Guilt-Laden Non-Post

Not a whole lot has happened over the last week. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to post.

In the previous 190 hours, I have cycled to work every day, swam at least once a week (slightly poor), and have yet to visit the gym because I am spending my evenings writing - after, that is, I've snapped myself from the sweet caress of Spider fucking Solitaire.

In other woefully uneventful news...

a) I have re-bought my camera seeing as my last one got nicked.
b) I am eating a lot of vegetables and fruit, and I miss crisps and chocolate and other shit.
c) I am still smoking. I'm with Z and Clarissa. I can't be expecting to right all my wrongs in one sitting.
d) I am off to Sweden in 3 weeks for yet another wedding. I have never been to Scandinavia before, and I am looking forward to having lots of sex with blondes getting sneered at by lots of blondes.
e) The Grand Tour - my late summer holiday - is 50% there ~ We now have a flight to Warsaw booked, home of my ancestors, the Ebolavitches. I have yet to book a return from somewhere Hungarian, and quite frankly, I'd rather not bother.
f) Oh, and yesterday, I had sex.










Ok, I didn't.

Preparation

I am sat typing this in my boxer shorts, my thirty-four year old gut sticking out like a fat balcony protruding over a valley of tree-trunk thighs crushing a pair of underused testicles below.

I am planning a jaunt through Eastern Europe with Nothing Man in September - Poland, the Czech Republic, Austria, Slovakia, and Hungary - and we have vowed to get into shape in the months to come.

We are also vowing to save money, and I am adding not smoking, exercising like a banshee, and trying to finish writing the second draft of my (Ha!) 'book'.

Instead, I find myself getting back from work and playing a quick game of Spider Solitaire which ends up lasting til about midnight. I checked my stats just now. It says I've racked up 999 losses. Not only is that a shocking indictment that I have played that many games in just a couple of months, but none of them were actual wins.

I have been cycling to work every day. As a consequence, I am sat here with a thick layer of Ibuprofen gel coated over my broken knees. My diet consists of fish, grilled chicken, vegetables and other suicide-inducing meals. I am bored shitless and pining for garbage.

An hour ago, I snapped and bought a pack of cigarettes, if only to remind my self-destructive rebellious side that I am still able to Stick It To The Man.

Regrettably, that Man is me.

That first cigarette gave me such a headrush that I reeled unsteadily on my feet, just as a large gathering of attractive young Asian women walked past. Now they all think I'm a drunk, and I haven't touched a drop in three days. So there's another notch on my deadpost.

And now Germany's got through to the final of Euro 2008 in what can only be described as a nail-biting scrape to victory.

At least they didn't have that luck 60 years ago.

Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Talk To People

Part One ~
I spent last night in a pleasant riverside pub for the birthday of my now married Muslim lady friend. It was all rather enjoyable apart from the journey there, a rush hour hell spent stood on the tube being crushed by one hundred other commuters. In my hand was the plastic battleaxe I'd bought her, which kept blasting out loud, annoying axe-clashing sounds every 12 seconds, making people look over and fidget while I grimaced and went red.

When I arrived at the pub sweating and keen to throw the axe into the fucking Thames, I walked over to a gaggle of women and got introduced to a friend of the birthday girl called Kathy, who was very cute and bubbly and extremely familiar looking. I asked if I'd met her before.
No.
Really? Wasn't it years ago, perhaps? At another function? Maybe work? Had I ever worked with her?
The birthday girl interrupted. 'Does she look like Amira?' she asked, mentioning the trigger word. Amira had been the stunning French girl I once dated who utterly destroyed me. We had gone out for a few months. She overawed me with her beauty. I wondered how I'd managed to win the Sex Lottery. And then she dumped me with a fair degree of spurning, turning into the Queen of the Harpies in the process. Kathy thankfully wasn't Amira.
'God no,' I answered my friend while the girls listened, 'Amira was gorgeous.'

There was absolutely no apology on earth that could undo that sentence. All the women looked horrified. Kathy looked like she wanted to disembowel me.
'Go on, fuck off,' said the birthday girl.

Part Two ~
Stag VI, last week. I hadn't mentioned it before, for it was The Most Civilised Stag on Earth. It was spent in the Stag's garden, a bunch of men (and someone's girlfriend) eating salad and drinking lagers (them) or Snakebite and Black (me). We were going to head off to a restaurant, but that got substituted for staying put. Someone suggested we get rowdy and hire a stripper (me), but that got dismissed for going in to watch a video (everyone else).

The stag was held in the far side of the East End, a 27-stop tube journey to get to, followed by a half-hour walk through one of our capital's more ethnically diverse areas. During the walk in, I'd had to navigate my way through a group of Sikhs who had just left their temple and were waiting for transport home.
'Excuse me,' I said as I approached an old bearded man in a turban. He moved out of the way with a 'Sorry', to which I replied loudly and confidently 'Tuttee goo'.

A week earlier, I had sent a text to my Sikh mate Sukhbinder. One of my local newsagents is Sikh, and I often greet him with a white liberal Sas Re Akal. It occurred to me that I have never known what 'Thank you' is in Punjabi, to which Suki texted back 'Tuttee goo.'

Suki came round to see me and Large Northern Flatmate last night. Almost immediately, he asked if I'd Tuttee goo'd anyone.

'Why yes, as a matter of fact,' I announced proudly. 'I said it to an old man and his family as they were stood outside their gurdwara.'
Suki roared with laughter, a little too hard for my liking. My smile dropped. I had made the mistake of assuming that Suki was a decent human being.

'Right. It obviously wasn't 'Thank you,' then. What did you have me say?'

'Small piece of shit,' he replied, then laughed for about another half an hour.

Brokeback Sleeping

Something's not right; I keep waking up in considerable pain. It appears that one of the most pleasurable activities in life - having a good old-fashioned sleep - is now permanently ruined by the fact that my back feels all twisty. After a few hours kip, I'll wake up at 2am unable to move to a more comfortable position. I moan a bit, arrange the pillows into a small pyramid and lie on that, then wake up again an hour later to rearrange stuff once more. Needless to say, I never feel quite good enough to cycle to work.

It's because of said problem I took myself to A&E on Thursday night. I used the magic words 'Chest Pain' to speed things up - after all, my chest was hurting too - and was raced through (for four hours) having my blood and urine tested, being wired to an ECG machine (I have a strangely slow pulse rate somehow), being X-rayed, and being treated by rather attractive and completely indifferent nurses who I flirted with while they did their utmost to seem repulsed.

The doctor who looked a bit like a pocket Hugh Grant and asked me awkward personal questions (what does cocaine have to do with a bad back?) pronounced me 'fine' and walked out seeming mildly stressed.

Nonetheless, I am still waking up feeling like the bastard son of Stephen Hawking and Christopher Reeve and I've got a terrible fucking notion that I'm gonna be stuck like this for life.

All this because of a fan? How is that even possible??? I spent last night on a Thames boat with a friendly bloke called Colin, bitching about our thirty-something ailments. I have never felt such a bond with a complete stranger before.

Oh, and my sixth and final stag is happening right now in East London. It would appear that I've overslept a little bit.

Don't Lie Back In Anger

If there's one thing that amuses me about life, it's just as you think you've gained a lot of wisdom and pretty much done everything, something comes along that makes you think 'I didn't realise that could happen,' and 'Shit.'

Dammit 1
When I went to bed on Monday night it was a little muggy, not really necessary to keep a fan on overnight. Nonetheless I had been using it throughout the evening and thought it might be nice to leave it on to keep the room cool, not rotating but fixed, a cool breeze playing over my bed from a distance.

So I passed out. When I woke up naked, most of the duvet on the far side of the bed, I was fucking paralysed. Who'd have thought that 7 hours of constant cold air blasted at your back while you lie there unconscious would cripple you?

According to my boss, five people in Korea once died by sleeping with a fan on them. I'm not sure how he knows that.

Two days on and my back's still fucked. It hurts to lie down. I'm even having to sleep like the Elephant Man, besides looking like him. I think I might have to go see a doctor.

Dammit 2
After receiving my first email from Lovely Young Lady and writing back, I'd still heard nothing in nearly two weeks. Now I couldn't give up; after all, I'd met her, got on phenomenally well, tracked down her email and received a nice lenghty reply just a couple of hours later. Surely I'm not so inept that my follow-up email would put her off for life?

Yes.

Twelve days pass. I consider that maybe she didn't like what she read and decided never to reply. I also consider that maybe she's been out of town for a fortnight, or virulently busy, or by some technological quirk never received my second email. So I wrote a third time, no mention of her non-reply, trying to keep it funny, nice and cool.

She hasn't replied again. I think it's safe to surmise that she doesn't want to speak, see, or have anything to do with me forevermore. Lovely young lady, my arse.

Great. Now my back has gone into spasm.

You're Not The Only One

Do buy this book (that I can't get an image for).

It's in aid of Warchild and has been edited tirelessly by a pregnant Peach, with contributions from 106 bloggers including me and my fucking bitter personality. (I chose not to write anything specific and hideously personal - that's already on this blog anyway.)

Just click this link and it's yours, all YOURS....

Wisdom Tooth Hell: The Return

Last year, I had to have an emergency wisdom tooth extraction.

It was rather brutal.

Today, under the advice of various professionals, I've had a second tooth removed before it too became an emergency.

Amusingly, there is nothing to report as I was knocked out for the operation.

Having previously experienced the removal of a tooth under macho local anaesthetic, I was more than happy to be unconscious this time round. I took Wednesday off work, eating nothing after 9pm Tuesday night. This morning I woke up, made a coffee, threw it down the sink after the first sip when I remembered I was supposed to be Nil-by-Mouth, and left for the hospital.

When I got there (the impatient's dream; I left late, the bus came instantly, I got to hospital bang on 8am and was seen instantly), I was forced to admit that I'd earlier sipped a coffee which caused a flurry of concern among the anaesthetists. Apparently, milk and general anaesthetics don't mix. The word dangerous was used.

As a result, they dropped me to the bottom of the queue for four fucking hours, all the other surly looking men in status-levelling NHS gowns being rushed in ahead of me. By midday, my patience had worn out and I told nurses that I was going home. My mouth felt fine and I saw no reason - particularly when the recently operated on came back into our ward disorientated and numb with pain - to continue to wait only to wind up in their predicament.

But there was only 20 minutes left. I was wheeled into Anaesthetics, grimacing as my left hand was attached to a drip.
'You're a big bloke; you should be able to take this,' the technician chided.
I was actually quite cheerful at this point. After all, I was finally being seen to and, to all intents and purposes, I wasn't actually going to experience anything.

I felt the general go in. It was as if my left arm was fragile and made of glass as a leaden black fog seemed to pump its way in and travel up towards my elbow.

I hate to say 'and the next thing I remember...', but I was chatting away to the anaesthetists waiting to feel drowsy or for my speech to slur but instead I blinked. And in that blink, I had gone from talking to them to being on my side thinking 'Shit, they still haven't operated on me.'

Except they had. It was all over. I was violently tired. Nurses kept waking me up to drink water as my neck was sore. A tube had apparently been thrust down my throat and I was vaguely aware of a pain where my tooth had been. I asked for painkillers and the nurse did something to the drip. Then I fell asleep, then woke up, then fell asleep again.

In a neighbouring ward, an anonymous man screamed out repeatedly. The other guys in my ward looked shell-shocked and seemed very sorry for themselves.
'Men are pussies,' I mused as I sat there with the listless expression of Paris Hilton stuck for conversation.
I felt very sorry for myself.

Large Northern Flatmate came to walk me home as the hospital doesn't allow anyone under general to leave unescorted.

I got to my bed at 3pm 'for a nap', and slept til 11. It was the best sleep I've ever had.

And in a few days, I'll be back in that blissfully ignorant state of No Actual Pain Anywhere, and taking my health for granted.

Stag V: Newquay

Carnage. Utter carnage.

My healthy, non-smoking, gym, swim and cycle lifestyle (which lasted 2 weeks) got exchanged for three days of cigarettes, booze, drugs, zero exercise, a series of unfortunate incidents and ABSOLUTELY NO SEX.

We were bound for Newquay, a Westcountry town that, for the uninitiated, tries to make amends for all those Spanish and Greek places we've blighted with hordes of blind-drunk Brits vomiting freely down their ancient cobbled streets. And we've succeeded. Newquay is the Stag and Hen Capital of Britain, a once-pleasant land of pasties and pensioners, now boosted by enormous cash injections from drunks in fancy dress.

Not having to go to work on Friday was beautiful, tempered only by the fact that I had to wake up an hour earlier so I could get to Balham where Garry picked me up, followed by Luke and Hippy Dave.

We rolled into Cornwall some six hours later and claimed our rooms. Mine was in a chalet with some guys who had yet to turn up. Fortunately, we were early enough not to be stuck in the claustrophobic, spider-laden barn. That evening, we'd all made merry in a local pub, then had a meal nearby. The evening was spent sat on the beach at St Mawgan, where we made a huge fire.

It was slightly odd to be on a stag party on an admittedly beautiful beach at sundown, the nearest woman about three miles away as we drank cans of Carling while the stag played guitar. Part of me, about 89%, wanted to be surrounded by girls and doing stag-like things, but this became oddly moving and memorable; standing on the beach miles from the group as the sun set and the tide rolled in; not being lumbered behind a desk and in front of a monitor; feeling completely relaxed for the first time in months.

In fact I was so relaxed, I was able to calm down relatively quickly when I accidentally plunged my left leg into a waterhole and drenched my sock and shoe. I was so chilled that I accepted my fate with good grace and squelched back, becoming so laid back and at peace that it took me a full THREE MINUTES to curse god and everyone on Earth when a few steps later, I deposited my remaining dry leg into another hidden pool of water.

Back at the fire, I attempted to dry my trainers and socks nearby while I pranced barefoot in the sand like a free spirit; a fat, barefoot free spirit who did drugs off flattened beer cans and trod on a rusty nail. To take my mind off the pain, I tended the fire. I was the only one who did out of about 15 men who were gazing into the flames like entranced arsonists. I grabbed hold of a door we were burning to move it into a better position. In doing so, it took at least six seconds for my brain to register that the fingertips of my left hand were being burned on the scolding wood. As the deeper nerve endings of my fingertips felt the tell tale signs of cooking, I screamed out and stuck my hand into the sand which seemed to cool it. I also had to hold cans all night, as just a few seconds of lone hand time was unbearable.

I spent the night alone in bed, my fingertips coated in Ibuprofen gel.

We went surfing the following morning, except I felt generally lousy, so I bowed out. Following a shower that felt as if my left hand was made of leather, I instead went to the pub with Christian, the stag's brother, and exchanged bawdy stories until the others ran out of the sea extolling predictably how amazing the whole experience was while they shivered like neglected Chihuahuas.

We downed barbecued burgers that afternoon outside our accommodation. I managed to keep up with the starved metabolisms of those who went surfing and readily stuffed myself.

By the time we trussed the Stag up in a Swedish flag dress (his bride-to-be is a Swede), wore our stag t-shirts and accompanying blonde moustaches and plastic Viking hats, I felt awful. This could've been the food, or my sunburn, as I had managed to irradiate myself despite the lack of sun. I spent the journey to Newquay with my head out the window.

I last threw up twelve years earlier. I was damned if I was going to break that record. I managed to squeeze in a couple of waters among all the Snakebite and Blacks, and avoided eye contact with the angry looking locals in Bertie's Fun Pub. By the time we got to the heaving Central bar, I felt marginally better. The few women that were there - some vamps in black, a gang of angry looking cavewomen who I had initially mistaken for men in drag - were cute enough, albeit in short supply. It turned out that stags seemed to outnumber their female counterparts 4-1.

Later on, I found myself with another naked woman bouncing on my leg while I meekly whimpered 'I read the Guardian, you know.' It didn't help that the section of the lap dancing club reserved for private dances was pitch black. Nor did it help that she was too. £40 was spent trying to make out a barely visible nipple, although I did feel it brush against me repeatedly.
When she removed my Viking helmet and rubbed her fingers through my hair, I felt it necessary to apologise for my profuse sweating. 'I like sweat,' she said blandly.
'No you don't!' I admonished. 'No-one does!'
And as if to prove my point, my new friend avoided rubbing my hair from then on in.

In female terms, Sailor's nightclub was torture. In stark contrast to Divas a short while earlier, all the women were back to being characteristically indifferent, but then perhaps there were simply too many men to contend with that the distinctly average wouldn't get a look in. There was zero interaction on my part - the sole angle that can make these places mindblowing - and of the two or three women I liked the look of, I was no more noticeable to them than the wall.

That said, our group seemed to be having one collective ball. A hardcore group never left the dancefloor. At least it was easy finding people - all I had to do was look for the horns. When we were all thrown out at 4am, I was completely sober. I had been pestered all night by one of the guys for cocaine, and had spent all night lying that it had run out - mainly because this was an awful place to do it, combined with ferocious provincial bouncers, and the fact that he has a tendency to yell 'THIS IS SO SEEDY' when you're doing drugs in a filthy toilet.

Post-club and back at the safety of the house, I was liberally racking up what remained of my narcotics in the toilet when he burst in and demanded some. I was still chopping up when he lost patience and began to urinate between my legs. I froze in terror and anger as I looked down and saw a violently swaying stream between my thighs, a stream that wasn't emanating from my penis.

Predictably, he pissed all over my jeans.

Nothing on earth, and I mean nothing, can quite hammer home the fact that you are single and 34, yet again indulging in Class A's to fill the empty chasm of your existence with some illegal perceived fun, while a drunk friend urinates on your ankles.

So that is the last of the carnage stags. I have my final polite one in a fortnight, a far more sedate affair with a friend I used to work with. That will very much be a 'last tube home' Stag.

And then, maybe, when all this is over, I'll find a nice woman, settle down, and grow up.

Or not. And not for wont of wanting.

Addiction

This is getting ridiculous; I've had little sleep. My boss told me to go home today because I was snappy and irritable and I fell for his reverse psychology, snapping back that I was fine and staying put.

Calling people up later on, a customer yelled that I was being rude, then slammed the phone down on me. (I'd spent the afternoon chasing people who haven't paid us in three months, who then take the moral high ground and get snotty with me because I remind them that they promised payment last week and still nothing's arrived.)

And this angry state of mind is largely due to lack of sleep - a lack of sleep thanks to Spider fucking Solitaire.

I can't stop myself. It is a drug. I don't write anymore. I don't watch TV. I barely do anything other than turn my computer on, fire up something on Youtube, then play 50 games of Solitaire whilst George Galloway rants in the background.

(I'll say this for Spider Solitaire: it is the perfect filling for a multitask sandwich. There is nothing that can't be listened to or even watched whilst losing to a simple card-based game.)

So. It is now 11:45pm and I'm squeezing this post out having forced myself, finally, from its sweet caress.

And here's my two vital titbits to impart:

1) Rob's stag, my Stag number 5, is tomorrow. I'm off to Newquay via Balham, fucking Balham, where Garry will pick me up (in 8 hours time). If you are in Newquay this weekend, please do say hello. I will be in the politest group amid all the other raucous, vomitting stag rabbles.

I'd take my camera but obviously it's still stolen.

2) I gave up waiting for my ineffectual mate to get Lovely Young Lady's phone number, and have stalked her instead (on the advice, it has to be said, of my mate Caspar who basically said, 'Go on, stalk her.')
The frightening part was the speed and efficiency of the whole process. I googled her place of work, clicked the first link and selected 'People', then came across not just her email address but a massive fucking picture of her.

Two weeks I waited for my mate to call me back with information, and he still hasn't replied. I found what I needed to in approximately 40 seconds. All of which merely reinforces my belief that if you want something done, Don't Ask Dan.

So, when my boss wasn't looking, I wrote Lovely Young Lady an email (composed from within a Word document lest I got spotted using Hotmail on company time). I tingled on seeing her name when she replied, a huge body of work that was friendly and cheerful. There were no tell-tale signs of an impending date (such as her agreement that we 'meet for a latte'), but friendly it was.

Which makes me think that she could just be one of those Friendly Girls™.

I've met these Friendly Girls™ before. Eager, yet disinterested. Any similarities to persons flirtatious and keen are purely coincidental.

Diane at University was one such Friendly Girl, and blonde, and bubbly, and attractive. We got on really well in the first year - well enough that she invited me up to her family home over the summer.

I drove up there at breakneck speed and met her Mum, Dad, brother and bunny rabbit and, after getting in to what was then the top nightclub in the country, her fucking boyfriend.

She'd neglected to mention him ever, remaining consistently Friendly™ and good-natured for about the first five or six months of University life I shared with her.

But don't ask me about women. Maybe friendly girls are really keen girls and are just biding their time until they suss you out.

Or maybe they really are disinterested yet incapable of indifference.

Fuck it. I'm going to bed. I want to be well rested for this mammoth six-hour drive tomorrow morning. That I'm merely a passenger of.

Newquay, look out - etc etc.

I hope I have sex.

Chris Rock: No Apologies

May 23rd 2008, the O2 arena - formerly the Millennium Dome. I never go out that far east. Truth be told, I never really go out to events at all; not to concerts (last one I can remember was Kids From Fame in 1983), not to festivals (I went to the first Creamfields and lost my friends almost instantly, for 11 hours), not to anything remotely big, exciting, eventful.

Because I hate the hassle, the waiting, and the general public. (I do actually care for all humanity. I just don't want to queue for hours with a gang of chavs just so I can go to the toilet.)

But this was Chris Rock's first tour of the UK, and my mate Ed got me a ticket.

Ed used to do stand-up. Ed was also the last (and only) stand-up I ever saw live. The experience petrified me, more so than I think it did Ed. He was in an open mic competition that was also being televised, and when it was his turn to approach the stage, my heart was pounding. He was great. In fact, he won that evening's slot (but we missed his winning at the end as Large Northern Flatmate's feet were hurting so we had to leave for a nearby pub immediately after Ed finished his bit.)

I have a lot of admiration for anyone who can a) Write their own material and then b) Perform it verbatim to a large group of people. After all, following my Best Man's speech, I know how exhilarating and terrifying the experience can be.

And, following a one-and-a-half hour monologue from Rock to a sell-out 15,000 capacity auditorium, I was overawed. It's one thing to admire him on television, and another to see him in his actual environment, live, in front of an audience. And make that a huge audience. And enormous audience. A vast swathe of humanity audience.

As far as his performance went, it was flawless, apart from when he stumbled early on - beginning a piece on Hilary Clinton then suddenly going 'Ah, sorry.. sorry,' then correcting himself and continuing where he left of - unsurprisingly, they cut out these sparse errors from the DVDs - but after that, he didn't shut up; one continual, booming 90 minute monologue entirely from memory with absolutely no pauses, no drink of water, not even a quick mop of his brow.

As far as his set went, he covered his usual themes of politics, relationships, sex et al, with some beautifully observed pieces, to paraphrase;

'People are complaining about Barack Obama's former pastor, a 75-year-old black man, for being racist. How many 75-year-old black men do you know who don't hate white people? They lynched all his friends in 3rd grade.'

'There are only four black people where I live in Alpine, New Jersey. There's me. Another is Mary J. Blige, one of the greatest R&B singers of our generation. Then there's Jay Z, one of the greatest rappers of our time. And finally, there's Denzel Washington, one of the finest actors we've ever had. All of us are at the very top of our game. Do you know what my white neighbour does? He's a fucking dentist. Do you know what a black man has to do to become a succesful dentist? He has to invent teeth.'

There was so much more, of course, but I'm at pains to remember it all. I'm still not sure how he does it. But then again, as Chris Rock said, he has a career he loves. And people with careers should shut the fuck up, as most people have jobs. With careers, there's never enough time. '5.30? Dammit.' In a job, there's too much time. '9.15?? FUCK!'

All of which served to remind me that if anyone wants to be a success at anything, they have to stick at it ruthlessly, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, forever.

Fuck.

And in other news, I texted my friend to see how the number gathering was going. That was two days ago. No reply.

Fuck.

Eight Dull Revelations

'Revelation' is probably too strong a word. You may get the impression that I'm about to reveal that I'm really a woman, or George Michael.

I'm neither. I'm still me. I just had a few things to mention, and here they are:

Revelation 1: Health

I've been on an insane health kick for a couple of weeks, cycling to work, swimming, going to the gym when I get home, and generally boring myself shitless.

I've also not smoked for 4 days. This isn't because I want to, but because in cycling to work, swimming, going to the gym when I get home, and generally boring myself shitless, it's become apparent that I can no longer breathe properly.

16 years of smoking has finally caught up with me. (The trick is to keep smoking and never exercise, and thus never realise how fucked your lungs are.)

It's also getting increasingly harder, with age, to actually shift weight. The rumours are true. Getting older really is rubbish in every respect.

Revelation 2: Lethargy

Something's had to give, what with all this health nonsense and for me, it's been a cessation in anything creative (unless you count this blog, the creative equivalent of a brick, on the floor, doing nothing.) I now actually look forward to returning home and collapsing post-gym in front of the TV, eating dinner and watching crap like a vapid, docile, non-productive member of society being told what things I need to buy in order to be happy.

Once upon a time, I spent my evenings and weekends writing (snigger) my brilliant book, but I'll restart that when I'm 12 stone with the toned, muscular body of a Greek God.

So that'll never see the light of day, then.

Revelation 3: Über-Lethargy

Not writing's one thing, but playing Spider Solitaire at least thirty times before allowing yourself to go to bed, that's slightly weird. As is surfing Youtube for anything - and I mean ANYTHING. Current random searches because I'm bored with life include watching reactions to the 2 Girls 1 Cup video, Flight of the Conchords skits, and random episodes of Sharpe which I've never seen and had no prior interest in ever before. And still don't.

Oh, and Hugh Laurie singing about a lid. Which reminds me, I once bumped into Stephen Fry exiting a toilet in Soho House. So there.

Revelation 4: Dodgy Ticker

I was in the living room watching Chelsea repeatedly kick a round ball onto Manchester United's goalposts in Moscow last night, while Large Northern Flatmate sat there strangely subdued. He had been suffering from chest pains for several days which was beginning to unsettle me with his fidgeting and stoic non-whinging. About half an hour into the match, Large Northern Flatmate casually mentioned that his left arm had gone numb.
So I called for an ambulance without telling him. He was particularly pissed off about missing the second half of the game but as luck would have it, the paramedics checked him out in the wagon outside our flat and gave him a (moderately) clean bill of health. Turns out it was a combination of high blood pressure, hay fever, and a sore left arm.

Admission 5: My Camera Hasn't Been Returned

One Christmas present, only used twice, effectively lost for good at a double-friends' wedding where I was Best Man. I hesitate to use the word 'stolen', but it's pretty much gone forever and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach.
Brand new, very expensive, digital, decent.

Brilliant.

Revelation 6: The Near Future

I'm off to see Chris Rock tomorrow night. My first huge stand up comedy gig.
The following weekend, I'm off to Newquay for my FIFTH FUCKING STAG DO. Two weeks later, I'm off on my SIXTH.

No kidding.

Revelation 7: We Are All Ageing Relentlessly

There are two types of people in the world; those that find the following fascinating and slightly unnerving, and those that couldn't give a toss:

I met a lovely young lady last weekend, and she pointed out that this September's enrolling University students will have been born in the Nineties.

I find that utterly disturbing. How can anyone born in 1990 be going on to Higher Education? Surely they're still in kindergarten?

Revelation 8: Lovely Young Lady

Ah, yes. A lovely young lady indeed. Met her last week. Prompted a wealth of comments from people demanding I get her number, under pain of death.

So, here goes...

A day passed, and I was kinda wishing I did have her number after all. So I texted my mate Dan, but he bizarrely didn't respond, so I invent scenarios:
She doesn't want to see me, and I've now put him in an awkward position.
She does want to see me, but he's dramatically lost his phone.
Because my phone was stolen in Barcelona recently, I'm using his old number and he's literally not getting the message.

So I email him, but Dan possesses the only email address on Earth that reacts badly to mine and it swiftly - as it has always done - bounces back.

So I phone him. The damn thing goes to voicemail. And it's not a wacky personalised message either, but one of those generic ladies telling you to speak after the beep. I leave a message, but it's vague and non-incriminating, just in case it's not actually his phone.

Still no reply. I contact other friends to make sure Dan's number is correct. It is now Tuesday. When I have confirmation, I leave a more specific message telling him to call me urgently as twenty blog commentators want me to get a life.

Dan phones. I am excited. This is like being a teenager again, and COOL SEXY THINGS could happen (unless you had my teenage life, in which case 'Cool sexy things' meant watching blurry VHS pornography whilst eating choc ices).
Dan seems excited for me. He says he will speak to his wife, who will contact Lovely Young Lady and ask about phone numbers. Neither of us are sure what's going to happen and, as a contingency, we agree that if the news is bad - i.e. she refuses to hand over her digits - then I will not be contacted.







I have not been contacted.

The Birthday Party

To tell you the truth, I didn't want to go - not because I didn't fancy it, more that I was shattered by a general malaise, a lack of vitamin C, and probably B and A too, and being kept awake at the weekend - the sleep catch-up days - by a neighbouring Pole who likes to blast out Radio 2 at 9am. It was all playing havoc with my delicate state of mind.

Nonetheless, Kate, the wife of my old Uni mate Dan, had invited me to her birthday party. I was in two minds.

'You might meet someone,' said Large Northern Flatmate.
'Ha!' I ejaculated. "Fat chance."
Large Northern Flatmate stopped short of recommending I stay in with him. After all, his girlfriend was coming over - which is why he wasn't going himself - and nothing more could put the sexual dampeners on their relationship than the sight of me watching telly in a towel.

'Fuck it, I'm going to go,' I announced. Despite having all the energy of roadkill, I couldn't face the idea of returning to work on Monday morning having done nothing more with my weekend than drinking cheap wine, chainsmoking, and playing Spider fucking Solitaire on the computer.

When I got to the pub, I was spaced out, an exhausted fish out of water. Dan was pleased to see me, but then he's pleased to see everyone. His birthday wife Kate was obviously chatting to all the other guests, and I only knew Stuart, another friend from University, there with his 8 week old baby daughter and new wife.

I tried talking to her at one point while she sat in the corner with her babe in her arms, facing her.
'Is she asleep?' I offered.
'Huh?' she said over the music.
'IS SHE ASLEEP?'' If she was, she wouldn't be for much longer.
'What?'
I leant in, grinning, and staring at the back of her child's head.
'I said, 'IS SHE ASLEEP?'
'Uh, no. She's feeding.'
I grimaced. Suddenly I could see tit. Oh god, social awkwardness, social awkwardness.

Brilliant. I've known her for three minutes and already I've seen her nipple being sucked.

The other guests were older than I expected; this was a Fortieth birthday party after all. Even Dan's father was there. I last met him at Dan's stag party - my first one - almost a decade ago. Everyone else seemed to be coupled. Brilliant.

Then I saw a cute girl nearby. Very cute. Probably someone's girlfriend. With nothing else to do, I sauntered closer to the buffet table and wolfed down some chicken on sticks when the girl came towards me to grab a chair.
Strangely, somehow, she looked familiar.

'I know you, don't I?'
'Yes, we met at Dan's Thirtieth.'
I searched my mind. Possibly.
'I'd arrived late; you were very drunk.'
I recoiled at the suggestion. Although it is not unknown for me to get very drunk, I am incredibly good at hiding it. My 'very drunk' doesn't involve rolling around, slurring, smashing things, vomiting, and joining AA the following morning. It's similar, but on a much smaller, more socially acceptable level.
Honestly.

We sat down and chatted, and I pieced together the details of this ambiguous meeting; it was in the East End. It was the upstairs of a pub with a DJ. I was there with Hippy Dave. Yes, I was drunk, but I prefer the term 'Merrily Controlled'. I did remember it.

Apparently, I had told her that she looked like Liv Tyler. I could see why. And I recall, back then, being gutted that she had to leave so early as she was lovely. Chatting to her properly this time, I realised how fabulous she is. She has a great laugh. She's cute and intelligent and self-deprecating, like a Peep Show girl. ("She knows about cubits, she's not comfortable in her own skin, she's one of Me!")

So naturally, as we talked, I braced myself for the word 'Boyfriend' to invade the conversation like the German Army marching into Paris.
It didn't.
Casually, I checked out her left hand - no rings.
I offered to buy her a drink but she was insistent - genuinely, resolutely adamant that she should buy me a drink instead. Jesus! (I politely refused.)

As we sat and talked, the minutes turned to hours. We found ourselves not bothering to mingle, preferring instead to chat in the corner about all manner of things. I decided not to go outside for a cigarette as I guessed that she'd be forced to chat to other people and that would be the end of our conversation. Regrettably she no longer lives in London but bloody Leicestershire some 100 motherfucking miles away. Still, it beats New York's 8,000 mile round-trip.

But there was one thing I couldn't understand. How the hell did she get to 31 without being snared by some swaggering arsehole??? She's like an unclaimed lottery ticket; one with charm and looks and intelligence and a sense of humour. It's only a matter of time before other men discover she's the female equivalent of a four-bedroomed townhouse in Kensington that's come on the market for a tenner.

Things were going fine until we had to leave. I said I would escort her to a tube station and, as we said our goodbyes to the other partygoers, Dan grabbed me conspiratorially.
'She's a lovely girl,' he said. 'I put in a good word for you.'
'Erm, what?'

I looked around. One of the female guests was staring at me with the same affection one might feel towards a puppy that would normally have shat on the carpet, but hasn't. We had been the object of scrutiny the whole evening.

Oh no. This was becoming the Goodbye Walk to the tube. Don't Goodbye Kisses happen at the end of the Goodbye Walk? Oh Fucksticks. I'm going to crash and burn.

We seemed to get on, but is she just being friendly? Maybe she's like the Unicorn, or God, one of those mythical, non-existent creatures; The Woman Who Seems To Like Me. But is she actually keen? She's not particularly tactile. She rates highly on the chatometer, but gets nil points for actual flirting.

We left the pub and out into the cool night. I lit a cigarette on impulse and soon gathered that she didn't smoke. My male intuition (78% less accurate than the female one) gauged that I'd gone down in her estimation. On extinguishing my cigarette, I reached for my chewing gum and offered her one, which she took.
Fuck, does this mean a goodbye kiss is on the cards? Oh Buddha.
Suddenly I began to shit it. Our long, easy conversation in the pub was beginning to elude me as I realised the Enormity of Everything. I was going to blow this all to smithereens.

As we got to Holborn tube, I realised it had gone midnight. Now I had another reason to panic as we were minutes away from missing the last tube. We got deep underground to the Piccadilly line where I was going west and she was heading east. Here we go...

'Well goodbye,' I said.
'Goodbye,' she replied.
Is she being aloof here? What bodypart is coming towards me? Aha! A cheek. I can handle a cheek. I gave her a kiss on it and gave her a small hug, hoping I didn't smell too much of cheap cigarettes.

Then I ballsed it up at the very last hurdle. There were only ever two options:
a) Tell her I had a great time and, coolly and calmly, leave, probably forever.
b) Tell her I had a great time, and ask for her number - despite time being of the essence - then coolly and calmy leave.

Instead, I opted for the middle way - the stupid, non-existent middle way.
As we were about to walk off, I found myself saying 'Oh, just one more thing...'
She stopped and turned.
'I, um... Oh.'
I realised I had something vitally important to tell her, but I didn't know what it was. My mind was absolutely empty; a vast, expansive tract of fuck-all.
'Umm, you see... ah! I don't quite know what I'm trying to say. It can't be important, obviously. Never mind.'
She looked confused. I was eighteen and inept again.

I think I was after a number, or some opportunity to meet up, but I was also aware that she's not local anymore and we were going to miss our trains at this rate.
'Forget it,' I said. 'Goodbye!'
I ran off.

Smoooothe.

The Most Embarrassing Thing In The World, Ever

Not committed by me for once, but by this train driver in Amsterdam.

So she's alone in the driver's carriage up front and presumably becomes overwhelmed by extreme horniness. Well... no-one would ever know. After all, she's by herself in a little box, and the door's locked.

She left the intercom on...



If I had been one of the passengers, I would've applauded at the end. Then tried to arrange a date.

UPDATE 3pm: Ok, it's probably faked. I feel a little bit stupid. Again.

Holy Matrimony, Batman

I did it. I did the Best Man speech.

I had been shitting it, mainly because I enjoy public speaking as much as I enjoy having my testicles nailed to a windmill in a hurricane but, in the event, I needn't have worried. I knew in my heart of hearts that it would turn out OK, but that didn't stop my brain from going into Needless Panic overdrive. My main concern was that I would tremble visibly, or that fear would crack my voice, or I would simply quietly wet myself in front of everyone.

Failing that, my imagination added 'fainting' to my mental repertoire of things that could go wrong, or else getting over excited and tripping into the bride's mother and inadvertently shoving her face into her dessert.

Instead, I stood up and delivered an okay speech to a crowd that responded fairly pleasantly.

This may or may not have been due to the fact that 50% of the guests were Muslim, thus were unused to the tradition of the bawdy Best Man's speech and, more importantly, were also stone cold sober. But more on that later.

I spent the weekend being embarrassed by tremendous hospitality and eating my own body weight in curry. I was the sole Jew in a house of Muslims and left wishing to whatever God there is or isn't that the entire planet should show at least 1% of the friendship and kindness I was afforded. Luke's family were equally fabulous, plying me with beer and cigarettes and behaving outrageously all weekend. His sister should be made a Dame for services to Persistently Having Fun.

We drove up to East Anglia on Thursday night to go to the Bride's family home. Sabina had a henna party which neither the groom or myself knew much about. Suffice to say, when we arrived, we were barred from entering by her sister and Auntie (who welcomed me with a Shalom, which I thought was a nice touch). Luke, as tradition dictates, had to pay to get in which I found terribly amusing. Luke was less amused as he handed over a tenner, only for Sabina's sister to say, 'Not enough. Keep going.'

£40 of Luke's money later, we were allowed in and escorted to the garden marquee which - disconcertingly - was stuffed with glamorous women in saris and cousins from all over Britain, France, and, for some reason, Sacramento. We had come straight from work and had on t-shirts and jeans, of which mine were ripped to buggery.

Then Sabina appeared, looking stunning in a red gown heaving with jewels. The next thing we knew, we were in something akin to a press junket as family members came up and filmed us and posed for pictures. This took about twenty minutes while I sat there wondering if I should be at the top table at all, and trying desperately to cover up the rip in my jeans.

After dancing to Bollywood hits til midnight, Luke and I went to sleep in a surprisingly flash caravan. Sabina's family, what seemed like about forty people, had the house. I'm still not sure where they all slept.

The following day was spent getting the hall ready, meeting Luke's family, feeling overwhelmed at yet more hospitality, drinking beer, and being unable to sleep as I mentally ran through the speech til 3am.

I managed to occupy myself on the day of the wedding by running around sweating profusely in a tux and looking like a casino bouncer. It didn't help that it was the hottest day of the year either, or that the bride was late and I had the registrar barking at me that she had another wedding to officiate in an hour, and Where is she?

It was then that I wished I'd updated my new phone with numbers as I'd had my last one stolen on Luke's stag.

Then, Sabina arrived in tears (I chose not to ask why and put it down to Generic Female Happiness, and not her Dad holding her up by ironing his trousers at the last minute), and my two mates married each other. I would've seen it in more detail, but I chose not to stand with the groom as I didn't feel I should - something I now regret - and noticed that all the front seats had gone. So I hovered at the back, unable to hear the vows as I sat in the screaming babies section. Then someone broke the serenity of the occasion with a violently loud phone jingle (me, I'm afraid) and, in the words of Ginger Spice and the other talentless harridans, Two became One.

I had to corral everyone out of the Town Hall, then had to scream at family members to pose for photos outside the ruins of a 1,000 year-old castle, where I severely sunburned myself.

I started to panic as our taxi escorted us to the reception hall, for that was to be the scene of my speech fiasco. Curry was served. I was repeatedly told to fuck off out of the kitchen by the caterers, as I was scurrying around in an ice bucket for beers for the white people.

I didn't eat too much wedding curry, as my appetite had vanished and had trouble keeping it in. Now public vomiting became a new scenario to worry about. Sat at the top table again, I ate to the sight of 130 people crammed into the hall.

Then I shat myself. Fear had constipated me for two days. An equivalent days' worth of curry had undone the damage. My anus had begun to seal over like a piercing minus its earring, and I was in agony. Once I had emerged sweating and exhausted from the cubicle to wild laughter from the groom and one of our friends, I had to about-turn and run back in for seconds.

Several people were now remarking that I looked feverish and appeared to be burning up, a likely combination of curry overdose, sunburn, fear, and the squits.

Back in the hall, Luke's Mum gave me some Kalms tablets so I would chill the fuck out. I had now bored everyone about how nervous I was, and that moment was approaching. Luke spoke first, quietly and sincerely, and presented various people with presents. I was quite touched and surprised to receive some aftershave, and a guidebook to Barcelona that apparently, I should've taken with to the stag.

Then a strange thing happened. I calmed down. I stood up to bizarrely rapturous cheers (and apparently went as white as a sheet), which will forever be implanted in the sparse 'Feeling Loved' part of my brain, and was cool enough to ad-lib that their welcome would prove to be an enormous anti-climax.

Then I ad libbed by thanking the groom for his 'Luke, warm speech', which was met with lukewarm laughter, and I made a mental note to stick to the script.

I got one paragraph in and inexplicably yelled out, 'I'm doing it, I'm actually doing it!', which bemused pretty much everyone, then I went on to offend the bride by explaining how they met, saying that I used to live with Luke, and work with Sabina, where "I was very fortunate to meet this fabulous, vivacious, intelligent, caring, and very, very beautiful woman,"
(Dramatic pause)
"and she knew Sabina."

I would've liked bigger laughs at that point, but one titter at the back sufficed. Everything else was a bit of a blur. The speech could've been a lot more raucous. After all, every single anecdote about Luke involves him getting mind numbingly drunk, breaking a body part, and vomiting, all pretty much a Best Man's wet dream. Sadly, I couldn't use much it. I thought it might not go down too well with Sabina's extended family. I did mention that he once pushed a garden roller into a hotel swimming pool, and overheard him yelling, "That never happened!" Much later, Ali casually told me that Luke did chuck a green frog waste bin over a cliff.

I could've used that.

I stuffed my face at the curry buffet with a vengeance a few hours later, hid a bottle of champagne for safekeeping later, and danced to Bhangra all night - well, most of the night. By and large, I was sweating profusely and had to make frequent stops outside to cool down and have a drink and a smoke with the pissheads (re: non-Muslims) outside.

The wedding was absolutely fantastic. Although I chose not to get too hammered out of respect for half the guests not drinking on religious grounds, I still managed it anyway. I was surrounded by so many friends and lovely family members who weren't actually from my family, that it even made me re-evaluate my decision to elope to Barbados rather than go through the bankruptcy and sheer panic of a normal wedding - if, of course, I actually had a girlfriend to marry.

One female guest approached me and talked at length about her spectacular tits, which I tried not to look at even when she kept mentioning them several hundred times. My friends later confirmed that she was single, which bemused me as she came with a mate of mine. Then one of Sabina's friends demanded I go back to the hotel with a whole bunch of them, but I declined as I was to be sleeping in a tent with Nothing Man.

Until Nothing Man decided to go back to the hotel, where he got laid. I had sobered up at this point, and was frankly knackered. Instead, I got a taxi back to Ali's and continued partying with a host of others back at his house. He passed out on the sofa so naturally, I drew all over his face with a permanent silver marker and covered his prone body with fruit. When I dug around my bag for my camera - my lovely, new, expensive camera I've only used twice - I realised I lost the fucker.

To date, I still can't find it. This means, Stag: lost phone, nearly lost wallet. Wedding: lost camera, nearly lost dignity.

I woke the following morning to a barbecue in the sun, and a small wedding reunion. Days really don't get any better than that. Of course, when the newly wedded Sabina and Luke turned up and confirmed that I had turned down at least two - maybe three - potential shags, I felt a little bit sick.

But I can confirm that speech-panicking aside, being Best Man is fucking brilliant. My friend's families are absolutely wonderful, I'm filled with joy and love for the pair of them, and I'm uncharacteristically moved by the whole experience.

Just don't turn down the sex.

Birthday

I am 34 today. Specifically, I'm thirty-four in about an hour. Naturally, I don't want to be 34. I want to be twenty again, much thinner and less spirit-crushed and pessimistic.

I am also tired and shaky. I am quite literally trembling. For one thing, I have spent this bank holiday weekend in anti-activity mode doing absolutely nothing, to wit; Sat in front of Youtube listening to Eddie Murphy, Richard Pryor, Eddie Izzard, Kathy Griffin (for some reason) and various Daily Show clips whilst playing Spider Solitaire.

And I have spent days doing this. It is for precisely this reason that I refuse to buy Grand Theft Auto or the Sims, for I will play them relentlessly, and achieve nothing with my life.
More so.

The reason I've been watching stand-up comedy (and Kathy Griffin) is because I'm about to write my Best Man's speech for Luke and Sabina's wedding this coming Saturday. And I'm petrified. Speaking in public is laying yourself bare - stood in a room full of silent people as they listen intently to you trying to be funny.

I've decided to write and learn the speech verbatim, because if I hold the speech in my hands, I'll be shaking so much that I'll drop it.

I went to Hippy Dave's wedding last week. It was tremendous fun, particularly after I'd done my reading. Dave wanted me to read the following during the ceremony, from the Adam Sandler film Mr Deeds:

Fifty years have passed by
with laughter and tears
Do you remember when we went to the zoo
and that time we drank all the beers?
I promise to love you for many years more
Even when your bosoms sag down to the floor

All I can remember about the reading was that I was terrified; that there was an attractive woman playing the harp in the background, that we were in the formal setting of a gorgeous Somerset country house, that I had gained a shitload of weight since I last wore my One Generic Suit™ in November and it was like wearing a beige straitjacket and tie. It was so tight in fact, that seconds before I was called up to shatter the formality of the day, I looked down and saw my jacket pulsating rhythmically with the frantic beating of my heart.

That reading took about thirty seconds - mainly because there was an earlier line to the poem that I'd left out by accident. Once that was over, I could enjoy myself. For once, my friends and I weren't the most wrecked. That accolade went to Dave's aunt whose husband had to escort her - pissed - to their nearby room around 4pm, where he locked her in. Apparently, an hour or two later, she was spotted climbing out of the window in an attempt to get back into the venue.

And now, on my birthday, I'm about to compose this speech, a long, rambling dialogue of my own devising, that I will have to perform in five days. I am not lying when I say that I can't enjoy the rest of the wedding - nay, the rest of my life, even - until this is out of the way.

Facebook Suicide

I've finally done it, I feel liberated; I've permanently deleted my Facebook account.

It sounds ridiculous, but the damn thing depressed me. Once upon a time, it had been the Greatest Site in the World, a place to gather everyone I'd ever met (and those I hadn't) in one convenient place, and detailing my every fucking movement; (Fweng has finished work. Fweng is off to the pub. Fweng is trying to cope with a hangover).

In those heady early days, I wanted it to be mandatory for everyone to have their own Facebook account. It was great having a one-stop site to see everyone and catch up without actually going anywhere but slowly, imperceptibly at first, I began to loathe the place.

At first, all I really wanted was to reach 100 friends; proof that an average thirty-something male with his own hair could reach triple social figures and, pathetically, be 'popular'. I told as many people about it as I could - including my sister, and my Mum and Dad, then added them. They're not friends; they're lumbered with me forever. Friendship doesn't come into it. We're the closest of close relatives already (not that I actually see or talk to them, however.)

Finding and adding old schoolfriends was impossible to resist - until the whole thing felt a bit stalky and generally left well alone, apart from one guy, an old schoolfriend who I had fond memories of.

I contacted him through a Facebook email at first, a cheerful message of greeting. His reply was a little odd;
"Where are you now? What are you doing? Are you married?"

That was it. 'Hello' wouldn't have gone amiss.

Nonetheless, I answered his specific questions. He responded, 6% more warmly than before. We 'added' each other. I then saw his friends, 200 of them. Oh, okay. Hey look, there's about twenty lads from school here. Well I'm not going to contact them, as they used to - what's the word? - fucking hate me.

'Hey!' I thought, 'that's great! All these old guys from school are still in touch with each other.'
'Oh!' I noted, 'Even the guys from different groups who weren't friends back then all seem to be friends now. That's so nice.'
'Wow!' I exclaimed. 'A lot of them are married. Cool. And the ones that aren't are in relationships. That's just brilliant.'
'Hey, look!! There's a bunch of photos from their trip to Marbella when they were 16! That's odd, we were all friends then. I don't recall being invit-WHAT THE FUCK???

It didn't take me very long to feel sick to the very pit of my stomach. Here were the guys from my old school - wankers, to be blunt - all friends with each other, all getting on with their fabulous lives together with their fabulous wives or cute girlfriends. I had been the jolly fat kid at school - one who got spat at and shunned - those guys! - and, two decades later, Facebook reintroduced me to them. I was content with my life (just), until I was being reminded of their continued existence.
Never mind, time heals all wounds, people change, et cetera, et cetera.

"Don't write to me here," my old friend replied in a message. "Contact me at work - it's blah blah blah @ blah.com"

So I did, a friendly catch-up email detailing what I was up to (nothing), where I'd been (nowhere), and who I was dating (no-one). Naturally, I ended by asking him how life was treating him.

That was about nine months ago, and I'm still waiting for a reply. If I was being honest, and I tend to on this blog, it irked me with a burning vibrancy - There. I've admitted it. I was only saying hello to one of the few blokes I got on with, yet eighteen years had passed and I was being shunned again - this time, without the spit (although I'm sure if spittle was included in those little Facebook gifts, they'd cover me in it.) Dammit, this was a bloody one-off hello, not an attempt to crowbar my way into their pointless fucking world!

I'm too old to get wound up by this trivial shit.

I spotted another guy there, another member of these Facebook guys I went to school with and liked, and contacted him too. He was friendlier than Richard - he emailed to say he remembered the cartoons I used to draw (even I forgot that) - and we exchanged another email. He too didn't bother replying when I asked him how he was either, but by then I was actually amused; I expected it. Clearly these guys are fucking petrified that I'm lonely and mad and desperate for human contact, rather like this chap...



There were other irks. In the right light, at the right angle, with the moon waxing and Saturn aligned with Venus, I might, after 5,000,000 pictures, look fairly non-repellent in a photo. Despite this, my real-life friends tagged pictures of me relentlessly; ones of me with three chins, ones of me looking bewildered and confused, ones of me looking like a corpse with its eyes open. One little tinker even tagged a photo of me for all to see; I was licking a TV screen that had prominently displayed, pornography.

And these photos kept coming.

But the final straw came last week when I discovered my lovely American ex-girlfriend had joined. We exchanged Facebook messages, which was pleasant, and I had a cursory glance at her friends. The only other Limey she knew had been her boyfriend immediately after me. She admitted long ago that after we'd split up, she rebounded onto an Englishman living in New York.

When I looked at his friends, I saw a couple of twats I went to school with.

The Jewish community is very close.

Except with me. I repel Jews. And Hindus. And Muslims, Jains, Christians, the irreligious, and even the desperate.
And don't get me started on women in general.

I simply had to leave Facebook. I was beginning to see little point in belonging to a site full of people who'd rather I wasn't there... people such as my lovely American ex-girlfriend.

In taking your collective advice from my comments box (my life is beginning to resemble the Truman Show), I decided to tell her how I feel about her. I didn't launch into it at first. I began by sending her a solitary email to say that I've left Facebook for good and we should keep in touch this way. I also added that I was planning a trip to the States (I'm not), and it would be nice to meet up for a coffee.

She hasn't replied.

Dammit!

Recovery Position

It is Wednesday. My head has a dull throb to it, like a post coital vagina, and my nose is still bleeding, like... oh, see above again. I'm not retyping it.

I am consequently debating the wisdom of snorting illegal crystalline tropane alkaloids up my nostrils. I have a libertarian attitude when it comes to drugs, but it has to be said that anyone indulging in any substance, be they cigarettes or alcohol or junk food or cocaine ultimately has some unresolved issues at their very core, a need to distance themselves from their existence and feel just a little bit better inside.

I'm pleased the heavy drinking is over - although I was on a Stag and these things have to be done, I'm told. I've smoked the two packs of Spanish Marlboros I brought home and - guess what? - I've just nipped outside for some British ones. I ran as quick as I could, in order not to scare any small children. My face has turned bright crimson, and is peeling heavily. I look like the Singing Detective.

I've also had to rejoin Facebook. I grew to loathe Facebook with its sheer time-wastery, but I need mobile phone numbers to stick into my new phone when I get one. And the first thing I saw when I rejoined was my Lovely American ex-girlfriend who had finally accepted my sign-up request of many, many months ago. She has some 130 friends now, and dozens of happy, smiley pictures of herself, pictures which - no doubt - were taken when I wasn't in her head to piss her off.

And I miss her like I'd miss my leg if it was removed - which is substantial missage. We had a brief online 'chat'. She seemed quite happy, rub-it-in-my-face happy, if I was being cynical, but it was nice to catch up. I noticed her status said 'Single', and I'm desperate to see her again. She knows this too, and I know that desperation is as attractive to anyone as a bleeding post-coital vagina.

I can't stay on Facebook much longer. If her status changes to 'In a relationship', I'm going to jump into the Thames with lead weights round my ankles. I'd like her to settle down with someone and be happy, but the idea of seeing it blossoming online and in front of my eyes will - what's the word? - fucking annihilate me.

Funny how someone can go from loving me and telling me so repeatedly to the point that I got scared off, to more-or-less hating me and "loving being single", as I was told ad nauseam.
Oh well, I hurt her, and now I'm hanging around to give her the opportunity to return the favour.

I am now sat at home trying to write my 'book'. It has taken me three days just to open the damn document, which I managed an hour ago. I can't look at it.
Instead, I'm blogging this. So much easier.

I went to the gym today, the first time since February. I then went home and had some mackerel and scrambled eggs with plenty of water. No drugs, no booze, and just the occasional cigarette to remind me I'm still alive (for the time being).

So that's that.

I have Hippy Dave's wedding this weekend, my 34th birthday after that (same day as the ex's), and another wedding with a speech I'll have to make and tremble through.

God, it's great to be alive, so very very very very motherfucking great.

Stag IV: Planes, Trains & Automobiles

This was the big one; Luke’s stag, in Barcelona. As Best Man, I had been planning it for a year, so it really should’ve gone a lot more smoothly than it did. Frankly, I’m just pleased we all survived a 72-hour booze, drugs and fags marathon.

Friday 18th April
6am ~ Mobile phone wakes me up with a text. It's Nick in East Anglia to say a freight train is blocking the line and four of them are stranded. Called a cunt for booking early flights from the airport furthest from them.
7.15am ~ I take the tube to London Victoria. Signal failure at Hammersmith. Half an hour later, and I've moved precisely two stops.
8.07am ~ Arrive at Victoria in a sweaty panic. Meet Kevin A, Kevin B and Garry 1. Call East Anglians. They have abandoned train and are now driving to Gatwick airport. Called a cunt again, and told they will miss the flight. Blood pressure rises. I tell them I'll do everything I can to get them on board.
8.20am ~ Take Gatwick Express train to airport. Send frantic texts to everyone. Told off by others for booking an early flight. Receive vague East Anglian text that simply reads 'GAME OVER'. Have minor heart attack.
9.00am ~ Gatwick. Huge crowds due to computer malfunction. Meet ten others, including nonchalant East Anglians who got there ok and wanted me to suffer.
Martin is late.
10.00am ~ Start drinking.
11.00am ~ Plane takes off. Make mental note that this plane could be in tonight's news bulletin.
2.00pm Spanish time ~ Plane lands without crashing. Get outside and start chainsmoking.
3.30pm ~ Eager, shaven-headed taxi-driving yob proudly informs us in Spanglish that he's 'Hooligan' who supports West Ham football club. I tell him West Ham is Oeste jamón in Spanish but he just looks confused. Cabbie then proceeds to show us photos of his children on his mobile phone whilst doing 80 down a motorway. Mentions señoritas by the port and swings his forearm between his legs, which makes no sense.
5.00pm ~ Food in restaurant. Over-order tapas, and ask for 16 lagers, emphasising 'Large'. Lagers arrive in buckets. Start smoking indoors because we're allowed to.
7.00pm ~ Go to the Black Sheep bar. Malcolm, Stag Luke's friend now living in Barcelona whose name I've changed, arrives. We order 16 ladyboys and a jug of sangria. Malcolm vanishes to get drugs.
8.00pm ~ Have to hunt Malcolm down. Find him in hotel room with three others who have been testing said drugs for quality. They are all fucked; Malcolm is visibly rambling. We go back to the bar. Memory loss. Stag is thrown out of bar after getting caught with drugs in the toilet. He then throws up outside.
10.00pm? ~ Somewhere else. More beers. Called a cunt again for the early flight booking. Remember to take some photos. End up in damn Australian bar I don't want to be in. Decide to go for a recce on my own to find a better place. May or may not have had fantastic conversation with friendly local Spaniards. Get hopelessly lost in winding back alleys. By nothing short of a miracle, find my way back to Hogans and realise my mobile phone has been stolen.
Go to a string of bars near the port. Paul vanishes off the face of the earth.
01.00am? ~ Borrow Garry A's phone to call the UK and cancel my mobile. Kept on hold for half an hour. Rambled like a drunk idiot when finally connected.
01.40am? ~ Dancing on podiums. Russell runs off to 'find some angles'. I find no angles as women are keeping a wide berth.
03.00am ~ Bar closes. Paul found outside utterly incapable of anything, about to be killed by three prostitutes.



Saturday 19th April
9.00am ~ Wake up still in my clothes. Have Alka Seltzer. Go for breakfast and discover I can order food in Spanish when still vaguely drunk. Sadly order a processed beef schlong in a baguette. Pleasant warm day with cool sea breeze.
11.00am ~ Group split. While others start drinking again, our group end up on some tourist boat that makes a circuit of industrial works and rusting container ships.
12.00pm ~ Watch Made in Barcelona with the other tourists and assorted pickpockets.
1.00pm ~ Sit at a beachside cafe to ogle topless women. Receive head massages from nice Korean lady. Start being called Ginger Beadle because I've grown a beard but shaved my neck. Head feels wrong.
3.00pm ~ Cab back to hotel. Notice that we've all got sunburnt.
3.30pm ~ Have shower, exit in an angry shade of purple apart from around my eyes where I'd been wearing sunglasses. I look like a Satanic panda.
4.00pm ~ Hand out specially embroidered stag shirts. Lukewarm response, apart from a grateful Russell who seemed to think I was going to scrawl on t-shirts with a biro.
5.30pm ~ Realise I've not planned restaurant, and frantically trawl internet for somewhere. Find 'El Foro' in somewhere called Princesa street. Try calling them from our hotel but it's constantly engaged.
6.00pm ~ Escort 15 identically dressed angrily sunburned Englishmen down Las Ramblas.
6.08pm ~ Rumblings of mutiny. We've been walking for nearly 10 minutes and no-one's had a drink yet. English girl handing out pub crawl flyers smirks at my red Klingon forehead.
6.15pm ~ Still walking. Starting to look lost. Repeatedly told, sarcastically, that I should phone restaurant on my mobile.
6.22pm ~ Ask for directions. Overhear myself being called a cunt, with feeling. Members of group begin demanding any pub or bar immediately.
6.30pm ~ Ali buys Stag a disturbing dark red Carnivale mask with long phallic nose. Comparisons are made between the mask and me.
6.38pm ~ Fortuitously find Princesa Street. Unfortuitously discover El Foro's vanished. By some miracle, discover a lovely restaurant called Princesa 23 who'll accommodate all of us. Immediately order 16 beers and as many nachos as will fit on the table.
7.26pm ~ Stag is forced to offer red rose (in teeth, on bended knee) to local girl with terrific bangers.
9.00pm ~ Leave to find pubs. More arguments. End up in empty jazz bar. Stunning barmaid stares at my face with mixture of shock and revulsion.
9.24pm ~ Regrettably in an Irish bar. Order 16 rum and cokes, and 16 tequilas. Told to change order by Rob and Ali. Tell them to fuck off. They then hassle the barman.
9.37pm ~ Martin invents Spacking ('spunking' on a 'back', due to the erroneous belief that the Stag was once dumped by a girl for refusing to ejaculate on her back). This then becomes a free-for-all of evacuations onto female body parts; Spits, Spulva, and, as Hippy Dave offered, Spaby.
Head out into street.


9.42pm ~ Waiting for Russell to take a McShit with lies.
9.51pm ~ Go to Espit Chupitos where the Stag is forced to deepthroat a beer disguised as a cock, covered in cream (the cock, not the stag.) Ordered 16 'Terminators', then 16 beers, then 16 more shots, which contained absinthe and mescalin, then hide in the toilet to do coke. Should now, by rights, be dead. Stag is forced to ask for lipstick from someone, wear it, then kiss them on their cheeks.
10.30pm? ~ Cabs are taken to Razzmatazz nightclub.
10.42pm? ~ Bouncers at Razzmatazz nightclub deny us entry on account of us all wearing the same shirts and being British. Decision is made to go back to the lousy bars from the previous night, and an argument breaks out. Group split.
11.00am? ~ Another bar, dancing to Beyonce or godknows what. Very little memory at this point. Someone comes up with Spalidomide.
12.00pm? ~ Remainder of sunburnt group finds us. Cheering breaks out. Most people avoid us like the plague.
1.00am? ~ Bar closes. I leave to find another establishment when cute girl I recognise from the previous night accosts me. She's a hooker and grabs my genitals and begins pumping them with vigour, saying "We fuck, we fuck." I reply No constantly, but don't put up much of a fight. She drags me back to a doorway making overt breathy noises and eventually stops. I thank her for finally unmolesting me, and have the presence of mind to pat my front pockets. I suddenly realise I am now minus a wallet. I start to panic, check my back pocket which I haven't been using in Barcelona, then my fronts, where it absolutely, definitely was.
"Wallet," I say. "Give me my wallet NOW!"
"Is on the floor," says the prostitute without hesitation, her voice no longer cute and eager but panicky, and strangely deep and masculine. I am caught between two thoughts; She stole my wallet, I must get my wallet - and, Why does she sound like a man?
The hooker runs off as I reach down for my wallet; Money, cards, everything's still there. She'd backed us into a doorway while I was being fiddled with, using this slight of hand motion on my testicles to hide the fact that the fingers of her other hand were in my pocket fishing for my wallet which she'd then slung behind her into the darkness. I sober up, strangely impressed with the scam and gratified that I not only patted my pockets but that the hooker owned up immediately and legged it. In her line of work, s/he probably carries a knife.
1.04am? ~ Tell the group I'd just had my wallet nicked by a transvestite prostitute.
1.07am? ~ Tell some pissed blokes from Leeds I'd just had my wallet nicked by a transvestite prostitute.
1.34am? ~ Four of us get cab home. The driver demands 5 Euros from each of us before going anywhere. Martin angrily demands the driver take us to another club. I have to hug him and tell him the game's over. Bill comes to 10 Euros. Driver refuses to give us change.
2.04am? ~ Realise I've lost my flash windproof lighter I bought four years ago in Thailand.
2.46am? ~ Finish coke. Stand outside hotel with Ali, chainsmoking. Martin and Ian walk down Las Ramblas to find another bar. They're approached by two friendly locals who then proceed to try and pickpocket them.
3.58am? ~ Go to bed. Lose key, and can't activate lights. Fall back onto bed to remove shoes. Bed not there. Land on arse.

Sunday 20th April
I wake up covered in bruises and sunburns. After getting a bite to eat, I am admonished again, this time for booking a late flight. We end up in Hogans bar again, drinking til 3pm when we make our way to the airport and a flight delay. By the time everyone rolls back into Gatwick, it is 11pm on Sunday night and my name is mud. I try not to tell too many people that I've got the week off work.

At Victoria tube, the group is now down to me and two Kevins. Garry left to head south and miss the last tube. Kevin A and myself run out at Oxford Circus and jog with backpacks to the Central line, but it's too late. A tannoy is announcing that the underground has now closed for the night, and Fuck Off. We surface to a drizzly London evening. The first people we see are Polish maintenance men and cockneys about to tinker with the tube and, on street level, a group of Spaniards going one way, and a French group going another. We are forced to add to the £300 spent this weekend (not including flights and accommodation), and get a black cab home to West London. I'm home gone midnight.

If I ever have a stag, it'll be at a health farm.