Realise Your Limitations

That's what my old flatmate Rob once said to me several years ago; "Realise your limitations". That was back when I was doubtless bitching about my lacklustre life like some evil Emperor who hadn't, as yet, conquered anything.

'You mean you want me to just give up?' I scowled.

Rob squawked at me, and told me that wasn't what he meant at all. He meant I should narrow my goals perhaps, try to attain something a little more achievable.

I didn't. In fact, I dismissed his advice even if I appreciated his intentions. The fact was that despite 'getting' him, I found his argument repellent. I knew where he was coming from, but there was something overwhelmingly depressing about its implications. Rob could've dressed it up all he wanted (and he tried). It still sounded like: "Give up."

And that, I've realised, is why I'm depressed - perpetually, it would seem - and 3 introspective years blogging is proof of that.

After my strange wet eye scenario last month, and my attempt to avoid wheat to improve my mood (I'm having trouble - It is both not easy, and very boring), I have given my situation some thought, and I think I know why I'm feeling particularly depressed these last few weeks:

It's my limitations. I've finally realised them. Until quite recently, I'd held on to the belief that I really could do anything, and that I'm just on the cusp of a great job, a lovely girlfriend, and a decent future for once in my violently atrophying life.

But something's just clicked; I give up.

* * * * * * *

Edit 24/11/2009: Since reading your comments and emails (and thank you, by the way), I ought to stress that I'm not suicidal. I'm just very, very, very, very, very bored and pissed off with it all as the truth becomes self-evident that I can't write my way out of my well-worn rut, and I'm basically a just a cunt.

Thank you.

If You Can't Stand the Wheat...

A few days ago, seven, to be precise, I came across something online that intrigued me, and it wasn't YouPorn.

In short, it suggested a correlation between my oft miserable state of mind, and my 'Anything Goes' eating habits, and it was THIS.

So today, and for the first time in my life (as far as I know), I have eaten no wheat. By extension, I have not eaten any processed foods. They tend to go hand in hand.

My intake has been ~ lunch: homemade chicken salad (no pasta); dinner: haddock fillet with rice and veg.

And I only want to kill just slightly.

I didn't feel the need to have breakfast, because I spent all of last night gorging on crisps, garlic baguettes, 15 pizzas, a pallet's worth of Pringles, and a Belgian biscuit mountain, the kind of foodcrack that makes a breakfast redundant.

Oddly enough though, I don't see this as a diet in the conventional weight-loss sense. It's more an experiment in cutting out a particular food type to see what it'll do to my general well being.

My theory is, as I get "happier", I'll be less inclined to give up.

My gut feeling is that I'll be injecting pure carbs into my eyeballs by Friday.

Hate Thy Neighbour

'KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT!' snarled the psychopath as he scowled back at me, jabbing a finger at my face.

In situations like that, I'd normally want to be in the safety of my own home.
Regrettably, I was.

It was Saturday night - technically Sunday morning - and I was sat at my computer playing Solitaire and watching YouTube clips because I'm a sad, pathetic waste of space with no girlfriend or imagination. It was two o'clock in the morning, and I was sipping red wine.
This is how I live my life.

Suddenly, above my head came dull thuds from above, from the flat belonging to the two girls who'd recently moved in. Despite being tiny slips of things, they weren't being particularly dainty. In fact, their thudding was so loud that, had I been asleep, they would've woken me up. (Bear that bit in mind. I find it rather important.)

Some minutes passed. I continued to sip at my wine, continued watching YouTube clips about nothing, and continued to mindlessly play solitaire. Meanwhile, the thudding remained.

'Hmm', I thought to myself, 'they clearly don't know how much noise they're making. I'd better alert them to my presence as next time, should I really be asleep, they'll wake me.'

So I grabbed my baseball bat and delivered three rigid blows to the ceiling. It may have sounded impersonal, but it wasn't meant to be. After all, it wasn't as if they'd just woken me up or anything. They just could've.

So imagine my surprise when, after a pause, three hefty, angry thuds came back in response.

I frowned. That had been strange. Although I'd only seen the girls two or three times in the couple of months they'd been here, things had always been pleasant. Granted, I did once have to tell them that their late-night wanderings had woken me up because the entire structure of this damn apartment is paper thin, but I went to great lengths to be nice about it, explaining that it wasn't their fault and had to say something, otherwise they'd never know.

But those three thuds? That was odd. They had an air of Fuck You about them. In fact, such was the Fuck You air, I'd walked off to Large Northern Flatmate's room to wake him up and tell him.

'Ungh,' had been his response so I retreated back to my room, assuming the girls must just be drunk. And so that assumption remained until two minutes later when I got clarification:- a shaven-headed, heavily tattooed and incredibly ugly clarification, banging on our front door.

I walked over to the door dressed in naught but a towel, and frowned when I opened it to reveal a bald meathead grimacing back at me.

'Is that you banging on the ceiling?'
'Uh, yeah,' I began. 'You see, I was asleep an...'
'FUCKING CUT IT OUT, RIGHT?' he yelled, finger-jabbing away.
'Okay, take it easy,' I said as quietly as possible in the hope he'd get the hint.
'DON'T FUCKING TELL ME TO TAKE IT EASY.'
'Look, can you keep your voice down? It's two o'clock in the morning and our neighbours...'
'I DON'T FUCKING CARE!' he yelled. 'DON'T FUCKING TELL ME TO KEEP QUIET. I'LL SPEAK AS LOUD AS I WANT.'
'Right,' I began, wondering how I'd managed to get myself into this. I wasn't even fucking sleeping.

'The thing is,' I continued, 'I was asleep, and...'
'I DON'T GIVE A FUCK,' said the gigantic, lobotomised Neanderthal. 'WE WEREN'T EVEN MAKING ANY NOISE.'
'Sure,' I ventured, 'I appreciate that, but the walls here are really thin and...'
'YOU KEEP FUCKING DOING THIS, DON'T YOU?'
'Doing what?'
'BANGING ON THE FUCKING CEILING.'
'Uh, this is the first time I've...'
'SHARON?' he yelled up the stairs. 'DIDN'T YOU SAY HE'S DONE THIS BEFORE?'

'Well,' came the voice of a little mouse, 'yeah,' she began but I wasn't really listening. I was too busy wondering what either of those demure girls found attractive about the violent yob in front of me.
'Erm, actually, this is the first time I've done this.'
'THAT'S NOT WHAT SHE FUCKING SAYS, AND I'M NOT GONNA FUCKING 'AVE IT!'

I frowned. 'Hang on a minute,' I said. 'You woke me up.' (Yes, I was taking the moral high ground from a lie.)
'I DON'T GIVE A SHIT.' More finger jabbing.
'RIGHT,' I said, now offended. This guy was the tattooed terminator. He couldn't be bargained with. He couldn't be reasoned with. He didn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And he had tattoos up both arms and on his neck.
'DO NOT,' I yelled as loud as I could without waking up the neighbours, 'STAND OUTSIDE MY FUCKING HOME AND THREATEN ME, OKAY?'

And then he threatened me.

He snarled. His eyes danced around his head as his ancient brain tried to make sense of what was happening.
'KEEP... YOUR MOUTH... SHUT...' he hissed through gritted teeth, pausing between words as he fought to compose himself. 'KEEP... YOUR FUCKING... MOUTH SHUT!'
His finger was pointing right at me, at the part I presume he was eager to launch a flurry of punches at first - my nose.

And then a weird thing happened. The urge to grimace in disgust and say 'Pscht, fuck you' deserted me.

Instead, I continued to be stared down in my own home by a cunt. 'KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT!' he hissed as I did as I was told.

And then he walked off and headed to the flat upstairs.

'What th...?' said Large Northern Flatmate as he walked out from behind the bedroom door he'd been hiding behind.

'Don't!' I urged him. 'Don't say a thing.'

I shut the front door, my pride in tatters, acutely aware that I was staring at the floor.

I believe that is what today's youth call pwnage.

The 1,000 Mile Journey: Irritating Step #1

So, I spent this last week, post-blub-in-toilet, at home where I barely left my room in an attempt to get over myself (and my cold).

It was a strange illness as it didn't really knock me out, or annihilate my appetite or sense of taste. Instead I watched the remainder of Deadwood whilst eating sausage rolls and sneezing repeatedly, to the accompaniment of feeling really pathetic.

All this excitement culminated in my mother's 30th wedding anniversary. As her only son I was expected to attend, but I managed to hang onto my cold long enough to avoid it. In truth, I felt better by then, but mentally I couldn't handle seeing half a dozen close relations, let alone a further 90 I hadn't seen for years.

So I began this week on a different path. I have made diet and exercise my very dull priority (for the five billionth time). I haven't smoked for nine days. I've cycled to and from work every day this week (i.e. 3). I weighed myself yesterday and was shocked to discover that I've reached my all-time fattest weight, again. I was last there - 16 stone/ 224lbs - nine years ago. Following the Mother of All Diets, I vowed never to return.

Whoopsadaisies.

Yet all I can think about is the newsagent below this rented apartment, and its full shelves stacked with fattening treats. Great. I'm stuck with this push/pull bullshit forever.

Why do the things I enjoy most, a drink here, a smoke there, an unhealthy snack everywhere, make me slowly miserable, and quickly dead? Is that fair? And as if to rub it in, as I scanned through today's paper following my wretched morning cycle to work, I came across this rather obvious yet mildly irritating article...



So it's official; Make yourself happy imbibing anything your heart desires, and it'll clog up before you're fifty - oh, and make you miserable too.
Or, become despicably boring and make Moderation and Discipline your ruthlessly dull mantra as you say 'No' to yourself on a daily basis, jogging all the while as you ignore the relentless screams of your inner self pleading with you to stop, and you'll allegedly be happy for keeps.

Damn you, life.

This Probably Won't Be What You're Expecting

So, first thing's first; the blind date ~ She'd postponed. Despite dressing up that day in my smartest attire - I'd even worn fresh underwear - I was actually quite relieved when the lady in question emailed to take a rain check. She'd just come back from a mini-break and wasn't feeling in the best of spirits, so I'd been handed a stay of execution for a few days, and my evenings were free once again, to return to Deadwood, or drink at the weekend.

But here's the thing ~ I'm not sure if we'll keep in touch. Y'see, she last emailed me on Friday afternoon (a non-replyable "hahahaha", if I'm being fair to myself), but work kept me suitably occupied, and I never did get back to her.

On Friday, I caught up with old friends, friends who'd all met at a lousy exam board we'd temped at years ago. I got drunk and broke my 4 days non-smoking spell, greatly cheered at how well they looked; a little older perhaps, but moving on, and with better, more rewarding* jobs than I (*in both achievement, and in wallet).
On Saturday, despite my hangover, I'd crawled to the other side of London for a houseparty where I may have been abusive to a young vegan gothette who'd quite literally waded into the function handing out vegan flyers without so much as a hello.

But no, this post isn't going anywhere. I didn't meet a special someone, and nor did anything commit-ey happen with the American ex.
Nor did I email blind date lady today, Monday, as I've been too busy at work, and too miserable with a cold I magically woke up with.
I know I should take everyone's sensible advice and just get on with the damn date, but that would be bad. Very bad. Because there's a huge chance she'll spend it watching me sobbing into my arms as I'm splayed out over the table.

Because something happened today that rather frightened me.

I woke up this morning having not had enough sleep. I tubed it in as I was too tired to cycle in (again). I opened up the shop, started receiving phonecalls almost immediately as I attempted to clear the paperwork mountain on my desk whilst adding to it with each call.
I was surly, and sniffy with cold, and sore-headed. Mid-afternoon, I felt the urge to visit the toilet. It took me twenty minutes to leave my desk as things kept ringing or walking in to be served. Eventually, I made it into the cubicle, and burst into tears.

I was more shocked than anything else, although now's a good time to point out that my "bursting into tears" is silent, and apparently involves my eyes angrily watering over as I desperately tilt my head back to avoid any actual crying. In the peace of that damn crapper, I was overwhelmed with a profound sense of what a complete and utter turd I've made of my entire life. At that specific moment, that one thought felt like an almighty thud to the head that came from nowhere, and seemed fit to knocking me out. Then it came back in a wave, and again, then again, and I wasn't sure if I could leave the toilet.

It was then that my Dad's friend Michael popped into my head. He's in his seventies like my old man, except Michael never married. He just never met anyone, and lives alone in his flat in the suburbs, going slightly mad.
'He thinks there are people living up in the attic,' my Dad told me recently.
That was when I started shaking, petrified and utterly convinced that I'd end up like that. 'I'm destined to achieve nothing and appeal to no-one,' I thought, 'and one day, I'll wake up old and convinced there are people living in my roof.'

I gave serious consideration to hiding in the toilet for a few hours, then I composed myself. I coughed, walked outside, and got back to my desk as if nothing had happened.

Before I'd retreated to the toilet to discover I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown (I Googled it for a bit of self-diagnosis and yes, I'm well on my way), my Mum had called, neatly - I can see now - laying the foundations for my blubbing over the ceramic. It's her 30th wedding anniversary this week and she's arranged a big family get-together. I'd already tried to wriggle out of it once. I like my close family, obviously, but there's going to be at least 40 other people there, relatives and friends I really don't want to be around; repeating to them the job I'm doing but don't want to do anymore, sighing that yes, I'm still single but not gay, and avoiding my idiot brother-in-law, indifferent sister, false step-siblings, and generally pretending to be amiable when I'd rather be crying in the foetal postion in a small room.

My Mum took offence when she first told me about the impending anniversary and I'd asked her if I had to go; apparently, I do. When she called today, all excited about her party, I reminded her that I'd have to wake up early that Sunday to begin the four-hour round trip via a bus, then a train, then another bus and a walk plus waiting in between (then repeat) - my way of suggesting it was all a colossal pain in the arse for me.
'Then stay with us the night before!' she offered.
The only trouble with that is a) sleeping on a fucking sofa instead of my own comfy bed and, b) going to my Mum's on Saturday night? That's my entire weekend, shot down by one family commitment.
So I declined her offer with a sigh, and my mother slammed the phone down on me. She hasn't done that since I was about sixteen.

I did try calling her back, but in true day job fashion, she answered just as someone walked into the office, and I had to start the conversation with, 'I'll call you back,' something I still haven't done.

Instead, I went on to cry in a macho way in the toilets, considered resigning on the spot (again), and wondered what the fucking hell's going to become of me.

The point is this: I can't date anyone in this state, so don't fucking make me, and if you're about to leave a comment that I will die alone if I refuse to date, please instead name your favourite TV icon.

Ah, BOLLOCKS

Great, a Date

Today, I remembered why I hate online dating sites.

It's not the fact that they're cold and impersonal, as you search impassively through hundreds of profiles of the desperate and lonely. It isn't the ignoring, and being ignored that might occur when contact is attempted. And nor is it the wider implications of the sites very existence, a searing indictment of how time-starved and inept we've all become.

Nope, it's the fucking blind date I've got lined up for tomorrow. I'll be honest: I don't want to go. I absolutely hate blind dates, and in the 4 years since I'd last gone on one, I'd totally forgotten. They're nerve-wracking. They're cringe-worthy. They're painful. And all this is of my own, accidental devising. The woman in question is the only one guilt had made me email out of several respondents. I'd ignored all the others, and felt awful about it. (I always want to leave a good impression on every date, and not arranging any made this easier to accomplish.)

The blind datee has insisted we meet up in a part of London that an ex-girlfriend of mine lives in, with a dozen of her mates. I'm not saying I'll bump into that ex while I'm on this awkward date, I'm just saying the likelihood is greater in that particular locale.

On the plus side, my last blind date (those 4 years ago) ended with sex that same night. She'd flown over from the States and we'd met in the hotel bar. That American lady had been my last girlfriend (and, uh, sexual partner), and by some bizarre coincidence as I spent this afternoon emailing impending date lady, I was emailed out of the blue by American ex ~ her current boyfriend has dumped her.

I have no idea what any of this even means.

And now I'm scared.

Headache

I have a headache. A headache caused by the dating game, epic TV serials, smoking, and former work colleagues. Moreover, I have a headache because of the vicious ringing in my ears. Perhaps if I stopped going to bed at 3am and had more than four hours sleep before getting up for work, I might have less of a headache, but that would leave me with less to complain about and that just WOULD NOT DO.

I have an impending date lined up for next week. The date is not yet set, but it will be. I wish I could be more enthusiastic, but I'm not. You see, I had wanted to be a few pounds lighter once I'd recommenced the giddying thrill of frightening courting young(ish) women. I also wanted to have a better job too, but I received a rejection from the one job I applied for this year. 'Twas a shame, as I'd started to daydream about the 10 minute walk-commute to work, the shorter hours, more money (8 grand more), and the writing I'd be allowed to do. But tis not to be. 35, and I'm already on the employment scrap-heap.

On the plus side, I'm finding life rather fun now that I'm no longer spending my free time writing a (Ha!) 'novel' every day. I've been out a lot more (tons of fun, but painful on the liver/ wallet). I've also treated myself to some new clothes and a handful of dvds, one of my treats being the entire run of Deadwood - watching it for the first time five years after the rest of the planet as I make my slow, cocksucking way through all three seasons. (Please Google that reference as that, in retrospect, reads as a wholly inappropriate sentence for a straight man.)

Swijin!

Meanwhile, this afternoon, in between swearing at the ringing phones and eating a rancid prawn cocktail sandwich, I ventured out to Boots - for the benefit of non-Angloids, a popular British pharmacy (that I've also seen on the Kao San Road in Bangkok, btw) - who are, in conjunction with the wonderful if much maligned NHS, offering a quit smoking programme. My nicotinal habit, you see, is becoming somewhat worrying. I'm developing a pain in my heart that isn't for once caused by the absence of an understanding and patient woman, or the lingering resentment garnered by a perfectly good life atrophying in shit.

For £7.20, I get as much nicotine replacement in gum, patch or inhaler form as I can imbibe for five weeks, and lots of progress consultations. I can't wait. I want to feel like a socially accepted heroin addict in remission.

And finally, last week, as I stood on the tube flicking through the free evening paper, I found myself gasping in shock to the bemusement of the other passengers. There, staring back at me, was Nemesis II, looking serious and sex-pesty as the story in question had him a witness to a frankly horrific accident in which a cyclist fought with a lorry.
The lorry won.

I'd like to dwell more on the young woman who died in such a barbaric way as she made her way home from work, and avoid the irritation I felt at revisiting that twat in newspaper form, but what can I say. We are all, as Freud had it, rather self-obsessed.

I still feel awful about the whole business though, and that's miserable and gives me a greater headache.

Sorry.

Enjoy The Silence?

Believe it or not, I'm an optimist. I actually believe that one of those single women from that dating website will reappear and get in touch.

This is despite a week going by, and not hearing a thing from them. That's not to say I haven't been contacted at all. Several other women have written to me and been delightful - at least the ones I've read have - as rejoining said dating website has reminded me of a certain little thing that made me leave in the first place: GUILT.

I know beggars can't be choosers, and I know that I've whinged about being single for over 3 years but, well, I just ain't that into them.

And that makes me feel awful. AWFUL.

I don't want to ignore them. They're only being nice and saying hello, but dammit, I just can't see the point in engaging in a dialogue that'll head inexorably towards a date I don't want to go on.

Having said that, a date may be happening soon with one lady. I'm slightly unsure about the whole business as I kinda only joined to desperately get back in touch with one of those women who wrote to me a year ago without my realising only to take the supposed snub and move on with their lives but, well, I'm not getting any younger.

But neither am I that bothered about a date with someone I've started chatting to because, like Pringles, she was just there.
Oh hello, More Guilt.

God, I'm confused and anxious.

* * * * *

Update: I just popped online to check if any of those women had reappeared (still No) when someone flashed up a window to chat. I pressed 'ignore'. This is absolutely horrible. Please can someone reaffirm that I'm not alone in finding these sites utterly bizarre.

FUCKING HELL!!!

The weekend. I'm heartily ignoring the rubbish book I've written to masturbate to pornography, eat half a dozen doughnuts, and smoke half a pack of cigarettes. And as the thoughts of self-loathing took hold, I found myself gravitating towards finding "love" online. I checked into an old dating website I belong to and spent a considerable amount of time 'browsing', when I came across a ladyperson I liked from waaay back.

Somewhat piqued to notice that she'd viewed me before, I tried to contact her but, alas, the fuckers demanded I re-register. Instead, I thought I'd hit their 'Click' function. Simply put, you can indicate if you think you'd click with someone and, if they've already thought likewise, an icon pops up indicating a match.

So imagine my surprise when a match popped up between us.

I began to yell. I stood up in my room and my towel fell off as I scrambled, fat and naked, for my credit card.

I re-registered at a not insignificant cost, and that was when I really began to feel ill. There were 151 unread emails and messages for me.

Said lady had already written to me over a year ago. An equally lovely lady and fellow blogger had written to me a year before her. And sandwiched between them both like an oestrogen filling was a local lady who'd stolen my heart only to ignore me - except she hadn't. She'd written to me three times, only to end with an apology for ignoring me the first time round as, she'd assumed, that was why I'd ignored her. Others wrote to me including one (clearly delusional) young woman who used the word 'adorable' in a totally non-ironic way.
Too bad she's in Florida.

Suffice to say, I feel ill, and that's not just from the doughnuts. To think all these attractive, intelligent women with low standards were contacting me for the last couple of years, and I had absolutely no idea.

It's probably for the best. They're missing out on a chain-smoking, doughnut eating wanker who thinks he can write.

BEWARE OF RODNEY STANGER

And one more for fun...

Home Is Where The Start Is

I've been back home for nearly a week, and I'm in a strangely positive mood. It's tempered, obviously, by not being on holiday anymore, oh, and having to go to work and, oh yeah, a couple of days ago I drunkenly dropped my left contact lens down the sink and spent half a fucking hour with my hand up a stinking pipe pulling out clumps of pungent grey slurry at three in the morning finding nothing but backache and a swiftly erupting hangover. My new eye test is now booked for this week.

My twenty-odd bedbug and mosquito bites are subsiding, I've done three lots of washing since my return, spent a Saturday night ironing shirts, tidied my room, and done my utmost to enjoy evenings free of writing a shit (Ha!) novel.

It hasn't helped that 50% of said novel feedback has been "Look at it this way; at least you've finished something." All other comments ranged around immature, or poor character development, and a somewhat disturbed opinion of my state of mind; Pretty much all the things that'll make you wish you never go near your endeavours again.

But I couldn't care less. I've had a pleasant break of no sex where I realised I look like an ageing elephant in all the photographs (because the camera was pointed at an ageing elephant), so I've put myself on a diet.
Granted, a quiet weekend of wine, fags, pizza, crisps, a small homemade chocolate brownie, two custard doughnuts and a dozen ricecakes to make amends doth not a healthy regime make, but it's Sunday night and thus I'm back on the sushi.

I'm attempting to cycle to work for the rest of the year, and cut out all the crap, and, more important than that, quit my job. I feel that with a 'book' under my (large) belt, I can leave. I have no idea what for, but it's got to be for more money, and less hours, and at least one member of staff with a womb.

And with all these things in mind, I'm feeling pretty optimistic for once.

Yeah, okay, give it a week.




















On the way to Ljubljana. Art installation, or someone's outdoor kitchen?















Ljubljana.















Breakfast; Kebab.















Goodbye, potential future king, hello First World War.












Downtown Sarajevo.




















Uptown Sarajevo.




















Mid-air whinging idiot.




















Mostar.




















Dubrovnik.















Barely alive Croatian cat.















Cavtat, end of the line.















You might well think this is us. I couldn't possibly comment.

Drinking in Dubrovnik

I came to after six hours sleep, numb from the air conditioning. Martin was passed out in his neighbouring bed, so I woke him up to tell him to shut the fucker off.

I tried to get back to sleep, but the moment had passed. I left Martin in a near-catatonic state and staggered down to the port of Dubrovnik for a couple of lethal coffees and a dozen cigarettes. The previous night, we'd traipsed through the old town, a stunning walled citadel with polished marble streets and gleaming baroque churches. It was yet another beautiful destination to be in, far too evocative and romantic for the likes of us.

Mostar too, visually at least, had been beautiful; a picturesque town with its rebuilt bridge towering over the Neretva river, and not much else. For all the beauty of that place, the majority of its citizens redressed the balance by being surly fuckers.

And now the holiday's almost over. We've no more buses or trains or catch, our last mode of transport a large plane tomorrow, bound for Gatwick. We caught the Mostar to Dubrovnik bus yesterday, seconds before a strange Balkan downpour thundered down for several hours, shrouding the allegedly stunning coast with its islands and turquoise seas in a very British gloom. Yet my spirits were anything but dampened. It was Saturday, and we'd planned to end our trip with a bang. I was so happy that I'd even talked to ladypersons on the bus, one of whom was a stunning blonde Swede who indicated her nationality by pointing at her vast breasts with the words 'Sverige' stretched across her t-shirt.

I went red, and slunk back in my seat, none too pleased to see her leave the bus well before we'd arrived at Dubrovnik.

After lunch chatting to two lovely Australian ladies, and a nap, we'd hit the town. It felt rather odd to be drinking in bars in such a breathtaking place as we guzzled booze with all the sophistication of a knucklehead. I'd attempted more chatting; two charming English girls in the first bar we'd visited, but as I realised they were barely into their twenties and attractive, and I was waaaay out of my depth trying to chat them both up, I'd decided instead to sweat profusely and slink back to my corner from whence I'd slithered.

Then, oddly, a semi-naked woman jumped on a cube in the centre of the bar to gyrate to bad Euro-pop. I didn't quite know where to look as I didn't want to seem like a leerer in front of the two British girls, but then again, in front of me was was a semi-naked woman gyrating to bad Euro-pop.

The girls left soon afterwards, and generic guilt led us outside and on to another bar, then another, and before long we were in the worst place on earth: a fucking Irish pub. We'd only gone there for one, mainly out of laziness as we were having trouble trying to locate an amazing bar that existed only in our minds, and found ourselves chatting to a blonde Australian hayseed. Suddenly, there were three more, and I bought them all drinks because I'm a total fucking idiot. They chatted to us by way of payment, taking it in turns to nod at our weak jokes before running off to leave another luckless girl to it.

Martin and I posed for their photos which rather unsettled me. As one of them threw a drunk arm over my large shoulder, her hand brushed against my hair, my wet, sweat-saturated hair. Her "Ugh" will haunt me forever.

Somewhere near this internet cafe, that gang of Aussie birds (collective noun: a hangover) are waking up to snaps of a fat pink bloke with a damp head and eyes half-closed as he mouthed the words, "Seriously, I don't look good in pict..."

The Irish pub had been the beginning of the end. Up until then, I was in a rather splendid mood, with my smart shirt and generic joie de vivre.
I was relaxed.
I was a bit drunk.
I was happy.
"Tonight," I remarked to Martin, "something might just well happen."

And something did, if the definition of Something has changed to Nothing.

The Aussie bird chatting to me suddenly fled the pub. This is quite literal. She took off mid-sentence without so much as an "excuse me", when four Australian Burps swaggered in with their balls clanging.
"Jeffo!" she'd yelled, and sprinted off in the middle of her telling me about her family in London.
"Bye, fellas," said another as they'd walked off into the night.

"We're offta Belvederes," I heard one of the blokes tell them.
"Fuckers!" I said to Martin. "I wanted to go there. Now we'll look like stalkers."
"Then we should go to that Latin club across the road," he replied, as a fresh hell had begun.

My Middle Age became official in Club Fuego. Martin and I sat in their courtyard as braying fucksters peacocked past sneering women, whilst I chainsmoked and pondered never setting foot inside a club again. Earlier, one of the Australians had said I looked about 24 (Sign #6 of the utterly wretched: Playing 'Guess My Age' with young women), and I'd half-considered clubbing until I began to atrophy but then again, it probably wasn't a good idea taking compliments from someone who'd said wherever they travelled on earth, they'd make a beeline for the nearest Aussie bar.

"I think my clubbing days are over," I said to Martin as the club got busier and we watched a mass of people force their way downstairs. "I'm going to take one last look around, to remind myself what I'm missing."
I stood up and walked over to the back of the crush, and peered into the club proper. People were stood shoulder to shoulder, smashing into one another to a godforsaken R&B soundtrack. Occasionally, one of those heads would be pretty. Mostly, they were shaven-headed fuckhats, and more Brits than I can bear to be around when not in Britain. (Thank you, Stelios.)

I frowned, seeing little point in forcing my way through for no reason, and potentially getting into a fight. I tend to get funny, as Martin had earlier, about patting a guy several times to get past, only to be ignored.

"Fuck it," I said as I walked back to our table. "Let's go get a kebab."

The Inevitable Funk

I know it's rather undignified to bitch whilst on holiday, to be hundreds of miles from my desk and work and bloody customers without a care in the world, but a couple of nights ago, I fell into a funk. Martin fell into his the following night.

Living out of a rucksack, waking up early and being constantly on the move, and drinking large amounts of 'British-Personalityjuice' every single night had taken it's toll. I had become bored, rather upset and disillusioned with the world, and somewhat unhappy with my entire existence yet a-fuckin'-gain.

It had been our last night in Sarajevo. I had decided to forgo the smart shirt and jacket look I'd adopted the previous night (women hadn't noticed anyway), for a simple black number that had been rather restrictive around my fat chest. It was odd - as it often is in those places - to be making merry in a former warzone; Sarajevo had, after all, been bombed to smithereens from the surrounding hills it's nestled within for four years, its citizens ducking from sniper fire and assault weaponry at exactly the same time I'd been having the greatest time of my life at University.

The background to my funk had been simple; joining Martin and me was that miserable git, tagging along uninvited. I'd see him now and again as we passed shop windows and caught his reflection. Whenever Martin took my picture and showed me the digital results, there he was, sunburned and grinning with his chin-gut swaying in the breeze while his sweaty forehead glistened like a honeyglazed ham.

"Delete it," I'd say after being shown the latest photo. I've since advanced to having my picture taken and watching Martin collapse into paroxysms of laughter - I now tell him to delete it without bothering to review the abominable result.

As we'd waited for our Sarajevo-bound train at Zagreb, we noticed two swaggering dicking machines. We recognised them instantly as The Enemy, a pair of young, slim Twenty-somethings, chock-full of confidence and semen. One wore his hair in dreads, the other kept his laid-back and floppy. Both wore t-shirts and shorts that weren't saturated with sweat, and looked every inch the cliched traveler. We'd clocked each other as we stood at the station, and kept our distance. After all, when backpacking, groups of men are like packs of wolves; a threat to one another as they compete for the same hunting ground, that small yet fertile land of lips and breasts and smiles that, if nurtured properly, will let you fuck it.

And thus, my funk grew. Martin and I visited the Sarajevo photo museum (sweating the back of my clothes into a stained Turin Shirt as we walked there in the midday sun), and surveyed their harrowing exhibition that shamed me with my lack of Balkan War knowledge. We'd gone back to our hotel and freshened up for yet another night on the town. We'd eaten at a restaurant where I'd had to eat profile in front of four French women - not my best angle, all chins and nose and solid, rectangular body - and winced as I glanced at them only to note their absolute refusal to look even vaguely in my direction in case they melted like that guy at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"I'm going on a diet when I get home," I thought as we made our way to the bar we'd end up in every night. The two travelers were in there chatting to a random woman. The night before, they'd sat with three Polish girls and left, giggling, en masse, a fivesome of travelling strangers, no doubt minutes from getting naked and penetrating one another. It was at that point that I got more depressed, guessing that us Brits tend to holiday in bars and get hammered, hoping that something sexual might happen, whereas the French, as these two lads were, cut straight to the chase.

I'd complained to Martin later that night that I was almost certainly never going to have sex again, that I had no right being in bars in the first place and besides, at 35, it was verging on sad and pathetic. My only options in life, I'd concluded, were suicide, or rape.

So imagine my joy when, upon yelling out the aforementioned ferociously tongue-in-cheek comment as we'd stood up to leave, I'd discovered sitting opposite us two English-speaking, if not English, girls. (For the record, they were with men. And for the record #2, I don't think they'd want to meet tubby, pink men who mull over self-harm or violent sexual assault loud and in public.)

I could go on, but I won't. We're now currently in Mostar, a visually beautiful if rather quiet hamlet in southern Bosnia. You may have heard of its bridge. It's seems almost solely populated, at least in its old town, by tourists. Of the locals who have to serve them and their constant cries of attention, all, barring our beautiful hostel owner, are surly and miserable.

And so we are leaving for Dubrovnik tomorrow. I'd stay in this hostel forever, if only to catch the life-affirming smile of the young lady here, but it'll only end in tears.

I'm about as appealing as AIDS on toast.

Sarajevo, With One Eye Closed

I am sat in an Internet cafe, looking like a pirate without an eye patch. It would appear I've developed some kind of infection, or scratched my ocular ball, and wearing a contact lens in my left eye causes said eye to go bloodshot and make my nose run. Needless to say, this isn't a look I want to cultivate; nor is wearing my ridiculous fucking glasses as they're thicker than the combined attendees at hairdressing seminar. So I have just the one contact lens in, whilst occasionally closing the other in order that I can see. Sexy.

We're now in Sarajevo, the rather charming capital city of Bosnia and Herzegovina that we've yet to check out properly. We're here for a couple more days as we cut the Croatian capital of Zagreb short due to lack of interest. I wish I could say nicer things about it, and I wish we'd done more cerebral things than just drink and eat but in the event, we didn't. I'd managed to book a hostel that was over an hour's walk from the town centre, a walk first undertaken with our heavy rucksacks whilst Martin swore at me. When we did go back into town on Saturday night dressed in smart shirts and suit jackets, we both wished we were in t-shirts as teenage girls giggled at us and hooded Croatian chavs frowned. Even among adults, we were the only ones dressed up to go out and, after a few hours wandering around trying to find Croat life, we gave up and undertook that fucking walk back to the hostel, as the trams had stopped running.

Sunday was spent chilling, and watching a dodgy copy of Idiocracy we'd found in the Hostel's common room. We were actually enjoying our evening's sobriety until, a good hour or so into the film, the fucker packed up so we'd gone to bed to be up early for the trip to Bosnia.

Nine hours on a train ain't fun, particularly as the ebb and flow of humanity grabbed seats next to us; all gruff, stinking men who'd managed to jump ahead of the lithe, modelesque ladies, who'd peered in to our now crowded booth as we got crushed by belching, chainsmoking fuckhats.

And now we're in Sarajevo. It's one of those placenames like Beirut and, now, Baghdad, that seems to resonate with images of war and destruction, but it's really quite nice - particularly as the Bosnian war's over. There's a strong Muslim prescence here, lots of white-ish looking women in scarves, and of course the Roman Catholicism of the last couple of countries we've been in now has to jostle with eastern Orthodoxy. Don't ask me why, but I keep thinking I'm in Turkey.

Anyway, I'm going to get out of this Internet cafe to look for some motherfucking Optrex for my shagged sight. I can't spend the next few days with vision in one eye only. And neither can I sit among 12-year-old Sarajevan boys as they shoot one another online whilst singing Bosnian folksongs.

Bloody hell.

In Transit

I used to think, after 35 years on this stinking orb, that I knew the meaning of humiliation, but I hadn't - Simply put, humiliation is mistakenly leaving as a tip over twice the cost of the actual bill, realising ten minutes later, then sheepishly walking over to the waiter to ask for it back. The kitchen staff actually applauded when I did this, I still can't work out if it was irony, or mocking, or some bizarre Slovenian display of anger.

We are now in Croatia, where I am sat in my new hostel and it's pissing it down outside. I don't mind in the slightest. It was boiling hot yesterday as Martin and I traversed Tivoli Park whilst getting third degree burns, so a little British downpour suits me fine.
I probably shouldn't have asked the cute Australians I bumped into if I could steal some of their Aftersun. I didn't particularly endear myself to them as I stammered and managed to go redder whilst appearing incredibly cheap and cheeky.

It's a shame to have left Ljubljana as it's a charming place, a city in miniature with a tiny river flowing through a picturesque centre, and in the throes of a lively summer festival that (almost) made up for my lack of not pulling. My condoms are having a fantastic time though; last year they got to visit Poland and Hungary and the Czech Rep and Vienna, without so much as leaving their comfy little box, and this year appears to be no exception. They're clocking up as many airmiles as me, with the added benefit that they don't have to go near my aged, greying penis.

Today's train down was fun. Despite having a bladder as weak as a premature baby in an incubator, Martin nipped off to the buffet car for more water. When he came back, he took a chug of it only to freeze in horror, his cheeks bulging like a nut-gathering squirrel about to vomit as he ran to the window to spit it out. Dazed, he returned to his seat where he demanded I sniff the bottle.
'That's strong,' I said.
'Take a sip', he replied.
I did so, and gagged. 'This is fucking vodka!'
'Cheap fucking vodka,' added Martin, 'Or poison.'
'If you thought it was poison,' I screamed despite the two ladies in our carriage, 'why the fuck did you make me try it?'
''Cos if I die, you're coming with me.´

Martin returned the bottle to the buffet car once the stone-faced Croat coppers swaggered away having grimaced at our passports. Turns out he´d accidently been sold the chef's personal supply of "water".

Saturday night, and we are in Zagreb. I am about to leave this hostel's computer room and iron my shirt for the Big Night Out, except I am absolutely fucking shattered. All my sleep thus far has been minimal; I can't sleep when in transit so I hadn't caught up on the train, our previous hostel room was as hot as a Japanese POW camp (with a new Spanish couple to keep awake all night with my alleged "Depth Charge" ping of a snore, and an all-new cross between a gag and a cry of pain), and I was unable to sleep earlier as our beds back on to the hostel's common room, where half a dozen Welshmen were watching Hugh Jackman in some godforsaken movie.

So here we go. Frankly, if I'm able to so much as talk to Martin tonight, it'll be a miracle. And, oh good, we're about to drink heavily. We haven't done that yet*

(*yes we have, every day since landing.)

Ljubljana, Slovenia

I've just come to in a hot, airless room, with a couple of Spaniards and a Jap.

I'm in the very charming city of Ljubljana. Martin and I arrived yesterday to boiling 31 deg temperatures at an International airport that reminded me of a 1950s aerodrome (we walked through customs directly into a dozen people facing us in a small room, otherwise known as the arrivals hall.)

There's a touch of Eastern Europe about it - unsurprisingly - having spotted as the coach tore us into town a tractor kicking up dust down a dirt track as we passed crumbling monasteries, but that's been about the extent of the stereotype.

The city, a town really, will be doomed to fall under the braying, mooning belch of British stags before long, although it's not massively cheap so it may survive that yet.

Ljub appears to be in the final throes of a cute arts festival, meaning last night was spent walking alongside their tiny town river with their outdoor cafes and occasional tango displays. We'd sojourned at one such bar for a Union beer, surrounded by attractive young women who'd dare not look at us in case they'd turned to fucking stone. A shame really, as I'd packed for the first time my filthy rucksack full of smart ironed shirts. I had thought that this was a maturity on my part, a growing the fuck up to look smart for once, when in fact all that had happened, I'd realised as swaggering, tanned teenbollocks sauntered past in their shorts and polo shirts, was I'd hit 35 and cannonballed violently into pathetic middle age.

Mart and I went on to an intriguing bar full of (literal) skeletons to take advantage of their BOGOF cocktails. Ironically, around the time I was bemoaning to him that I'll never have sex again as I gain weight and turn more fugly, we'd somehow become ensconced in conversation with the two charming Slovene ladies sat next to us. This resumed for a good couple of hours until, unsurprisingly, and following that familiar experience of two women giggling among themselves in their own language for 10 minutes, they quickly upped and left.

Up until then, the night had looked rather promising. The town is suffused with attractive young women and requsite bars... and then we got a kebab and it all went wrong. We went up to a bar stroke club accessible via a streetside elavator, and it was rammed full of generic blokes in t-shirts. The girl sat next to us who I'd spent a good 20 minutes plucking up the courage to speak to looked utterly horrified when I did so. And by that point, we'd grown utterly exhausted.

Cue bed, 5 lousy hours sleep, and a hangover that hasn't quite kicked in.

I'm starting to think that bars are vapid, soulless places, and not the greatest of places to engage in meaningful discourse with the opposite gender.

Particularly if you're me.

COMING SOON: Culture, edifying perambulations in parks, all that bullshit...

Not Enough Hours In The Day

I am fucked, regrettably un-literally.

I have had so little sleep, my ears are screaming back at me.

I've balanced my cheque-book since returning from work stood on the train with my flies undone and my belt hanging off, done half a rucksack's worth of ironing, and I've not had time to reply to all my comments. Sorry.

I've stolen downloaded some music for my iPod, put on some more washing, and tomorrow I'm meeting up with a Uni friend I've not seen for about 10 years because she'd emigrated to Australia.

And I don't have time to write this, which is a shame as I've had an interesting few days, not least finishing my (Ha!) book and emailing the shameful pdf to a select few men.

I'd send it to ladyfriends but, well, the female characters aren't the most well-drawn of people.

Or that nice.

I did go on a singles night last week. I'd go into detail if I had the time or the energy, but I've neither. Suffice to say I'd got a free film out of it (I heartily recommend 500 Days of Summer, by the way - even if it made me feel ill because it reminded me of the turd I've spent two years trying to write), and managed to stand in a room making the most of 10 single women to every man by not talking to them as I hid in the corner with my Wingman Martin, looking petrified as we necked all much free booze as possible.

We got approached. We had nice chats. I found myself alone on a bus going home, wondering why I didn't talk to that group of single cute girls I liked.

Mart and I are off to Ljubljana in two days. Followed by Zagreb, and Sarajevo, and Dubrovnik. That is why I'm so fucking tired as I've been racing to finish writing a book beforehand.

And not sleeping.

And going to Singles events.

Not to mention having to work for a fucking living.

Christ, I'm tired. This post could've been sooo much better written. Kinda like my book.

COMING UP SOON: WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING IN SLOVENIA????

Unbearable Shitness of Writing

I am tired, so very, very tired. I have not long woken up, yet I desperately want more sleep. Despite that, I have to go to the office and do a ratty day's work so I can go home later and continue tightening the final draft.

Last night, I began cleaning up the first three chapters. It was badly needed. Badly needed. I now have 53 chapters to finish in the seven remaining evenings before I fly out on holiday.

Trouble is, it's only now that I realise the whole thing's shit; utter, turgid shit.

For a 'comedy', it's not funny. As a story, it's barely existent. That's what happens when you wing it and don't plan anything to the nth degree, hoping instead it'll just emerge. And now my name's all over it. That's wot I wrote. I've already prepped my friends to read it, and now I'd rather they didn't. I can picture them reading the first couple of pages and sighing as they stare at the other 235.

Great. Two years of my life up in smoke, for a bunch of literal shite. There was me, thinking I'd get it finished, get it published, and get a great new job doing something writey. That's sooo not gonna happen.

I want to sleep for a year. I want to have a book burning. I want to inject carbs into my urethra, and drink turps through a straw. I'm 35, single, and really, really terribly fucked off with it all.

And now I'm too tired to cycle to work so I'll have to train it in. I'm gonna be late.

Bugger.

The Second Draft Is In The Bag

Apologies for the lack of updates, but I've just finished the second draft of my 'book'.

Now it's back to the beginning to re-write all over again for the final draft.

Then, of course, I'm handing it out to a few friends while I holiday in Slovenia, Croatia, and Boznia & Herzegovina in ten days, then I return to read their suggestions and re-write the bastard again.

Hmm. That was quite boring. Sorry.

I've gained weight.

Happy Days

My old mate Chopper has handed in his notice at his job. In doing so, he's spent the better part of two days trawling through ten years of saved emails.

Imagine my delight to have been sent these descending order gems from days gone by:

On work...

From: Ebola, Fweng [mailto:Fweng.Ebola@shit-exam-board.co.uk]
Sent: 11 September 2003 17:55
To: 'Chopper', et al
Subject: Whoops

Seeing as you chaps are fond of my petit faux pas, here's my latest.

All has not been well at work. In fact, it's been dire. We have a new manager and we fell out a few days ago when she yelled at me and I yelled back for longer. We hadn't spoken since, until this afternoon when we had a formal 'one-to-one' meeting to discuss my behaviour. She saw by my folded arms and cynical stares that I wasn't happy. Eventually, she gave me the chance to speak.

I now regret using the phrase, "I feel as if I'm continually shat on by a great big managerial arse from above", said as I looked upwards and waved my hands about, as if protecting myself from metaphorical faeces.

That comment was then added to her list of reasons why I'm crap later on in the meeting.


On returning from holiday...

-----Original Message-----
From: Ebola, Fweng [mailto:Fweng.Ebola@shit-exam-board.co.uk]
Sent: 18 June 2003 11:16
To: 'Chopper'
Subject: RE: Sleaze League Table

Well, the women are absolutely stunning, and the men were all fat, ugly, and shaven headed meaning there were huge discrepancies as models dated the hideously mismatched. I still didn't stand a chance though; the Hungarian language is impenetrable. I also saw two of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, ever, in all my 29 years. I just couldn't bring myself to talk to them, which is probably just as well.

Don't have a clue how much I spent - was all funded by Barclaycard. Got clipped by the Russian mafia in a seedy strip club too. £10 a bottled beer and a demand that we had to spend about £50 each before we left which we argued about until we were threatened very seriously with hospitalisation. For some reason, I was the one sent out into the night to get money from my own account.
McDowall then got a picture of me passed out on the sofa stark bollock naked which I can't say I approve of.

Snogged an Aussie girl who looked like the asian one from the Sugababes though, which was nice but very brief. Think she had a boyfriend back home.
I have got the worst post-holiday blues of my entire life. I want to go back there immediately.

On unemployment...

From: Ebola, Fweng [mailto:Fweng.Ebola@personal-email.co.uk]
Sent: 01 August 2000 22:39
To: 'Chopper' et al
Subject: Self-obsessed rant

Well, I've been unemployed for five months now. I've been through a whole gamut of emotions since leaving [television] with its staff of arrogant, humourless, work obsessed, personality-voided automatons. At first, I dived into the happy hedonistic world of doing nothing and loving it. Takeaways every night, booze, shopping sprees on a lazy weekday afternoon, basically all the selfish mundane shit I couldn't do because I was stuck at work.

Then the money ran out. I'd piled on loads of weight and my job search was going nowhere. Cue a couple of months in complete depression - nothing to do, feeling like a waste of space, thinking that those former work colleagues who called me a "belligerent little shit" were actually right.

Then I joined a gym, blah blah blah, and now I feel great. Just thought I'd let you all know.

Fine - I'm lonely and I crave attention.

On ex-girlfriends...

-----Original Message-----
From: Ebola, Fweng [mailto:Fweng.Ebola@bbc.co.uk]
Sent: 03 December 1999 12:37
To: 'Chopper'
Subject: Jolly season my well rounded arse

This is the last paragraph of the last email that [My first girlfriend] sent me after a frenzied day of emailing yesterday-

"I can't have the love of my life dangled in front of my nose and not be able to have him. Its not your job to be here for me or look after me or watch out for me anymore. You want the clean break, take it, I won't hassle you again.
I hope things work out for you.
Bye
[My first girlfriend]."

* * * * * *

It was great to be able to read the ghosts of relationships past today, almost ten years after she wrote that. She has long since married with children and no, things didn't work out for me. Karma's a bitch.

Cheers for the trip down memory lane, Jamie!