Turning pro in less than 362 days!

Hopefully turning pro in less than six thousand three hundred and eighty nine days!

Friday, 15 July 2011

Blah Fucking Blah


Like a diet of salted meat and pistachios, women can be a real pain in the arse. Train-of-thought destroying, logic denying, war avoiding little bleeders. And not only can they make you look at a cunt at any given moment they can make you look like one, too. 

Ok, maybe that’s not the best way to open up the latest entry about my attempts to become a professional writer but, fuck it, I don’t give a shit. No one is reading this crap anyway, so I might as well just fucking vent my spleen. I’ve noticed though that I have a couple of readers in Denmark and East Timor. If this gets lost in translation then that’s probably a good thing. My whole life has been lost in translation. Which is probably a good thing. Kronenburg lager on tap is evil, don’t drink it.

Back to women.  

As you almost certainly don’t know, tonight I was out drinking with my ‘mate’ Jimmy Stroker. Theoretically we were on the pull, though the only thing I usually pull is my plonker, which I do once I get back home, whilst crying into a pot noodle at 3a.m, which was five minutes ago. I dread to think what I would’ve written without that relief.  Jimmy, on the other stupid fat hand, muscles his huge face into any social orifice and emerges smelling of triumph.  

I arranged to meet him in this God awful club. I can’t go to those god forsaken meat markets any more. It’s hard enough going to the supermarket. And don’t tell me that you go there for the music. That shit? Sounds like it’s been programmed by a three year old wanker. No one likes house unless they are from Kent or like ‘The Only Way is Essex’. If you like either of these things, even if its ironic, then dress yourself up like a cow and get yourself down the nearest fucking abattoir. Anyway, I’m in the club and I steal a look from a woman in her early twenties, whose smooth, gravity defying face entranced me. She gave me a look that said “Forget it granddad, your time has gone. You’re yesterday’s people. Haven’t you seen Logan’s Run?” I feel ashamed and take my hand off her bum.

Christ knows what its like for women, who haven’t even got recourse to the ‘men get sexier as they get older’ bullshit. Man, this aging bullshit is tough. At least in England it is. If we were all living on some Pacific Island, all I would have to do is walk to the middle of the village, slug down copious amounts of some sludgery, gabble on about eagles for ten minutes, fart, perhaps even poo myself, then walk back into my hut for a lie down.

As it happens I did actually poo myself tonight. It’s the Kronenburg, it does something strange to me. Jimmy goes home with this incredible lady he’s charmed, sending me scootling off with her dodgy mate. It’s a twenty minute walk back to mine and the whole time all I could think about was not pissing and shitting myself. It’s been many years since I was last in such a promising situation and I wasn’t going to let my bowels ruin it for me. So I made a show of it, and pretended to do the entire sketch of the Ministry of Funny Walks to get us back. I would’ve got away with it, if she didn’t inexplicably find it hilarious and grab me at the top of my stairs for a squeeze and snog. The walk down the stairs was as cruel for me as it was for her.

Anyway, I wrestle her into the bedroom and put on the theme to the TV show QI to get her in the mood, whilst I go to the bathroom to have a shower, and into the garden to burn my soiled clothes.

Half an hour later I’ve finally shaken off years of socially imposed abstinence and am in bed with a woman. Who looks like Roseanne Barr’s scrotum.  If it’s true that our thoughts frame our faces then this woman has killed a lot of people. And animals. And hope. We were both pretty pissed, but that didn’t take the full edge off the fact that we physically repulsed each other and had no rapport and were going to regret it in the morning. But we both knew what we were doing there. We were going to runt. That’s what it’s called when two people who, for the good of the species, shouldn’t be fucking but do. I felt like I was a male black widow, moving into the web where maybe my life wouldn’t be taken away, but certainly my future and my self worth would.

We undress ourselves, always a bad side - that’s what you do at the doctor’s, right? We jump into the bed for a fumble.

“Can we be in character”, she said, “I’ve always wanted to do that”.

“Sure” I reply, in a gruff voice.

“Oooo!” she replies, obviously turned on.

“Do you like this?” I ask, perfecting the correct amount of gruffness.

“Take me!” she exclaims.
I run my hands down her considerable side.

“Ooooo, cold hands – God, you’ve the hands of a corpse”.

“I am a corpse” I reply in my sexy gruff voice.

And that was the last thing I was ever allowed to say to a girl called Natalie.

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