repeatedly and told me she’d had an erotic dream about me. I told her she’d better go because I was becoming aroused.

Then I dreamt that Tony Soprano was whipping me with a chain. I tried to crawl away but I realised that this might anger him further, so I crawled back into whipping range, and he continued to whip me, mercilessly.

Then I dreamt about kittens. Lots of dreams about kittens. One in particular about two kittens, one of which was grouchy and unplayful, the other of which was your classic frolicking kitten. I chastised the grouchy one, grabbing it roughly and shouting at it. ‘Why can’t you be like the other kitten?’ I yelled in its miserable face.

Then a fox hissed at me and another cat coolly caught a pigeon, wrapping its jaws quite savagely around its neck. The pigeon did not resist. It barely moved, just accepted its pain, blinking calmly.

What can it all mean?

In a couple of weeks, I’m going to get hold of an anti-smoking pill that apparently has vivid dreaming as a side-effect. I can’t wait. The scarier, the better.

Now I must attempt to write something amusing. In the last month, three new writing opportunities have arisen through this blog, a couple of them very interesting, one not so much. The one I’m about to embark on now is potentially extremely interesting. No money at the moment, but you never know where these things might lead. You know? You never know.

Pleasant Tuesday to you. Blessings be upon you.

The Opposite of Journalism

2009-11-09T20:13:00.003Z

I went out crusting today so chanced upon the Metro and read this faecal guff. It's the penultimate sentence that really tweaked my spleen.

And don't tell me that he's just saying what other people have said, because that's not good enough. It'd be like saying that other people have pointed out that badgers are allergic to marzipan, without questioning it, or that Canada is the capital of Vombekistan, without questioning it, or that Thora Hird is the opposite of Boutros Boutros-Cackamuffin, without questioning it.

Lose lose lose lose lose, motherfucker.

Ooh, I could colonise a cheesecake.

Do excuse me. I've given up smoking. Coming up to the end of my third day. I've just been drinking in company too, which was the real test. And a friend is on his way over with sausages and cabbage now, so obviously there will be more wine, therefore more temptation.

Years ago I met an Australian who, when I mentioned that I was having difficulty giving up smoking, said: 'Just stop putting the things in your mouth.' He said it with a really oily smugness too, which made me absolutely livid. His name was Jojo. And that was his real name. The jerk.

Anyway, this post has no theme. I just want Tom Phillips to apologise and never write another word and I want Jojo to get hooked on the horse. AND I WANT A FUCKING CIGARETTE!

Aaah, I feel better having vented.

I thank you.

Emperor Ming and the Mystical Muff Hunt

2009-11-06T16:57:00.001Z

So, Publisher Lady reckons that as a title, Bête de Jour might not be the best option going into paperback. As far as I can tell, she is of the opinion that the book-buying British public might not recognise the allusion. Or indeed the language. I know, I know, how dare she? How dare she imply that the same people who lap up Dan Brown and Katie Price and Jeffrey Archer and Martine McCutcheon in their hundreds of millions might be a bit thick? If it weren’t for the fact that I absolutely agree with her, I would be furious.

So she asked me to come up with a different title. Essentially something more commercial. And in this I wholeheartedly support her. l want some money. And I want an iPhone. And some new boots.

So I came up with a few alternatives, none of which really bit my balls off.

Therefore, I thought I’d ask you, my unremittingly wonderful and imaginative readers. They say everyone has a book in them. Unfortunately, Katie Price has repeatedly shown this to be nonsense. However, I’m pretty sure everyone has at least a title in them. Maybe a subtitle too.

So if you fancy having a crack, please leave your ideas in the comments. Remember: nothing too clever, nothing pretentious or foreign, preferably something slightly titillating, but obviously pertaining to the thrust of the content of the book, i.e. a beastly bloke trying to track down true love. Or whatever.

As well as having the life-long pleasure of having your very own title on the cover of the best-selling book of 2010, you will also receive a signed copy of the soon-to-be-eminently-collectible hardback, and Publisher Lady might throw in something from Harper Collin if I threaten to publicly shame her if she doesn’t.

So there you go.

I’m hoping that with your help, one day I can reach these kind of dizzy heights:

Now. Have an excellent weekend. I’m stopping smoking tomorrow. I met a wonderful woman today who works for the NHS. She was really lovely. I kind of loved her a bit. She prescribed some patches and pills. I start tomorrow. Which is to say, I stop tomorrow. And which, by extension, means that tonight I drink binge and smoke like a pregnant teen. What are you up to? Anything as nice as that?

Fresh Start #173 :: Overmatter

2009-10-30T19:09:00.002Z

bulk :: 13st 9
exercise :: none
cigarettes :: lots
steps taken to stop :: I'm going to see the NHS people next Friday. They have patches and all kinds of wisdom, and they're cheaper than a hypnotist.
alcohol :: most days
steps taken to cut down :: bought some weed and now can't be bothered to go to the shops for more booze
fresh starts :: 1
marks out of ten for week :: 7.3

I had a good day yesterday. It involved work, and old friends, and tears, and drugs, and a giant silver locust named Gerard.

OK, OK. I’m joking about the tears. Big boys don’t cry.

First picture.

This... is my drug dealer’s toilet.

I hope I’m not overstepping the mark publishing a photo of a man’s toilet whilst simultaneously identifying him as a felon. I suppose if there were any sleuths out there amongst you - and I know there are - you might blow the photo up Blade Runner-style, and pick out a possum hair on the toilet seat, which might lead you, via a little unpleasantness with an East End marsupial importer, to Ineloquent Quinn's high rise block in Fithering, just behind the Bluntsteps tube station. If you do figure it out, don’t call the rozzers. Be a good egg and call those wretched supercilious old haddocks who clean up for people on telly. Get them round.

First things first though. I worked in the morning. I went out to Kensington to see a Chinaman about data analysis. Then I met an old friend for a pub lunch of delicious sausages and mashed stuff which I can still taste. Then I had time before another appointment with another old friend, so instead of slogging home and back into town, I walked around London with a little fold-out map to keep me on my toes, listening to Adam and Joe podcasts in my headphones and laughing quite openly in public places. I think people like to see a stranger laughing to himself in a public place. I know I do. Cheers me right up. So I did big Brian Blessed belly laughs and winked at anyone who looked alarmed.

Not really. I just giggled quietly into my chin.

The second old friend I met was Morag. I hadn’t seen her since shortly after we split up. We had a couple of wines and caught up. It was good. Kind of sad too but it was great to see her.

Morag has this little tease she likes to inflict upon me from time to time. She pretends that she thinks that some time in the future, I’m going to find God or become gay. Or both. Run off with a wayward Christian chap and set up home in the Cotswalds. I’d have my writing. He’d have his potter’s wheel. Every night by candlelight we’d re-enact the sexy scene from Ghost to the soundtrack of some freaky Gregorian chant-drum and bass mash-up. She didn’t actually go into such detail but I know what she was thinking.

Hilariously enough, after I said goodbye to Morag, I walked to Fithering, where, being over an hour early for my next appointment, I took refuge in a public house and was immediately befriended by a couple of gay men.

It happened because I was unpleasantly and unfairly overlooked after waiting for forty years at an almost empty bar, and I got a bit visibly uppity about it, as is my hateful wont. It was rather infantile really, my little tantrum. It was all failed clarity and hufty exasperation. In my defence, however, I was a bit emotional. If you want to know the truth, I’d had a bit of a weep whilst en route to Fithering. In the street as I walked. Like a big girl’s blouse.

NO! Not like a big girl’s blouse at all, but like the thinking woman’s man that I am, soft like a bruised egg but delightfully receptive to the cringe and swell of my emotions. Or else in bondage to it. One of the two. Either option dwarfs a mere blouse* though, I’m convinced of that. So by the time I got to the pub, I was sensitive. And I was tense. And that’s what this guy said. He said, ‘Are you a bit tense there? You are, aren’t you?’ I admitted I was, very tense. He said, ‘I can tell. I’m very spiritual.’ I explained that I’d just seen my ex-girlfriend for the first time in six months or so, so I was a feeling a bit, you know…

I’m sure Morag won’t mind me telling you this. No, I really am. Almost totally sure. It’s mostly about me anyway.

I’d had a couple of things that had been simmering away in my head for the past six months or so, like tiny phantom tumours. Basically, because of a couple of things that had been said in the embers end of our relationship, I’d got it into my head that what we had meant very little to Morag. And that it was only me who actually gave a damn. But Morag easily convinced me that that was not the case. And immediately I felt better. And lighter.

Morag is happy. She’s with someone else and she’s clearly really happy with him. She didn’t even have to say as much. It was clear. And I was happy for her. Very happy. What I wasn’t so happy about, however, was my own life. Which is why, walking down the Gallstone Road to Fithering, I began to feel overwhelmingly sad. I had God Only Knows on repeat on my iPod and I was weeping.

Then I stopped weeping, and went to the pub, where one of the gay men shook my hand and said, ‘Did you say "ex-boyfriend"?’ I said no. Then he asked me if it'd been good seeing my ex and if I'd left her feeling positive. I said yes on both counts. I told him I’d entered into it, hoping to hear exactly what I'd heard and that I was very happy for her and happier in general for having seen her. That was all good. It was the malaise of my own life that was making me tense. He continued down the positive thinking line for a while and then I thanked him for his kindness and for his spirituality and I went outside to smoke cigarettes and listen to pop songs and wait for my drug dealer to get home. He arrived about 9pm.

I told Quinn that I’d been to see my ex-girlfriend, because it was on my mind and I wanted to talk about it, but he glossed over it and continued talking about the women that come to his flat. He speaks very quickly. The word ‘yanahmin’ peppers his prose like a powerful tick, like mouse droppings under the clapped out toaster of his brain. His stories are all either about women who won’t sleep with him or women who, as soon as he sleeps with them, want to move in with him. He’s all crappy gossip and crass stereotyping. He's all joyless, demeaning, meaningless chatter. I wanted to tell him I’d been crying and feeling sorry for myself, but that I was happy because I felt I’d reached an important turning point in my life. But he was describing some woman’s arse to me in the most painfully impoetic detail, and I could tell he wasn’t interested. And when I did manage to get a word in, on any subject, he didn’t really listen, and he was off again, riding his own melt. I wanted to tell him that I felt as if something had been weighing me down and it had been removed, and that I felt a little reborn. But he was too busy describing some woman’s cleavage.

So I left.

Then, on the bus on the way home I decided that I’m going to become a pop star. No time like the present.

It’s a fresh start. A superfresh start.

So that’s what I’m doing this weekend. Working on my first album and drifting into the increasingly nebulous world of physical abuse and spiritual awakening we call rock and roll.

What about you? Anything nice?

* A silky garment worn by a flamboyant meerkat.

Tempted By the Breville

2009-10-29T01:35:00.005Z

This is the email I fear:

Dear Stan

I first came across your blog when I saw a link to your bingo post, which I loved. What I particularly enjoyed was how you didn’t so much cock a snook at the ignominious stench that is online marketing as ram an indignant thumb into its odious plastic anus, even though you could have used the money. I remember saying to a friend at the time, ‘This chap Stan Cattermole is an inspiration to us all. One thing’s for sure, you’ll never see him selling out his principles for a fistful of shekels or a bag of pelf scratchings.’ Then, a mere matter of weeks later, it happens. You sold your soul. And for what? For a fucking toastie machine. Well, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’ve let everyone down and frankly, I hope you choke to death on one of your toasties.

Goodbye.

No one wants to receive an email like that, so as I stand on the threshold of venality, I steel myself and I wonder, do I dare? Do I dare hawk a peach? Or indeed, anything at all which I have not created myself.

In the couple of weeks since all the fun of the bingo post, I’ve had a couple of other people approach me with offers of blog promotional activity. Whether they came on the back of the bingo post or not, I cannot say. However, as I tend to with all such offers, I replied asking for more details.

One lady, who seems quite nice and is therefore almost certainly in entirely the wrong line of work, so I won’t name her, offered me $60 dollars if I would include a link to one of her clients in an old post. Specifically, she wanted me to add a link to my old Everybody’s Free (To Wear A Paper Bag) post. More specifically, she wanted me to change this:

Wear good clothes. The expression ‘You can’t polish a turd’ is a vicious, pernicious lie. You most certainly can polish a turd. Indeed, it is your duty as a human turd to polish yourself daily, and a fine wardrobe is some of the best turd-polish money can buy.

…to this:

Wear good clothes – the wholesale clothing you own only looks good on the deliciously faux models on the site….

…with the words ‘wholesale clothing’ linked to some online clothes shop. The link would have to stay there for a year.

I didn’t fancy this. Mostly I didn’t fancy it because I’m quite proud of the Paper Bag post and the thought of butchering it for money seemed like the kind of thing that only a real soulless shitbag might do. Particularly for such a paltry sum.

The other one was more interesting. Basically I was offered the opportunity to receive a free gift from an online store and write an honest review of it. Now, although I disdain the kind of duplicitous garbage that bingo-boy was suggesting, I happen to love free gifts. Also, the opportunity to write an ‘honest review’ was appealing. If I didn’t like the product, I could say so, and with as much vitriol as I pleased. Also, the guy who approached me had actually seen my blog and could even string a half- decent sentence together himself. So I checked out the store.

I was allowed to choose something to the value of $70-80. Naturally, most of the stuff I really wanted cost considerably more – for example, there was a leather office chair which cost around $3,000. I really wanted that.

There was also a rug.

My room at the moment is spacious and fine. The only thing that displeases me about it – apart from the smell of stale tobacco smoke – is the carpet, which is cheap and bobbly and timeworn. So when I saw that I could pick up a delightful brightly coloured nine foot by five foot rug within the given price range, my heart soared. I wrote back to Jamie at the promotions company and said I’d love the rug. I told him it would really tie the room together. Which was true. Unfortunately Jamie had made a mistake and wasn’t able to ship my rug from the States to Englandshire. Instead he asked me to choose something from a few UK sites, which weren’t as good. Eventually, however, I found a toastie maker and I thought what the hell.

So here we are.

However, I still have my doubts. Part of me always agreed with Bill Hicks that anyone who advertises anything is bereft of all integrity, just another whore at the capitalist gang bang. But then there’s Stephen Fry – possibly the most universally respected celebrity in the history of celebrity – who apparently makes over a hundred grand a year doing ads and seemingly has no qualms whatsoever about adding his voice to even the most ghastly product. (I'm sure he gives it all to charity. He must. Mustn't he?)

Either way, it’s a weird thing. It’s a dilemma.

I, of course, am no one. I’m just a struggling blogger trying to keep my Johnson hard in a cruel and harsh world, and I happened to have been offered a toasted sandwich maker. All I have to do is link to the cookware site in question in this post and then post an honest review when my ~~bribe~~ gift arrives.

So I’m doing it. And as long as I don’t have to betray myself by being anything less than honest, I think I’ll manage to sleep at night. In fact, if anyone else wants to give me stuff for free and all they want me to do is link and opine, then I’ll do that too. If anyone wants to offer me a rug, for example. Or a $3,000 chair. Or anything really. I love freebies. Is that so wrong?

And remember, I’m not saying you should go and buy anything from anything from the cookware store in question. I really couldn’t give a monkey's. I'd be surprised if you did in fact, because it is frighteningly expensive. But the fact is, I love a nice toastie.

Anyway, that’s it. I know some of you will think nothing of it, but I’m sure some of you will shake your heads and think less of me. I guess the reason I’ve made such a meal of this post is that I kind of agree with both schools of thought. I'm between a rock and a hard place. Between the Breville and the deep blue sea.

So what do you reckon? Unscrupulous opportunistic cynical whore? Or thoroughly decent chap with a pile of debt and a yen for hot cheese and curried beans?

Please be nice.

Feedback Friday :: Nothing To See Here

2009-10-23T01:00:00.003+01:00

Right then. Here we are.

This will be sloppy. Not half-hearted, but probably at most third-brained. I’ve been working. Two full days immersed in a world of SMEs and CEOs, audits, buy-outs and chubby men smiling money smiles in shiny ties and proper trousers. It’s really quite tiring. All I want to do is go and watch the telly.

I shall resist, however.

So, news. Time over event multiplied by inherent appeal. I have none. Indeed, apart from work, which saps the soul but enriches the other bits that quite like getting out of the house once in a while and earning a few bob, I am a hollow bone. It’s all rather unenlightening really. I don’t even want to talk about it.

I think the worst thing about work is the time it takes. It’s like – if you take it seriously – it takes up most of your life! There’s almost no time at all to do anything else. This week, for example, I was going to write a scintillating, coruscating piece about that bad egg, Barbara Ellen, escaping under the radar of Jan Moir’s odium and managing to get away not only with writing wholly misjudged tosh about internet paedophiles being lazy, but also this: ‘People should not feel obliged to switch off their mobile phones in theatres.' What a silly fucker. I was also going to get over the feelings of futility that have sprung up about something I was trying to write, pick up where I left off and bring it to swift, satisfactory and profitable conclusion. I was going to get hold of a rug that would really tie the room together. I was going to track down Danny Wallace and persuade him to let me write his column in Shortlist. Because it’s crap. And then I was going to brush his hair flat for him and insist that he stop raising his right eyebrow like a particularly charmless nonce. I was going to learn to play the piano. I was going to write a song about a paedophile called Never Too Old For A Cuddle. I was going to be something. I was going to be a contender. Instead of a blithering toad, which is what I am.

What about that Nick Griffin, eh? They should get him on Have I Got News For You and crucify him.

Balls, I’ve got to go to sleep. Got to be up early. ‘Work while you have the light,’ said the philosopher. ‘You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you.’

Meh.

Have a nice weekend now. I will be drinking heavily and fixing my bike. And you? What will you be doing? Anything ring-looseningly cool?

Feedback Friday :: Up

2009-10-16T15:58:00.002+01:00

bulk :: 13st 5
cigarettes :: meh, a few, but none on Sunday
booze :: lots; some every day
exercise :: nil
interviews :: 2
jobs :: 3

I’ve been very busy this week, fending off economic meltdown. I’m writing this from the boardroom of a giant Japanese financial institution in the heart of the belly of the groin of the beast. I’ve just finished having an initial meeting with a charming little Japanese fella who wants me to help him write reports and summaries and emails about base metal trading. I know, I know. Be still my panel-beating heart. When the meeting was over I asked him if I could hang around for half an hour and use the wifi. He said I could. So here I am.

I had something similar yesterday too. Different set-up, same nonsense.

Suddenly my life has changed, in oh so many ways. I’m not altogether sure I like it, but I’m not altogether sure I don’t. I think I might be a little ambivalent about it.

Speaking of ambivalence, yesterday I found myself wandering around the financial district and I felt myself simultaneously repulsed and elated. I made some notes as I thought I could write a heroic and visceral blog post about it. But I left them at home. All I remember now is two drunks fighting over a pink blanket, then fifteen minutes later four policemen, two of them donning purple rubber gloves and searching the drunks for knives and drugs, the blanket now nowhere in sight; I remember talking to an Evening Standard distributor who said that the new free status of the Standard had ruined him – they used to get 12p per copy, now they get 2p. He said he could have survived if they’d given 5p on the copy, but now he’d have to find different work. That was sad. And it made me glad that I was lucky enough not to have to hand out shoddy journalism to scowling suits; I remember being freshly amazed by the potpourri of London’s architecture and the thrill of sauntering through it all with time to spare and music in my ears. I love the way you can dip off one street dripping with gold, bronze and marble onto another street, seconds away, stinking of cabbages and dildos. I love that.

Actually, on reflection, I’ve decided I’m glad to be getting out of the house a little more.

Gosh. I’ve just eaten two plates of biscuits.

Oh, and another thing. I’ve got a date tonight. Wish me luck.

And have a smashing weekend yourself. What you up to? Anything overwhelmingly scintillating?

Maybe There Actually IS Such A Thing As Bad Publicity After All

2009-10-14T14:18:00.001+01:00

This is most probably the last mention I will make of these bingo-touting swine, as Thomas Brown of Topspot Promotions is apparently not talking to me anymore. I sent this last email first thing on Monday morning...

Dear Mr Brown

I must say, I am very disappointed not to have received a reply to my last email. A less trusting soul might come to the conclusion that you’re welshing on our deal! I, however, am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. You’re probably just busy doing your important work.

The reason I’m writing again is actually not to remonstrate with you (fear not!) but rather to share with you some very good news. Despite the reservations your client had about my promotional piece, I published it on my blog anyway and I’m very happy to say it was featured in a terrifically popular weekly newsletter of interesting things on the internet. As a result of this, over TEN THOUSAND people have seen the piece over the last three days. That’s over TEN THOUSAND people who are now aware of 888Ladies online bingo!

Result!

So, under the circumstances, I was wondering if you might like to offer me substantially more than our previously agreed $80. I have a friend who works in online marketing – and I use the word ‘friend’ loosely, if not entirely incorrectly – and he says you should probably give me at least a couple of bags of sand for that kind of exposure. I am willing to negotiate, however. The fact is, my rent is due in just a few days, so I’d be prepared to settle for £500 (about $800) if you can make the payment before the 17th.

What do you say? Are you going to do the honourable thing?

If I haven’t heard from you by Wednesday, I shall most probably write to you again.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Cheers!

Stan

...and nothing. It was fun while it lasted, but now it appears to be over. Unless you can think of any more ways to antagonise Mr Brown, I think we're done.

Now, what about that Barbara Ellen, eh? What a nincompoop.

Selling Out? One Can But Dream.

2009-10-12T20:42:00.001+01:00

Something very special happened today. If you’ll allow me, I'd like to tell you about it.

Over the weekend, mostly because of the B3ta link, lots of people came here to read the bingo post. A few of them left comments, and one or two people threatened to pay me the $80 themselves – this being the sum of money Thomas Brown dangled in front of me like a bad carrot made of shame and dead hair and old ladies’ fillings – but then they didn’t. Naturally.

Then this afternoon, I received the following comment from a man called Rishil:

‘Where is your donate button? I want to put money in there for this awesomeness of a post.’

So, just on the off-chance that this man was serious (although I didn’t really think for a moment that he was – he had just used the word 'awesomeness' after all), I found myself 'a donate button' and I put it online. It’s off to the right near the top of the page. It looks like this…

(It only looks like that though. That isn’t it. That’s merely a photograph of it. So if you want to give me some money and you were clicking on that, you are a jackass and I’m not even sure I want your money. Oh, alright then, go on. I’ll take it. Now go and click on the proper button. It looks like this…)

Etc.

So, then, within twenty minutes of the button being up, I received an email entitled ‘Notification of donation received’. Rishil – a complete stranger who happened to enjoy something I’d written – had begifted me with £500.

Whoa.

Can you believe that?

You can? Well then, you’re just a tiny bit credulous. £500 for one measly blogpost? That would be insane. No. He did give me a tenner though. And when you haven’t got a pot to piss in, a tenner for a blog post is like a kiss on the winky from Scarlett Johansson.

I am inordinately pleased.

Imagine though, if every single one of you donated just £5 – or even a paltry £1.... No, fuck it – as long as we're making shit up, let’s stick to a £10 minimum. Imagine that. I’m imagining it now. If you all donated £10, I could phone up the Japanese banker and English accountants I’ve just accepted work from and tell them to go hang.

‘Balls to you!’ I would say. ‘My public have spoken. They want me to stay home and berate marketeers, detail my calamitous sexploits and fantasise about my magnificent winky disappearing, one dainty finger at a time, into the sweet and sultry, slightly sticky maw of Scarlett Johansson.’

No?

Oh, alright then. I know I’ve a long, long, long, long way to go before I can even see the dizzy heights of the phenomenal Dooce, but it’s a step in the right direction. A baby step, I know, but a step nonetheless. And ironically, I know I have Thomas Brown of Tosspot Promotions to thank.

So, Thomas Brown - thank you. Oh, and by the way, you owe me $80.

Now I'm off to the pub to spend that tenner.

Score!

Feedback Friday :: Wet

2009-10-09T16:41:00.000+01:00

No time for a proper feedback post this week due to proper job search and angry neighbour downstairs covered in my flatmate’s dirty bathwater and – if Ben is as grubby as I – piss. What a day. I say, what a day.

It has ended on a good note though, as something I’ve written has finally got into the B3ta newsletter. I’ve been trying to get in B3ta for years, sending my own stuff in – sometimes as me, sometimes as some wanking sockpuppet or other – but with no luck. So I’m pleased. I think I’ll celebrate by getting really drunk and making inappropriate advances to the plumber when he (or she) gets here. Alright, alright, he.

Now my internet is about to go off for the weekend – hopefully for the last time – should have my own sorted out on Monday.

In the meantime, have a splendid weekend and if you’re new here, you might want to consider a) sleeping with me b) buying my book or c) a delightfully seedy combination of the two. Oh, and leave a comment! If you want.

Anyway, what are you up to this weekend? Anything seriously fucking brilliant?

Bingo! :: One Little Duck, Round Two

2009-10-08T12:38:00.000+01:00

Just received a response from Mr Brown regarding my promotion of his clients, the 666Ladies Bingo Bastards Emporium. Here it is:

Hello Stan,

I showed this post to my clients but unfortunately they feel it is too edgy and they don’t want it to appear on the site. I hope you can understand. I’m sorry for the time you spent and hope we’ll be able to do business in the future.

Best regards,

Thomas Brown
Senior Advertising Consultant
Topspot Promotions

'Too edgy.' I like that. I might use it as a testimonial. 'Bête de Jour :: too edgy.' However, I do feel kind of bad. Mr Brown actually seems like a decent sort after all. Still, having said that, a deal is a deal and I can't stand welshers. So I replied with this:

Hi Thomas

I'm sorry to hear that, I really am. However, having toiled quite considerably on the article, I feel it is only fair that I receive financial recompense to the value of $80, as previously agreed.

How do you usually prefer to make payment? I can send you details of my Paypal or my bank account. Which would you prefer?

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Stan

So. Now we wait. I hope this doesn't end up in court, but if I don't get my $80, I swear, I'll take them for every penny they've got.

Bingo? Let's Play!

2009-10-07T16:19:00.003+01:00

So, a few days ago I was contacted by one Thomas Brown asking me if I’d be interested in placing a little text ad on my blog in exchange for wonga. Brown works for Topspot Promotions, which essentially, is a kind of perversely legitimate virus which spreads virtual cancer throughout the internet. However, as I’m on the verge of declaring myself bankrupt, I thought I might as well take my principles and general anti-capitalist, anti-marketing standpoint and shove them up my adolescent broke ass. So I wrote to Thomas, asking him what he had in mind. ‘Let's talk numbers,’ I said. ‘How much can you give me up front?’

Thomas replied, saying, ‘We are willing to pay you a one-time fee of $80 for writing a regular post (in the spirit of the rest of your blog’s posts) which will include a paragraph that will describe my client’s website and its services.’

Now, in this day and age, what with the pound lying in the gutter with its entrails hanging out and me in a really quite terrifying amount of debt, I thought, well, $80 is not to be sneezed at, especially if I could write the promotional post in the spirit of the rest of my blog. Thomas had obviously seen my blog and realised that my tone was a good fit with his client’s product. So I asked for more details.

Thomas wrote back, explaining that his client was an online bingo company called 888ladies.com. Hmmm, I thought. Sounds right up my alley. Thomas continued…

‘The post of course should be about online bingo and should include, as mentioned, information about my client’s website an services. You can write the post as you want as long as it will be positive. I don’t want to limit you but of course that the longer the post will be it will be better.

Once the post will be ready you can send it to me and I’ll show you where I want to place the links (from which words).

I look forward to hearing your thoughts.’

So, even though I had a million other things to do – get a job, write a bestseller, get Paul McKenna to hypnotise me to stop smoking, get my ears syringed, get my piles waxed, honestly, the list really is endless – I decided to spend some time on my positive promotional bingo post. It took me bloody ages too, but I think in the end I got the tone right. This is what I sent...

Hi Thomas

I have decided to take you up on your generous offer and so include below my first post for your perusal. I hope it’s not too irreverent…

…

Bingo!

If you’re anything like me, you’ll be wondering what went wrong with your life. Here you are, rapidly approaching middle-age and what have you got to show for it? Stretchmarks, fat ears, unwaxed piles and a wasted life spent predominantly alone wanking into an old sock and wondering why no-one’s buying your really quite remarkable book.

But fear not, for help is at hand in the form of a really quite excellent online bingo site called 888ladies.com.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Hello. What’s all this? Has Stan lost his blinking benkers? What’s all this about online bingo? Everyone knows it’s a mug’s game – essentially Stupid Tax for people who find lottery tickets just a little bit too challenging. Surely Stan – good old sensible cynical savvy old Stan – isn’t seriously suggesting I go to this swindler’s website and get shafted by the dregs of humanity?’

Well, hold on a minute – let’s not go jumping to conclusions. Let’s give these people a fair crack of the whip. Just because they prey on feeble-minded imbeciles, lonely retards and desperate addicts doesn’t mean they’re bad people.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Hold on a minute, isn’t 888Ladies.com owned by Cassava Enterprises, the Gibraltar-based company who also own another 69 (at last count) pretty much identical companies? The same company that were condemned by online casino watchdogs and had their certification revoked for refusing to stem the tide of their nefarious marketing activities – activities which include site scraping (essentially stealing content from other people’s websites so as to flood search engines with bogus sites which then redirect to gambling cess-pits) and blog spamming – essentially unleashing an avalanche of vapid, infuriating sewerage which basically transforms the greatest communicative and educational tool in the history of humankind into a heap of exploitative, soulless excrement?’

Um…

You’re thinking, ‘Isn’t Cassava Enterprises also a subsidiary of 888 Holdings plc which a) was floated in 2005 for an estimated £700m b) is one of the largest employers in Gibraltar (a location chosen solely for its piddling 1% gaming tax) c) pays its chief executive, Gigi Levy, an $841,000 salary, a figure dwarfed only by an annual bonus in excess of $1m, and yet d) is repeatedly blacklisted by watchdogs and slammed by users for ‘confiscating players' money for bogus reasons’, using malware to infect computers and generally stealing money from punters and refusing to pay them their legitimate winnings? And isn’t this also the same company who just a couple of months ago refused point blank to discuss the complaints of their users with watchdog sites or any third party dispute mediators?’

Well, yes, that may or may not be true. The evidence certainly seems to be stacked against them, I’ll give you that. However, odious reputation based on illegal and immoral activities to one side, it’s just a bit of bingo, for God’s sake. You know – bingo! Two fat ladies. Legs eleven. House! Where’s the harm in that? Plus, if you all click on the right links, I stand to make $80!

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Eighty dollars? Eighty fucking dollars? Are you really prepared to sell yourself out and rub your loyal readers’ noses in the faeces of online gambling for eighty measly shitting dollars? You probably won’t even get paid, you feckless sap.’

Now come on. I don’t mind you having a go at me, but don’t cast aspersions on the good character of Thomas Brown. He seems like a decent chap. Alright, so he can barely write a coherent sentence. So he has no conscience, no decency, no dignity, no humanity and no soul – but he’s just doing a job of work like anyone else.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Oh, Stan. You blind, spineless dolt. Don’t you see that all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men (and women) to do nothing? And furthermore that to play into their hands and promote this effluent, what you’re doing is actually no better than carrying out the orders of humanity’s greatest tyrants? Seriously, you’re no different to some jack-booted Nazi turning on the gas at Auschwitz. Don’t you see that? And this Thomas Brown shyster is essentially – and this is no exaggeration – he’s essentially the antichrist.’

Whoa, whoa, whoa there! That’s quite enough of that. You may make a valid point or two, but what you’re clearly forgetting is that with 888ladies.com, you can play bingo every hour all day long! Plus, join today and you get a £20 welcome bonus on your first £10!

Come on. You know it makes sense.

Let’s play!

…

So there you go. A little on the ‘edgy’ side perhaps, but certainly in the spirit of the blog, which I can only assume you had read carefully before offering me this opportunity.

I hope it’s OK, because frankly, I need the money.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Cheers!

Stan

I sent that yesterday and so far, I'm very disappointed to say, there has been no response.

Oh, Thomas. Not only have you let me down, but, more importantly, you're a cunt.

House!

Feedback Friday :: Foibles

2009-10-02T14:40:00.000+01:00

bulk :: 13st 10 (eek!)
exercise :: very, very little
sexual congress :: nada
onanism :: fair bit
writing :: lots
cartography :: zilch
floccinaucinihilipilification :: some, but probably mostly useless
optimism (moneywise) :: moderate
optimism (fleshwise) :: moderate
marks out of ten for week :: 7

Right, I’ve got very little time before my internet is switched off for the weekend, and actually very little to say. What the hell is all this one post a week malarkey all about anyway? Well, it’s because I’m trying to write something. A book. Takes bloody ages.

So what can I tell you? Well, Ben and I got substantially lubricated on Wednesday night. Not in a sexual way, you understand. Not with love-lube and man-sweat and dirty great gobs of gay spit. No. But with red wine. Not red wine rubbed into our chest hair and thighs, then licked off of our taut nipples and springy, carrot sticks, you understand. No. Just in our mouths. And swallowed. Like two perfectly non-sexual, house-sharing, red wine-drinking men.

Then we had sex.

No, just kidding.

Ben told me some amusing things about himself though, which I shall share with you in the name of light-hearted betrayal. They go like this:

1) When he was fifteen, he was caught by a friend’s mum in the act of kissing a mannequin. (His friend’s father meanwhile, may or may not have been one of the architects of the modern landmine. Life, eh?)

2) Whenever Ben is in a pub or restaurant eating or drinking with other people, he has this neurotic inability to put anything in his mouth at the same time as anyone else. So, if he notices, for example, that I pick up my glass of red wine at exactly the same time as him, he will hold his for a moment without drinking. Once he’s seen that I have drunk from my glass, he will be able to follow suit, but not until. I asked him, ‘What happens if we drink at the same time?’ He just shook his head gravely and said, ‘It’s not good.’ Bloody weirdo.

3) Furthermore, he is unable to urinate onto another man’s urine. So if, for example, I refuse to flush the chain because it seems unnecessary after an alcohol-weakened half-piss and because I want to save the planet, Ben will always flush before passing his own pee-pee.

These things strike me as very odd. Except for perhaps the mannequin-kissing. I would certainly have done that if there’d been a mannequin knocking about in my youth. Instead I had to practise on the cat.

Do you have any super-strange completely irrational habits which you'd like to share with me? Aw, go on, I promise I won't tell anyone.

Right. I'd best get on.

Oh, and if you've never read James Joyce's saucy letters to his saucy brownarsed fuckbird Nora Barnacle, then you really ought. They're funny.

Have a super weekend.

Feedback Friday :: Nothing

2009-09-25T14:49:00.003+01:00

bulk :: 13st 8
exercise :: none
even remotely sexual things :: none
back pain :: niggling, proscriptive
marks out of ten for the week :: 5

I’ve got nothing.

All week I’ve been writing this thing I’ve been writing. Trying to. And succeeding for the most part. Monday was a washout though. In the meantime I’ve bitten the bullet and sent out a couple of feelers for proper jobs. Nothing snapping my hand off as yet, but it’s the principle of the thing that’s a bit saddening. I don’t want to do that rubbish if I can help it. I know, I know. Boo hoo.

Seriously though, I’ve got nothing. I’m listening to Eartha Kitt (Ben loves Eartha), I’m using eBay for the first time to try and get myself a chair (back still fucked – next week professional help), my room stinks of abramelin (Crowley’s own concoction apparently, which contains menstrual blood – thanks, Frank), I’m trying to write this thing I’m trying to write and I’m gearing myself up for another weekend without the internet.

That’s it. Oh, and I found this in Ben’s room. Not that I was prying. Found it under his mattress. I can’t help feeling it’s slightly more disturbing than finding weird porn.

I didn't really find it under his mattress by the way - it was in between a couple of books. When I quizzed him about it, Ben said he used to want to be a knitting pattern model, like this guy.

Like that explains anything.

People eh? So, I'm off out in a moment to run some errands and then get uproariously drunk.

And you? What you up to this weekend? Anything OUTRAGEOUS? Tell me at once.

Feedback Friday :: Conversation Piece

2009-09-18T15:32:00.001+01:00

bulk :: 13st 7
exercise :: none
back pain :: crippling
chair purchase attempts :: 4
chair companies called :: 2
chair purchases :: 0
% of chimps working at chair companies in question :: 100
no. of passionate kisses :: 0
no. of desultory kisses :: 0
decent days of writing done :: 3
marks out of ten for the week :: 5

So. These are the photographs I wanted to show you last week, when I posted that vicious little rant that some of you found a tad off-putting. Interestingly, Ben mentioned something the other night about the slightly unpleasant tone I tend to exhibit. I tried to resist it for a while - because ideally I’d like to have the warmth and amiability and purity of intent that seems to come so naturally to, say, Bill Bryson - but Ben was absolutely right. I am rather negative, and bitter, and certainly cynical, and generally disrespectful, and judgemental. I’m quite the misanthrope really. But I still love it. You know. Everything. I still love everything.

Anyway, here’s something positive for us all to rejoice in, hold hands and dance around. To recap briefly, I discovered this public art in South Shields just a few days before leaving the North East, after missing it regularly for three or four months. It really moved me. It made me feel warm and amiable and pure. And I loved the fact that they hadn’t been vandalised. You can bet your arse they would have been in London. Eh? Bloody Londoners.

Enjoy.

Good, huh?

I’m currently leeching internet from a company downstairs (ssshhhh), and they’re about to turn it off till Monday morning, so please ensure that when I check back in then, I have a massive ragbag of comments waiting for me. Come on, it’s easy. Join the conversation! What did you think of the sculptures? Do you like Bill Bryson? Isn’t he nice? Don’t you think TS Eliot looks like Aleister Crowley? Makes you think. What are you up to this weekend? I’m not up to much myself. Writing. I’m trying to write something. Ben and Imogen are both away doing musical things. Imogen’s in the States for a couple of weeks and Ben’s spending the weekend in Dublin. Bloody musicians eh? Life of Riley. Life of O’Riley in Ben’s case. And you? What are you doing? What are you wearing? Do you think I’m needy? Oh, just speak to me, for God’s sake, you motherfuckers!

Oops.

Sorry.

London Philharmonic :: A Fresh Start

2009-09-16T00:02:00.003+01:00

Ben’s divorce came through last Saturday. There was a party at our house to celebrate. I live with Ben. And we both live with Imogen.

Both Ben and Imogen are musicians.

Imogen plays the oboe. No. The oboe she plays is not pink.

Ben plays the cello. Yes. Ben's cello is pink. Figuratively. Hence Ben’s divorce.

It’s a long story, and unfortunately not mine for the telling. It’s off limits. And rightly so. Because it has nothing to do with me. Sometimes though, even if something does have something to do with me, that doesn’t give me the right - certainly not if there are other people involved - to take this thing out and wash it, or dye it, in public, then leave it to slop around in the faceless, phlegmmy sea of eyes and ears that is the internet for all eternity. I know. I'm an idiot. I’ve said it many, many times before, but it bears repeating now.

Recently I fucked up a good thing by saying too much on this blog. I knew this person wasn’t comfortable with the whole Truman Show-lite, self-fellatio thing, but I thought I could make it work. I was wrong. I fucked up. And I gave myself a fucking egohernia in the process. The egohernia erupted spontaneously when this woman compared me to Liz Jones and I could see quite clearly that she had a point.

Well, I wish I could say I’ll never make the same mistake again, because it makes me proper sad, but in one way or another, I'm thinking I probably will. So I won’t say anything more. But I am sorry.

But then... I’ve just moved into a new house and some very interesting new people are suddenly knocking about the place and I want to talk about them. So what I did – I had a brainwave, and I thought, I’ll feel them out first. So that’s what I did. I felt them out.

Ben said that as long as I don’t use his real name, or the name of the real musical instrument he plays, or the fact that he has an alcohol problem, then we’ll be alright.

Imogen said I could only talk about her in rhyming couplets, but even then I wasn’t allowed to use her real name, her real instrument or say anything to bring shame on her or her family. Then I made her see that rhyming couplets were a very bad idea. And we talked about something else.

So. I feel like a student. Except I’m also the oldest person in the house, which is a little odd and makes me feel like an underachiever. Yes, a student. Imogen and Ben, and as far as I can tell, most of their friends, studied together. Or else they met on the circuit, or on big jobs. Now they gad about all over the world in vibrant little shifting clusters, playing whatever needs playing and having a whale of a time. (Tour Wives indeed.) Concerts. Film soundtracks. Weddings. Adverts. TV Shows. Rich People’s Parties. Royal Variety Performances. Band tours. You name it. Wherever there is need of string, reed or piston valve, these people fly off, play their pieces, drink very heavily and commit heinous immoral acts.

Here are some of them here:

They’re all top rank humans though, the ones that I’ve met so far at least, and what’s really funny is, although you’ll often find them denying it, they’re all terribly posh. I don’t say that in a disparaging way by the way. Posh in my books is Excellent. I love posh people. And mark my words, if I ever have offspring of my own, as opposed to someone else's, they’ll be posh offspring. Palpably posh. I’ll be shoe-horning them out of the womb with a silver spoon the size of a spade and they’ll be bashing notes before the cord is cut. And if they ever know the uniquely dispiriting sight of a Goblin Meat and Gravy Pudding spilling its unseemly guts across a plate of cold chips, I’ll work my balls off to ensure it’s merely in the name of play or posh gloating.

Speaking of play, two of Ben’s best friends are happy to label themselves ‘failed musicians’. Will is also happy to label himself ‘designer florist’. And Kingsley is perfectly content with ‘music teacher’ at a London comp. I met them both at Ben’s Divorce and Coming Out party. They’re both single. One very recently. Ben too now of course. Mum’s the word. And as for me, I’m up around the nine-month mark. It’s getting just like the old days. When I told them this, they were sympathetic, and drunken plans were immediately hatched to Do Something About It. In the meantime, apparently I have to watch some Sex and the City and figure out which one of us is Miranda.

In other news, I have recently mistreated my spine and now my spine is taking revenge. I currently have a cheap wooden chair tilted forward on two bricks and I’m pumped full of Nurofen. I think I’m going to watch a little more Larry Sanders now, then lie flat on the floor and listen to some Brahms. (Imogen is teaching me about classical music. I still prefer Michael Nyman at the moment, but wouldn't you simply die without Mahler?)

If anyone has any chair advice, by the way, I would be very grateful. My back is proper crippling me at the moment, worse than The Da Vinci Code, which I finished today. (Eminently readable. Hilarious. Inconceivable!) Balls. There must be a surfeit of decent office chairs in London at the moment, what with all the lay-offs and all. I might do some sniffing about.

Happy 9/15!

Feedback Friday :: Naked Prejudice

2009-09-11T15:46:00.002+01:00

bulk :: 13st 5
exploratory rides :: 2
other exercise :: zero
tobacco intake :: elevated
insolvency threat level :: elevated
pages of The Da Vinci Code remaining :: 276
new friends made :: 7
new friends lost :: 1

Before I get back into the thrills, spills and humiliations of life in London, I thought I’d like to properly say goodbye to the North East.

On the whole, as I'm sure made clear, I didn’t enjoy my time up there. Although my sample jar – sociologically speaking – was clearly only partially full, I found it a suffocatingly small-minded place. I mean, actually like no other place I’ve ever been – quite striking in its negative incapability, with vast tides of the population seeming to exist in a state of almost intentional closed-mindedness, in a way that you just don’t see down here, not to that extent. In London, I think, people exist. Even if it’s often a rather confused, haphazard or accidental existence, forced by numbers. Up there they just drift through their soulless concrete cake-boxes like colossal graceless whales sucking up Gregg’s pasties and Bacardi Breezers, trading nods which sit firmly on the fence between suspicion and simple-minded friendliness; the men with their stone cold, lifeless eyes, their giant elastic guts thumping through their football strips like they’re perpetually starting a fight, jutting thighward like enormous chin-pillows of flab; the women with their tiny pinched mouths and surly ashtray children, Brian tattooed fecklessly to each and every neck; and everywhere, harsh empty faces slipping apathetically down hollow skulls, like dirty wet rags in a raw, unforgiving wind. You know?

But aside from all that, I wanted to say something positive about the area. To end on an upstroke.

The first thing I’ll really miss about the North East is the glorious coastline, which is raw and feisty and at points breathtakingly beautiful.

Actually, that’s it.

But something happened in the last week – on my penultimate ride to South Shields, I found something I’d hitherto missed, something which made me return with my camera for the last ride, two days before I came back to London.

It was this...

Oh.

I just spent over an hour preparing the photographs I took. Around twenty of them, there are. And there isn't enough internet connection here to upload them. Not at the moment. Ah, well. All the more for next week.

Fresh start next week, you know.

Aaah, London.

In the meantime, have an exciting weekend, won't you, and happy 9/11!

Happy Birthday Aiko!

2009-09-10T00:44:00.000+01:00

Another year, another special birthday post for Aiko. Last year's special birthday post was for no other reason than that Aiko had been wholly lovely in comments and I knew she wasn't very well and I hoped I could make her feel better. This year's is because a) she's continued to be wholly lovely in comments, and b) it's now become TRADITION.

So, Aiko, have a fantastic birthday and a wonderful time with your friend. I wasn't sure what picture to commemorate the occasion with this year, so I decided on your very own sunflower...

And your very own bath Sponge. Aww...

Anybody else who happens to be reading, please feel free to join with me in wishing Aiko the most joyous of days, because a little kindness goes a long way.

Sarah Ogden's Undergarments :: A Modern Love Story

2009-09-07T15:20:00.001+01:00

I was just cleaning out my phone camera when I came across this charming graffito I found somewhere in the North a couple of months ago.

I find it distinctly haunting in its suggestiveness. I can’t help trying to imagine who might have scrawled it there so carelessly, near the bottom of a small flight of stone steps, next to a fairly rank row of bus stops leading out of the city centre. Of course, there are endless possibilities, but I think the most obvious interpretation is as follows…

The graffitist is a former lover of Sarah Ogden, recently spurned. Since the spurning, Sarah Ogden has entered into a new relationship with another man. In my head I have a spectacularly telling two-set Venn diagram representing men who buy underwear for their lovers, and men who carelessly scrawl lovelorn and slightly bitter graffiti in public places, and everyone in the overlap is aged 19 or 20, and works in either Argos, Primark or Subway. Sarah herself – I suspect – works in H&M, and has a slight lisp, like Liz Jones, who is execrable.

The graffitist was severely intoxicated when he wrote the question – probably on a heady cocktail of cider and temazepam – hence the false starts, poor punctuation, shocking calligraphy and general downward trajectory of his work. He was probably weeping at the time too.

Of course, I could be way off. The questioner could in fact be a left-handed lady midget, racked with dementia.

If you have any thoughts about Sarah Ogden, her underwear, or any of the other participants in this torrid love triangle, please get drunk and type them carelessly into the comments box below.

I thank you.

Dan Brown :: A Clarification

2009-09-02T14:04:00.002+01:00

In my last blog post I gave an account of a recent conversation I had with a shop assistant in a branch of WH Smith. The post gave rise to some stinging controversy in the comments, which on reflection, I thought I’d better address. So, in the name of full disclosure, I feel I should point out at this stage that the account of the conversation I provided last week was not a particularly accurate one. A more accurate version follows here:

Me :: [Handing over a card with the meerkat on it which I was buying for my grandmother, who likes meerkats] Just that please.

Lady :: Are you interested in half price Dan Brown today?

Me :: I’m sorry?

Lady :: You can order Dan Brown’s latest book for half price.

Me: Wow. No, I’m alright actually. And do you have to ask everybody that?

Lady: Aye. Sometime it’s Dan Brown, sometimes it’s half-price chocolates.

Me: Ha! Well, good day to you, Ma’am.

Lady: Good day to you, sir. Do come again!

Sorry if I misled anyone with my slightly doctored version below. It was never my intention to hoodwink or disconcert. I guess I was trying to be funny or something. Please accept my sincere apologies.

In other news, I am in my super spacious new room in London and today - because I think it will do me good - I started reading The Da Vinci Code. At the moment I'm only two chapters in, but I must say, it really is eminently readable.

Oh Oh Oh I Got the Dan Brown Blues

2009-08-27T11:28:00.002+01:00

So this morning I had the following conversation with a young lady who works in WH Smith.

Me :: [Handing over a card with the meerkat on it which I was buying for my grandmother, who likes meerkats] Just that please.

Lady :: Are you interested in half price Dan Brown today?

Me :: I’m sorry?

Lady :: You can order Dan Brown’s latest book for half price.

Me :: Um, no, thanks. Do I look like a simpleton?

Lady :: Eh?

Me :: No, I was just wondering – do I look like a simpleton? You know, an imbecile.

Lady :: [Not sure] Erm… it’s half price. It’s a promotion.

Me :: The reason I ask, incidentally, is not because I’d necessarily have to be a simpleton to read a Dan Brown book, although…. [waiting in vain for some recognition of a shared sense of intellectual snobbery before giving up and continuing] No, it’s just that, if I did want to buy Dan Brown’s latest book, I’d probably already be aware of the fact. Without being prompted. Don’t you think?

Lady :: We ask everybody.

Me :: Well, I wish you wouldn’t.

Lady :: But we ask everybody.

Me :: Yeah, I’ve gathered that. You ask everybody. Great. It’s just that it doesn’t seem fair to me, you know? I mean, there’s my book, for example, a gorgeous, funny, moving little memoir that no one’s ever heard of, struggling for breath, slowly drowning in a sea of suffocating, interminable dross, and there’s Dan Brown’s latest congregation of moronisms, which has, if memory serves me well, an initial print run of 6.5 million copies – 6.5 million copies which will fly off the shelves like hot cakes in cold climate – and despite this already assured best seller status, WH Smith are making every effort to ram it down the throats of customers who don’t even want it. Two weeks before it comes out and it’s already the literary equivalent of McDonald’s fries. You know? ‘Do you want fries with that?’ Erm, no, thanks. If I’d wanted waxy strips of tasteless toxic spew with my order, I’m pretty sure I would’ve asked for them. Similarly, if I wanted to spend ten pounds on nearly 500 pages of poorly-constructed toilet paper, you would probably have known about it by now. Do you know what I’m trying to say?

Unfortunately, she was serving someone else by then.

Oh, Dan Brown.

How I hate you.