Bloggers: bunch of whiny self-important elitist opinionated nitpicking minutiae-discussing narcissistic self-congratulating bastards. God I miss being one.
Have a great time at the awards. Unlikely I’ll make it, but thank you for the several queries about it. I’m honoured to be on the shortlist for Best Blog Post – obviously I should win, but in the spirit of good sportsmanship, best of luck to everyone, and all that bollocks that nobody really means.
Well done to Conor for sponsoring – I’m pleased to see you doing so well. Take care everyone.
Tags: what the fuck is this bit for again?
Jeebus, it’s been so long I’d forgotten my password.
Just popping in to say bye, I suppose. I was full of good intentions about keeping this thing going, but life and its many distractions keep getting in the way. I suppose this is a long overdue au revoir. Only for this blog though.
We will meet again, you see. There is a light, in the form of Sweary, who has
made me shit myself with the fear of being judged by those with far more talent than I given me the esteemed honour of being part of her new venture. It’s all very hush hush right now – in other words we haven’t a fucking clue where we’re headed with it, yarf – but no doubt she will reveal all very soon. Meanwhile, keep subscribed and I’ll update you with the new location as and when.
Though I’ve dropped my posting routine from daily to just-about-monthly, all is not lost. Why, Kav? I hear you, my sole remaining reader, ask. Because I got a new phone! I reply, tossing you a blanket to keep you warm in here. It’s gotten cold here, I know. It makes me sad.
It takes pictures, this phone. They have a special name for it. They call it a camera-phone. It plays music too. I like to carry mine on my shoulder, the way the cool kids in the 80’s used to carry their boomboxes. Boppin and a rollin. You can see it, me walking to work in my suit with my little 3G boombox tinnying out Queens of the Stone Age, can’t you?
That last phone I had, with the orange screen, was out of date even when I first bought it for £20 back in ‘ought-two. It lasted well though. It finally died when a mains water pipe suddenly burst all over me while I was standing in front of it, soaking me and Mr Phone (we were never close, never got to a first-name basis) right to the core of our tiny CPUs. Did I mention the pipe burst because I’d been hitting it with a hammer? Ah, thought not.
Yes, the good news: I now document my life with pictures, since the words have all but dried up. This is not a choice I made willingly, but invention is the daughter of necessity, or something.
Linzi and I are going for dinner this Friday night. It was her birthday on Tuesday. Go and read what I did last year for her thirtieth. You will be jealous and want me for your own. Even you, Sneezy, you damn dirty ape.
Where was I? Oh yeah, pictures.
My work has me travelling a fair bit these days – some of you might remember me saying that I wouldn’t take this job if it meant a lot of travelling and blah blah slip slap slope here we are today – and here I am in Birmingham a couple of weeks ago:
Middle of nowhere, but nice scenic walks. Nothing else to do, in other words.
Remember a couple of months ago, those shit terrorists tried to blow up Glasgow Airport, and all that stopped them getting right into the terminal were some bollards at the doors? It was great to see their improved security measures in effect last week as I exited the building:
I may be wrong, but it does seem like next time around, it will be a tad easier to DRIVE A FUCKING BUS through that doorway*.
This is the sunrise on my way to work:
This is Erin and Jack:
I really like that picture, even though they aren’t smiling or anything. It looks to me like one of those “this-is-posing-but-let’s-try-to-act-like-we’re-not-posing” photos that you see on the sleeve of an album cover by some alternative musician. In fact, I’m sure I’ve got an album somewhere with two guys in the sleeve doing just such a pose – ten points for the first person to remind me who my children are unwittingly mimicking.
This is some Skum – sweets made from polystyrene that a colleague brought back from Gothenburg the other day:
Not into Skum? How about a bit of Plopp?
Even though Plopp looked and sounded like poo, it didn’t taste like poo at all. Not nutty enough.
Here is a pube I found in the urinals at work:
I have a greater motive than causing you to throw up a little bit of sick into your mouth after viewing that picture. My motive is to demonstrate how bizarre the world really is, for, you see, that pube was up on the wall at a height of approximately six feet – the red arrow shows you where I spotted it while I relieved myself:
Can you imagine how tall the guy who dropped that crotchwire must have been? Fucking twilight zone stuff, I’m telling you.
And this last, holy shit, this last one, I took not five minutes ago while I was writing this drivel:
That, my friends, is the biggest, scariest motherfucking spider I have ever seen outside of films and Australia. This is Scotland, for feck’s sake! Can you see the ruler I held up to him? Four centimetres wide, the little fucker was. You should’ve heard the crunch his body made when I mashed him against the wall with some balled-up tissue. It’s the same crunch you’re going to hear over and over as you chew your cereal tomorrow morning.
Go on, try to keep that memory out of your head.
Linzi’s going to kill me too. The paste that comprises the remains of the spider’s internal organs has left a mark on the wall.
Hope you enjoyed my monthly round-up. Much has happened that I haven’t mentioned, but these days, if I can’t capture incidents in visual format, they pass undocumented. Later chaps and chapettes.
*okay, in the interest of objectivity (I am, after all, a reporter, giving the minutiae of my life to you LIVE, TWENTY FOUR HOURS A DAY) I must concede that the road outside is actually blocked off to all traffic, but still…when not just stick a bollard or two there, for peace of mind?
I’ve been really shit at blogging for a while, and I know that some of you have mailed me or commented about updating your links and such. Me being shit means that I am too lazy to trawl through those comments/mails, so, if any of you wants me to update your link (or add you to the blogroll if you’re new, or whatever), leave a comment in this post and I’ll fix it.
Some time. Probably by the end of 2007.
Getting up for work is the intro to my sit-com. I wake to chirpy mind-guitars jingling light-hearted cheer, setting the scene for you, the viewer, and letting you know that yeah, life throws a lot at kav, but he deals with it with good humour via purposely messy hair. Then as I step out of bed the bass and drums kick in and the camera tracks me to the bathroom. I adjust my sac on the way, peeling it off my thigh as the vocals start – clever words about how even though life has its ups and downs, you’ve just gotta keep on keepin’ on. On-screen you see “Kavalier” in funky scrawly writing*, a glorious play on words giving emphasis to the quirky, off-the-wall nature of my lifestyle.
The song continues with shots of me getting dressed as the words “Starring Kav Kavson” flash up, while you, watching at home, settle down with a glass of red wine and a pack of Thai Sweet Chilli crisps, probably served in a special bowl with a separate little compartment for dip, ready to catch up with your favourite show. See me grabbing a banana, kissing Linzi (“with Linzi Kavson”), and hurriedly hugging the kids (“Erin Kavson”, “and Jack Kavson”). This demonstrates to you that no matter how much pressure I’m under, family comes first.
The song approaches its singalong climax with me running for my train and nearly missing it (jeez Louise, he so crazy, living on the edge like that), walking the streets of Glasgow to work (fast cuts of me nodding hello to various people on the way, all of them of different ethnicities to demonstrate to my viewers that not only am I not a racist, I’m also really fucking nice), then running down the corridor as I see someone hold the full-to-capacity lift for me, and I climb in, having barely made it. The intro ends on a close-up of my frazzled face, looking hapless and amiable and doing that “aw-shucks-stuff-just-seems-to-happen-to-me-by-accident” smile that has become my trademark and the main reason for my sit-com being syndicated globally. All the loser extras stand behind me in the lift (they wish they could be stars of sitcoms like I am, but it just won’t happen lads), just as the doors close…and fade to black.
Fade back in one second later and a panoramic shot shows the outside of my work building while that funkelastic guitar kicks in again for a few seconds. Diddle-a-biddle-a-beer-neer-
deer-neer-waaaaoww-waaawwwww. The camera then zooms right in to a particular office window. (It may not be my office window but it’s enough that you think it’s my office window.) This sets the scene for you: Kav’s at work, and he’s in a good mood because the music told you so.
INT: KAV, STROLLING TO DESK.
kav: Good morning everyone!
All: Shut the fuck up you happy wanker.
kav: Dang, you guys are so miserable. Come on, join the party!
(canned laughter as kav does “hilarious” white-boy-who-wants-to-be-black dance)
Colleague #1 (token black dude, “Special Guest Star Muhammad Ali”): Man, dude, why you always in such a good mood? It’s Monday, you know it’s rude to have a happy attitude.
kav: Heeeey, the party never stops at chez k, brother!
(more canned laughter and squeals of delight as kav does Ricki-Lake-style “sista” neck movement)
All colleagues (closing in on kav): You’re a fuckin dead man.
(ALL – KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF HAPPY KAV. HE’S LEFT A BLOODIED MESS ON THE FLOOR. CLOSE-UP ON KAV’S SWOLLEN FACE AS COLLEAGUE #1 HOLDS A GUN TO HIS TEMPLE.)
Colleague #1: I ain’t your brother, you’re getting me mixed up with some other. Now have some of this, a bullet’s kiss.
(Colleague #1 pulls trigger. Kav’s happy thoughts splatter all over the hard-wearing office carpet. The REAL kav then enters the office, steps over happy kav’s body, takes off headphones and sits down.)
Real kav (mumbling, sullen): Morning lads.
Others in general vicinity: Mmmph.
Real kav (scowling because it’s Monday, asking but not really caring about the answer): Good weekend?
OIGV: Mmmph, football, hhmmph, gimped Saturday night, mgrr, dying on Sunday.
Real kav (turns on PC, distracted by the internet): Yeah, good…heheheh, check it out, a woman got killed by her pet camel when it tried to ride her. Heheheh.
(cue Darwin Awards dream sequence)
What? Nobody else thinks of their life in televisual terms? Right, I’d better shut up then.
*thanks to Devin for the name of my sitcom.
This is what happened:
Thursday, the car was damp with parental guilt as we made our way to the airport, a feeling that was killed off once we realised we were child-free for three whole days. “Think of all the relaxed sex we’ll have!” I exclaimed gleefully. She’ll deny it, but Linzi couldn’t wait either. She said as much, in between the sobs.
“It’s only for three days, and your sister will look after them like they were her own. If she had any,” says I. “Sure, doesn’t she have a dog and a cat. That must be even tougher than managing a couple of toddlers.”
It’s tougher for women. I’ve been away for days at a time before. You know, on my drug and alcohol binges. Linzi though. She’s been with them every second since they’ve been born. You’d think she’d be glad of the break, but there she was, crying.
I produced my lad in the car while I drove to the airport – it wasn’t easy trying to control two such mighty contraptions at once, but I knew it would make her laugh. Alas, not last Thursday. “Look at how small he is.” “Look at him winking at you.” Nothing worked. I shut my mouth and let her ride it out.
We landed at Shannon and got on the stinky bus. Mam had forgotten she said she’d collect us – she was up in Mayo on holiday. Some people go to Lanzarote. It takes all kinds.
I patted my flattened stomach when I got off the bus in Galway, glad I’d kept up the swimming. My family’s favourite name for me is “Fat (insert hilarious comedy word here)”. Fat bastard. Fat fecker. Fat cunt. Quality Irish humour, usually said while jabbing me semi-aggressively in the
sirloin belly. None of that this time, ye pups! Ha!
It was weird being in Galway. I had to fight through throngs of lovely girls to make it to Woodquay, it being Race Week and all. Ladies’ Day, to be precise. Good old Race Week, when most normal folk can’t even afford to pay attention, never mind the exhorbitant prices for food, drink, and accommodation. On Shop Street a lad tried to charge me €5 when I asked him for the time. As my sister said when she picked us up “What fuckin use are the Races to Galway anyway?”. I rambled on about the enormous benefit to the local economy, just to annoy her, but then she jabbed me in the ribs and called me a fat fucker, so I stopped.
The night before the wedding, we went down to the Róisín Dubh for several pints too many. I also had a pizza in Monroe’s. If you’re ever drunk down the wesht of Galway city, get yourself a pizza in Monroe’s. I’d step over hot smokeless coals for one. And have.
Saturday was a 7.30 rise and I beat back the impending hangover with a swift litre of non-Galway water. I’d have got my hole kicked if I was hungover that day, but it’d have been even worse if I’d got Crypto’d up to my eyeballs. The wedding wasn’t ’til one, but we were going for a hot towel shave, myself, the groom and his groomsmen, hence the early rise. It was great – left my cheeks smoother than Craig David’s singing voice, and it lasted nearly two days. In fact, the second day, my cheeks felt like they’d feel after having a normal shave. Thirty squids though, not cheap. But sure wasn’t it worth it lads, for the day that was in it? It was, they told me.
The wedding was in Galway Cathedral. The cathedral is big, in case you didn’t know. There were 200 people at the ceremony and the place was still no more than a tenth full. Having said that, there were at least another hundred tourists milling around snapping photos during the course of it, which I thought was fucking disgraceful, but that’s Catholics for you.
Someone told me later that night that I was the coolest man they’d ever seen on an altar. Even cooler than Father Fitzcool, who as most people know is the coolest parish priest west of the Shannon, he said to me. Linzi said I looked like I had a poker up my hole standing up there. They were both right.
I did alright, it has to be said. I’ve done both, and the best man’s role is definitely more difficult than the groom’s. All that lad has to do is show up in one piece and he’s guaranteed a ride. I had countless opportunities to cock up, but thankfully missed most of them.
They got their pictures done with maybe half an hour to spare before the coke-and-ice-cream clouds started fizzing rain down hard. We were safe in the hotel by then though, so nobody minded.
My speech is down there, in the comments. This thing is long enough without including it here.
They had them before the meal, thank jeebus. I wouldn’t have been able to eat a thing if I had to wait until after the meal to talk.
Bombshell number one was when I was told I would not only be doing my speech, I would be MC for the rest of the speakers too. Yes, I know this is a common best man duty, but it was the first I’d been told about it people! If I’d known I’d have prepared some jokes.
Bombshell number b was that the microphone didn’t work properly. It was a wireless one. I fucking hate wireless mics. I didn’t used to, but I do now. I lost a couple of moderately amusing punchlines because of the mic cutting out at critical times, but apart from that, the speech went fine. Until I remember that the newly-married couple’s five-year old decided to throw a tantrum halfway through and would not stop until Mammy was cuddling her again. That was a minute and a half I struggled through. When you’re standing up in front of two hundred people, do you know how long a minute and a half lasts? An hour and a half, that’s how long! Bless her though, she was very pretty on the day, and a little angel throughout…apart from those few minutes.
Did I mention the hotel staff decided to start taking food orders while I was giving my speech? People complained afterwards at how ridiculous it was, because the chatter of everyone deciding what they wanted to eat drowned out some of my best work.
Sounds like a disaster, doesn’t it? The odd thing is, it should have been, but it wasn’t. It went really well, and the Bangor joke got a huge laugh. I got a few nice comments afterwards, which made me feel a bit better about things. Kind of like when you do a revealing blog post and you’re in two minds but then someone says they liked it and then you’re okay again.
To tell the truth, I don’t think I could’ve done much more with my bit – I had loads of practice done, but it was just a pile of external things that fucked bits of it up. Sure you’ll have that. The main thing is the day was a resounding success.
If you read the speech, I should point out now that the reason me giving a Liverpool jersey is funny is because the groom is, and always has been, a die-hard Man U fan. If you don’t know anything about football…never mind.
I went to bed at 5.45 the following morning, and was up again at 8. Plane to catch. Home to see babies. Still had the shakes on Monday, but now it’s all over.
Until the next time. On the wedding night, my best friend (I have two, both called Paul. Shut up, I am allowed to have two best friends, and there’s nathin you can do about it so bleaaaaaagh.) asked me to be his best man too. He’s not even engaged though, so I have a bit of breathing space yet.
I had this great idea for a present-tense description of the past few weeks, taking you with me through the highs and lows, but I am absolutely exhausted – again – and have neither the time nor the energy to be creative or funny. Not that I ever am, etc, yeah, the door’s that way, don’t let it hit yer arse on the way out, and all that.
So here’s what happened:
Several unmitigated DIY disasters, including putting in waste pipe, re-laying floor, stink comes from waste pipe, pull up floor to find problem, discover problem lies elsewhere and is completely unrelated to the work I’d been doing, re-lay floor AGAIN – two weeks wasted.
Ancient stop cock = burst water main and no way to turn it off. Had to hammer the pipe in half to stop the mains-pressure cascade through the house. No access from the road to turn it off, had to buy a pipe freezing kit to help replace the stopcock. Pipe freezing kit promised 45 minutes of hold, lasted ten. Result: More high-pressure hilarity, and I no longer have a mobile phone. Here’s a learning I made: unlike the many hundreds of women I have slept with, mobile phones don’t like to get wet. Now I have to buy a new one.
Several disasters, none of which I claim responsibility for. I used to enjoy doing this stuff, you know. Knowing how my house is put together, there’s a comfort in it. This shit from the last few weeks though, it’s put me off for life.
It was Jack’s first birthday, that’s why I was under pressure to get the job done. Each evening I’d get home from work then do kitchen stuff until after midnight. Up again at seven and repeat the process. Zombification.
In the end it didn’t matter. We had no sink on the day of the party, and we survived. Water’s overrated anyway. You become very frugal when you don’t have running water. There was a day or two of whore’s bathing going on in our house – we went through some amount of Johnson’s baby wipes.
Jack’s birthday meant family visiting, which butted up against Linzi’s friends from Ireland visiting, and today her sister arrived up, because she’s looking after the kids for us when we go back to Ireland on Thursday for this wedding. You can see now why the blogging side of things has been a bit slack lately.
After we get back from Ireland, we have another wedding, followed by a christening, before the end of August. You’d swear we had a social life, the way we’ve been carrying on lately. I can’t wait for it all to be over. All this shite is only about half of it, but I’ll only want to hang myself if I go over everything. The main thing is, Linzi and I are still friends in spite of all the muck that we’ve churned up over the last month. Better still, we’re friends who have sex with each other, which is good news for me, and even better news for her.
I’ve been swimming too. I’m up to 30 lengths now. Not bad considering that a month ago it took me half an hour to swim six lengths and I was the closest to death I’ve been since ‘Nam. (Not that ‘Nam. I’m talking about Cornamona, that time with my dad and the fishing rod and the grease. It’s a long story, but you’ve probably already read about it in the papers.) I’m still shit though. If you can imagine tying Stephen Hawking to Christy Brown‘s left leg with a stout length of rope, then firing them both into a pool and saying off with ye lads, a pint if ye can make it to the other side, that’s the kind of flailing you get from me most days.
This wedding next Saturday: did I mention that I’m best man? Well listen: I’m best man at this wedding next Saturday. 300 guests or something mental like that. I’ve never done anything on this scale before, so I’m kind of shitting it. No – I’m fucking petrified. I haven’t even started on the speech (see above, no explanation required), and it’s only now that you’ve read this far that you realise I had an ulterior motive for updating the blog: I need help.
Give me your humour, people. I need to be hilarious without being offensive, risqué without being crude. I sometimes struggle with subtlety, as you’ll know just by reading this. You cunt.
Seriously, any wise words, good lines, or advice of any sort as I hurriedly prepare this speech would be an absolute godsend.
In other news, thank you all for your “what the fuck are you up to?” emails, and I apologise for not replying individually, but…you know. All that stuff. Some of you got Facebook stuff from me too – no, I haven’t abandoned blogging in favour of it, I just had a fit of adding shit to it, like I did with Bebo a few months back. I’ve been on Facebook since Christ was a cub scout, but I never did anything with my profile. Over the last couple of months, a few people asked me to be their friends, so I had a fit of activity the other night and put a bit on my profile. Nowt sinister, like. Sin é. It’s always there if I need it, but I won’t be making much more use of it at the moment, I don’t think.
In light of all the shite that’s going on recently, I’ve been having a bit of a think about things. What I’m doing over here, where would be best to raise the kids, those kinds of things. We’ve talked a lot about moving home over the past few weeks, even before this latest terrorist cock-up happened.
The only thing holding us back is the several hundred thousand Euro we need to buy a property in Galway. Can anyone spot me?
Since your blogs are banned for me at work, the BBC website is now my only friend. Reading the Have Your Say section on the situation, the general consensus among UK citizens seems to be “I say old chap, you’re more likely to be killed crossing the street than you are to be blown up by terrorists. Just live your life as normal.”
Fair enough. If we succumb to terror, they’ve won, and all that bollocks. Good old British stiff upper
lad lip. I’m not sure how to “live as normal” though. Given the media saturation, you can’t help but have the attack colour your outlook on things. Is it a coincidence that until now Scotland’s been untouched, yet the very week a Scot becomes Prime Minister, this happens?
Frankly I think people who say it’s not impacting them in the slightest are either full of shit or are a biteen delusional. The fact that they have to crow about how they are completely unaffected by terrorism, on a message board about terrorism, well, face it lads, if it wasn’t affecting us, there would be no message board. There would be no discussion.
Today, as I trudged typical through Monday morning, I passed this Asian-looking lad standing at the boot of his car. There was a gas cylinder and cardboard boxes of…something, in the boot. The car was parked outside a culturally significant building in Glasgow city centre. A week ago, I would not have glanced twice at this. This morning, I took his reg and reported him to the police. Was it that repeated-to-the point-of-nonsensifying word, vigilance, or was it plain old first-drag-of-a-joint-since-college paranoia? I still don’t know. What swung it for me was the thought that if something did happen and I’d not said anything, it’d plague me. Guilt, y’know. We Irish are brilliant at it.
Of course, right now, rather than feeling the guilt of saying nothing, I’m feeling the guilt of causing some likely-innocent chap to endure a shitload of harrassment from the police, predicated on nothing more than him being Asian and having a gas canister in his boot. The ability to wrangle guilt out of any given situation no matter what decision you make takes years of Catholic dogma to achieve, and should only be carried out by professionals in a controlled environment. Do not try this at home.
People keep making that reference: “you know, you’re more likely to be knocked down by a bus”, and so forth. What the fuck that has to do with the price of bacon, I don’t know. One thing is an accident, the other is a bunch of mental cunts intent on killing anyone who doesn’t subscribe to their fucked-up ideology. And that, seemingly, includes most Muslims.
Honestly lads, it was enough to make me pack my bags and move home, until I remembered that statistically, I’m 30,000 times more likely to be beaten to death by horrible stinky knackers in Galway than I am to be killed in a terrorist attack in Glasgow.
So what would you have done today? Reported it, or said nothing? In all seriousness, I do feel a bit foolish for doing it, but I don’t regret it.
I’ll tell you what too, the police cop I gave my statement to was a bit of alright. She was giving me the eye bigtime, but I gave it back – it was all sticky with eye-juice. Ugh. Still, I might give her a call and see if she’s free this weekend – I’ve got a stag weekend down in Newcastle that she’d be welcome to “bust”. Heh.
Doing this, to be exact:
Every waking minute outside of work (and playing the Xbox), I’ve been tearing the house apart. All so that some day soon, we have one of these downstairs:
I had to put my hand into some poo to connect up a pipe the other day. I meant to take a photo of it, but Linzi wouldn’t let me hold the camera while I had shit on my hands.
Once the toilet’s done, I have to put in a new kitchen. The fun never stops. Ara sure, it’ll all be worth it once it’s done, everyone keeps saying. They never offer to help though, the bastards.
It’s because I’m not very good at it.
It’s been a while since I made an arse of myself in public. Perhaps the longer you leave it, the worse your blunder is when you inevitably do make a gobshite out of yourself.
On my way home from work, I fell asleep on the train, as happens every single day. The carriages are so damn warm, it’s almost impossible to stay awake.
Today, my friends, I dreamed. I had a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
Oh wait, that wasn’t me, that was Martin Luther King. My dream was far less inspirational, but it comes from the same place that MLK’s speech came from: that bit of skin behind the scrotum.
In the dream, I was playing five-a-side (soccer/football, argue about what it’s called amongst yourselves) with the lads. I relived an absolute peach of a volley I scored a while back, the connection with the cross sublime, that feeling that you get when you know you’ve struck it so sweetly that you don’t even need to look at the ball to know it’s in the back of the net. After I scored I did my customary let’s-just-get-on-with-it non-celebration. Then time skipped, as it does in dreams, and next thing I know I am back in goals and Kerr, who has been cleverly nicknamed The Rocket on account of his hard bastarding shots, is bearing down on goal. Only I stand between him and an equaliser. He lets fly, sends a bullet into the bottom corner, so I dive to save it –
– and snap awake when I bash into the guy sitting next to me. Yes, I dived into him. On the train. My arms were still outstretched trying to save Kerr’s shot, and I may well have let out a traditional dream shout (“Noooooo!”) as I commenced my dive. Judging by the number of people turning to look at me, I think I must have at least squawked a bit.
“Okay mate?” the guy sitting next to me asks.
“Yeah, um, sorry about that” I say sheepishly, “I was just trying to save…”
I trail off, realising what a ridiculous human being I am. I clear my throat. Should probably say something, in all fairness.
If you’re going to be thought of as weird, you may as well go the whole fucking hog.
He wouldn’t say anything to me after that, and I was too scared to go back to sleep, so I passed the rest of the journey writing a note to myself to make this story into a blog post.
By the way, I’m a bit late to the party, but I don’t think Damien will mind some more links. Do him a favour and link to this ridiculous bullshit. To add insult to injury, instead of having a bit of cop-on, the tossers went and sent him a letter asking for the post to be taken down. Now the whole world knows that not only are they devious malicious cunts, they are also stupid dinosaur cunts too. Watch out for the internet, Sky Handling Partners. They even have it on computers these days.
Had to spend this evening in Casualty. I woke last Friday with a lump on my head, right where my cheek meets my earlobe. It was fairly painful, but I thought nothing of it. By Saturday it had doubled in size. By Sunday it had doubled again, and it was agony even to the lightest touch. So, to hospital I went.
Being a reasonable chap, I knew it had to be one of three options:
(a) a pus-filled abscess
(b) cancer of the earlobe, or possibly the lymphatic system
(c) my unborn twin, whose fetus I mysteriously absorbed into myself while still in the womb, was starting to grow inside me and was about to burst out through the side of my head.
Obviously (c), despite being the coolest option, was unlikely. It had to be cancer. Cancer of the earlobe, the worst kind. You shouldn’t joke about these things. Still, what else is there to do when you’re as close to death as I was? I hope you always remember that I kept a smile on my face right to the end.
I was gutted when the doc told me it was an abscess, and not at all life-threatening. However, if I keep getting them, it may mean I’m diabetic, so that’s something, at least.
The coolest bit was when he gave me a local anaesthetic and sliced it open. You should’ve seen the amount of yellowish-black gunk that came out of it. He used fourteen cloths to clean it out. I counted. Gunky.
I have to go around for the next few days with a plaster the size of an envelope on my face. I spent the rest of this evening practicing my “Phantom of the Opera” move. Look at me, look at me, look, look, yes, I’m normal, yes, don’t be afraid my pet…
Then HYEEA! I turn and brandish my hideous deformed right cheek and you cower and shriek like the child you wish you still were.
I hope you are doing well. I miss you all, my little bloglings.
The more astute among you will have noticed my old Blogger profile says I joined Blogspot in May 2005. Doubtless you’ll have spent entire weekends pondering why I didn’t post a word until June 2006.
What, you never noticed this? Christ, you really aren’t obsessed enough with me at all, are you?
Today is my first birthday, a full year of typing cack on this blog. 256 posts. 4169 comments. All those words, and yet sometimes I think that the silent gap between my registration date and my first post says more about me than all the other crap put together. Then I remember that’s not true, because silence says fuck all, and only smelly hippies and the elderly think otherwise.
Where was I? Oh yeah. Writing this post. Hmmm…well.
This blog has helped me remember how to write. I used to write a fair bit, miserable know-it-all teenage shite, and then BAJAW, nothing for almost seven years. Seven years is a long time. You have to learn how to go without stabilisers all over again.
Thank you to everyone who’s ever commented here. Comments are a great thing. The interactivity of this jazz is what makes it so addictive. Sometimes when I haven’t been arsed, it’s thinking of the funny shit people will say if I post such-and-such a story that makes me get on with it.
So cheers, everyone. If I was closer I’d let you have the honour of buying me a celebratory pint, but since you can’t do that, why don’t you just leave a comment? Ladies are also welcome to email me pictures of your breasts or arse, whichever you consider the better feature.