I was at a wedding in Lancashire yesterday, so I visited my Mother today instead. She had other visitors; a mother and her 7 year old son. I was introduced to the young boy, who just sat staring at me with a particularly disconcerting grin. In the absence of any conceivable response to his silently amused gaze, I rather uncomfortably proffered my hand to him in a formal but rather awkward looking manner of introduction. He responded by raising his own tiny palm, completely bypassing my handshake, shoving it toward my chin, before devilishly tugging at my beard hair. I laughed politely pretending to be amused, whilst inside feeling completely out of my depth, not really knowing what to do or how to respond. I was drowning in a sea bereft of appropriate polite social conventions. “How old are you?” his half-angelic-half-demonic little gob enquired. “31” I replied. He informed me that only people over 40 grow beards and this seemed to amuse him even further. Why does my beard seem to be suddenly getting so much slack lately? Like I said yesterday, I don’t object to a jibe or two, but it was almost like he was aware not only of his insult, but the fact he could manipulate an alibi of childish innocence to merit immunity from retribution. I would like to say that the next words I spoke cut the cheeky whippersnapper down to size in a manner as wittily akin to anything Oscar Wilde’s finest canon. But I can’t. Because all I did was continue to stand with a gormless grin of paralysis. In real terms, I was being psychologically hoisted by a 7 year old.
When I sat down, his mother managed to discourage him from jumping upon me long enough to have an interesting conversation and to even order a Chinese meal. I did not partake in this feast as I had only recently eaten. The boy soon devoured his meal and then opened his fortune cookie, which informed him he would be a flourishing businessman. I bet he will be too. I can just imagine his maverick and acerbically brutal negotiating techniques once they have been honed, like a nightmarish cross between Vinnie Jones and Malcolm Tucker. Personally I would have settled for such a successful and optimistic premonition without the slightest temptation to take any further gambles with the God of fortune. But the boy was not satisfied by this, and was soon snapping open everybody else’s cookie; which either made him appear a greedy selfish little sod, or a genius little satirist of the novelty biscuit premonition system.
In fairness, he had been pretty restrained for quite a while, and I could even go as far as to say quite fun. But it was when his mother left the room to nip to the toilet that all hell really broke loose. The young man suddenly launched a frenzied attack firing fists at me from all angles, laughing like a maniac. Once again, the paralysis of uselessness struck me, as I stood rooted to the spot. I hadn’t a clue how to counteract this unruliness. Giving the lad a good knee in the face would have probably been considered inappropriate. It didn’t even really seem like my place to shout at him. All I could do was stand uselessly swinging from left to right trying to shield my genitalia from his barrage of waist-level punches. My own mother stood beside this spectacle of demonic outburst, assessing its psychological implications. “He’s testing you to see what he can get away with”, she concluded. After sating herself with her academic hypotheses, and watching me receive a couple more swings, she eventually addressed the boy. “Stop that now,” she sternly ordered, “This behaviour is not acceptable.” And as if by magic the lad simply turned around and sat back down on the settee. Peace was restored as quickly as the chaos had erupted. But there is no getting away from one depressing fact: I had needed my Mother to protect me from getting beaten by a 7 year boy. This was a new low.
Sat 25th July 2009
I walked into the pub tonight an acquaintence who I had not seen for some time. He came up to me and asked if I had joined the Taliban. I was a little fazed by this. What possible rumours could have circled the village during my holiday to have bought upon this surreal chain of events? To my knowledge, I have not crashed into the side of any buildings using any planes. I did once crash into the side of a bus in my Nissan Micra, but that was years ago when I lived in Liverpool, and seems a tenuous connection to say the least. There was certainly no malicious or disruptive motive to the crash, and even if there were I would have been a pretty sorry terrorist. At the point of impact I had barely got into first gear so was only travelling about 2 miles an hour. There wasn’t even as much as a dent on the bus. The only damage was a scratch on my wing and the bus driver only took my insurance details for what he called “precautionary administrational procedure”. According to the letter I received a few days later I learned, “precautionary administrational procedure” actually meant “free pay-out opportunity for a bogus whiplash claim”. A further 24 letters followed suit, from each of the passengers who had seemingly sustained a similar injury. It was quite a surprise that the same 2 mile per hour collision had not given me the slightest bruise or scratch yet had caused 24 cases of whiplash. Especially since there were only about a dozen people on the bus in the first place. Like I say, it was just too hapless to be considered anywhere in the league of a Taliban atrocity. Unless helping Scousers to pilfer free-loaded money constitutes as an act of national terrorism. But even if it were, it would not be for me to perpetuate crass implications about regional stereotypes. That is for other people to do.
Astonishingly, the reason for his questioning of such dramatic ideological shifts transpired to be even more tenuous: it was because I have recently grown a goatee beard. Bin Laden has a goatee beard. Ergo, I must be a member of the Taliban. Don’t get me wrong, I do not have a problem with having my beard derided (being boorishly heckled is all part of the charm when entering an English drinking establishment, and if my beard makes me look like a twat then fair enough - it is the closest my mouth has come to one of those in quite some time). But Bin Laden also had a walking stick. Yet did the old man who hobbled with a walking stick across the very same bar on the very same night get likened to the 21st Century’s biggest perpetrator of genocide? Oh no – HE didn’t. He was somehow immune.
It is the complete lack of consistency which got on my goatee.
Astonishingly, the reason for his questioning of such dramatic ideological shifts transpired to be even more tenuous: it was because I have recently grown a goatee beard. Bin Laden has a goatee beard. Ergo, I must be a member of the Taliban. Don’t get me wrong, I do not have a problem with having my beard derided (being boorishly heckled is all part of the charm when entering an English drinking establishment, and if my beard makes me look like a twat then fair enough - it is the closest my mouth has come to one of those in quite some time). But Bin Laden also had a walking stick. Yet did the old man who hobbled with a walking stick across the very same bar on the very same night get likened to the 21st Century’s biggest perpetrator of genocide? Oh no – HE didn’t. He was somehow immune.It is the complete lack of consistency which got on my goatee.
Fri 24th July 2009
I have just returned from my holidays, which started last week at Latitude. In case you are unfamiliar, it is an arts festival in Suffolk organised by Festival Republic, who also look after the Reading & Leeds festival. It is of smaller profile to those other events though, basically being the ideal festival for people who can’t be bothered with humongous crowds of people (many of which are in a lower social strata and can’t help but get loutishly drunk, steal blackberrys from tents and publically urinate up fencing), watching superstar performers, or having big corporate logos burned into their retinas every five minutes – but still enjoy the experience of standing in the rain being overcharged for rudimentary necessities such as food and liquid.
One of the less typical but gratefully received plus points of Latitude is that, for a small extra charge, we were able to take a fully equipped caravan; meaning that although some of the accustomed comforts of civilised society were still compromised, the festival could largely be lived with human dignity intact. I say largely, because there is still the thorny issue of defecation. Don’t get me wrong, our caravan had a functioning toilet, but as any seasoned caravanner will tell you, the caravan toilet is NOT to be used for solids. Not terrible news if you are in the “guest area” where you sit on a golden seat and a young virgin plays a harp and squeezes grapes into your mouth whilst you defecate, before cleaning off your arse with a towel of silk and bidet fountain of champagne-spray (for those of you who have never been in the guest area I can assure this to be absolutely what happens because I was once in said area myself. I remember those heady days well. My virgin was called Craig). But this was not the guest area. These were the disgusting festival ‘long drop’ toilets; those roofless, stable-door stalls positioned above a huge pit; that the disgusting general public used. In fact the nicest thing I can find to say about these particular loos, is that they’ve an aroma a bit like Saint Agur (a nice little reference there for connoisseurs of the supermarket cheese). But generally speaking, it doesn’t matter which festival you’re at, the sense of dread is exactly the same when one feels the inner-anvil ready to drop.
I headed to the toilet roll dispenser located in front of the cubicle blocks (these festival animals can’t be trusted to have their own roll inside each of the cubicles), plucked myself a dozen sheets, trudged up the platform steps, slid the bendy lock on the door of one of the metal cupboards and sat down to attend to my business. Well, not ‘sit down’ exactly - it may only have been rainwater that had drizzled the seat I peered at, but I wasn’t really willing to take any chances. So instead, I kind of hovered over the bowl with my knees half-bent holding my hand against the wall to assist with balance. And waited for emancipation.
The first tip anyone will give you about these types of shared ‘pit’ toilets is to never look down. It is unsavoury to think that so many people’s omissions collected in one shared ditch, but at least you can retain ignorance if you are sparing with your sense of sight. Unfortunately, you cannot retain such ignorance to the sensation of touch, specifically the touching of a warm liquid spraying across your buttock. Especially when it seems to be coming from the direction of a very audible urinating sound from the cubicle behind. In any other circumstance, I would consider this quite a feat. Surely it is a scientific impossibility for someone to urinate in a near horizontal direction? The only other explanation is that the person behind was weeing with such vigour, it was causing a splash-back effect from the swamp below. And perhaps understandably I’d rather believe it was the former. Philosophically-speaking, it is surely better to be pissed on by one man than be pissed on by a whole festival audience. And more pressingly, since I had refused to look down beforehand, if that level of splash-back could be achieved by single stream of liquid, what sort of monsoon could erupt as a consequence to the thud of my own solids? It was a treat gruesome enough to close my bowel for good. And at that moment, coincidentally my bowel did freeze up; leaving nothing but a kind of small cigar butt of faecal matter wedged between my buttocks.
I waited and waited, trying to muster the sufficient additional weight to cause a droppage but
nothing came. At one point I attempted a little Chubby Checker Twisting dance to free the small trapped slug in my buttocks, but it just wouldn’t budge. I think I even tried a more abrupt pelvic thrusting action, but still I couldn’t manage shake it out. And after a while, my hand, which had been supporting the weight of my weird half-crouching position, was getting tired and beginning to buckle and give way.
The only remaining option was to abort the mission and commence with my wipe, trying to mop up the sandwiched messy carnage as best I could. But it wasn’t really ‘mopping’ as much as ‘smearing’. In hindsight, twelve sheets of paper weren’t quite enough because I found myself laying the last two sheets in my pants, doing up my trousers and waddling off back to the toilet roll dispenser to equip myself with more provisions. As I swung the metal door of the toilet open, I caught the glance of a young lady who had been waiting outside for her turn to use the cubicle. And as she entered, I felt paranoid that she would automatically assume I had been the typically selfish and clumsy male who had been responsible for the drizzle on the seat. All in all it was a most vile experience, on so many levels. Next time I will remember to pack some Immodium.
One of the less typical but gratefully received plus points of Latitude is that, for a small extra charge, we were able to take a fully equipped caravan; meaning that although some of the accustomed comforts of civilised society were still compromised, the festival could largely be lived with human dignity intact. I say largely, because there is still the thorny issue of defecation. Don’t get me wrong, our caravan had a functioning toilet, but as any seasoned caravanner will tell you, the caravan toilet is NOT to be used for solids. Not terrible news if you are in the “guest area” where you sit on a golden seat and a young virgin plays a harp and squeezes grapes into your mouth whilst you defecate, before cleaning off your arse with a towel of silk and bidet fountain of champagne-spray (for those of you who have never been in the guest area I can assure this to be absolutely what happens because I was once in said area myself. I remember those heady days well. My virgin was called Craig). But this was not the guest area. These were the disgusting festival ‘long drop’ toilets; those roofless, stable-door stalls positioned above a huge pit; that the disgusting general public used. In fact the nicest thing I can find to say about these particular loos, is that they’ve an aroma a bit like Saint Agur (a nice little reference there for connoisseurs of the supermarket cheese). But generally speaking, it doesn’t matter which festival you’re at, the sense of dread is exactly the same when one feels the inner-anvil ready to drop.
I headed to the toilet roll dispenser located in front of the cubicle blocks (these festival animals can’t be trusted to have their own roll inside each of the cubicles), plucked myself a dozen sheets, trudged up the platform steps, slid the bendy lock on the door of one of the metal cupboards and sat down to attend to my business. Well, not ‘sit down’ exactly - it may only have been rainwater that had drizzled the seat I peered at, but I wasn’t really willing to take any chances. So instead, I kind of hovered over the bowl with my knees half-bent holding my hand against the wall to assist with balance. And waited for emancipation.The first tip anyone will give you about these types of shared ‘pit’ toilets is to never look down. It is unsavoury to think that so many people’s omissions collected in one shared ditch, but at least you can retain ignorance if you are sparing with your sense of sight. Unfortunately, you cannot retain such ignorance to the sensation of touch, specifically the touching of a warm liquid spraying across your buttock. Especially when it seems to be coming from the direction of a very audible urinating sound from the cubicle behind. In any other circumstance, I would consider this quite a feat. Surely it is a scientific impossibility for someone to urinate in a near horizontal direction? The only other explanation is that the person behind was weeing with such vigour, it was causing a splash-back effect from the swamp below. And perhaps understandably I’d rather believe it was the former. Philosophically-speaking, it is surely better to be pissed on by one man than be pissed on by a whole festival audience. And more pressingly, since I had refused to look down beforehand, if that level of splash-back could be achieved by single stream of liquid, what sort of monsoon could erupt as a consequence to the thud of my own solids? It was a treat gruesome enough to close my bowel for good. And at that moment, coincidentally my bowel did freeze up; leaving nothing but a kind of small cigar butt of faecal matter wedged between my buttocks.
I waited and waited, trying to muster the sufficient additional weight to cause a droppage but
nothing came. At one point I attempted a little Chubby Checker Twisting dance to free the small trapped slug in my buttocks, but it just wouldn’t budge. I think I even tried a more abrupt pelvic thrusting action, but still I couldn’t manage shake it out. And after a while, my hand, which had been supporting the weight of my weird half-crouching position, was getting tired and beginning to buckle and give way.The only remaining option was to abort the mission and commence with my wipe, trying to mop up the sandwiched messy carnage as best I could. But it wasn’t really ‘mopping’ as much as ‘smearing’. In hindsight, twelve sheets of paper weren’t quite enough because I found myself laying the last two sheets in my pants, doing up my trousers and waddling off back to the toilet roll dispenser to equip myself with more provisions. As I swung the metal door of the toilet open, I caught the glance of a young lady who had been waiting outside for her turn to use the cubicle. And as she entered, I felt paranoid that she would automatically assume I had been the typically selfish and clumsy male who had been responsible for the drizzle on the seat. All in all it was a most vile experience, on so many levels. Next time I will remember to pack some Immodium.
Sun 12th July 2009
So I made it through my 21 day challenge without a drink (alcoholic drink I mean of course). I know it sounds like I am a mad alcoholic going on about a mere 3 weeks drink-free, but I do not genuinely believe I had a major problem to tackle in the first place. My motivation was based on a realisation that I was drinking more nights in a week than not. What a difference one day can make to the tiny tipping balance between three and four days, which so delicately underpins such a claim. If only there were eight days in a week, things would have been on a more even keel and wouldn’t have seemed such an issue (but of course the eight day week is just another example of the false promises The Beatles made to us). I suppose drinking more evenings than not implied I was using alcohol as a kind of avoidance, for time that could be better spent. But if abstinence has taught me anything it is that the mind is strong-willed; able to find plenty of other ways to procrastinate without the aid of the demon drink.
I was rather curious as to whether my dry spell would have any positive alleviation on my irritable bowel. Turns out it didn’t. One time in particular, my guts were in so much turmoil, I reckon I could have managed a faithful recreation of John Hurt’s famous scene in Alien quite ably. If I remember rightly, I similarly expelled quite a few Gieger-esque creations of my own that day.
But least there’s been a brief lifestyle change for me; I’ve had lots of fruit, summer salads, museli and cottage cheese and I’ve done loads of exercise to the gym. I must, at the very least, have lost a little bit of weight (whatever protestations my mother’s apparently accurate scales made to the contrary). And despite having just reached the end of my demi-detox, I have already concocted a new regime for myself, which involves having to work off the equivalent calorie count at the gym in advance of any drinking indulgences. This should help me obtain better control over my drinking and sustain a healthier lifestyle in the future. Even though there seems to be no discernable benefit whatsoever.
I was rather curious as to whether my dry spell would have any positive alleviation on my irritable bowel. Turns out it didn’t. One time in particular, my guts were in so much turmoil, I reckon I could have managed a faithful recreation of John Hurt’s famous scene in Alien quite ably. If I remember rightly, I similarly expelled quite a few Gieger-esque creations of my own that day.
But least there’s been a brief lifestyle change for me; I’ve had lots of fruit, summer salads, museli and cottage cheese and I’ve done loads of exercise to the gym. I must, at the very least, have lost a little bit of weight (whatever protestations my mother’s apparently accurate scales made to the contrary). And despite having just reached the end of my demi-detox, I have already concocted a new regime for myself, which involves having to work off the equivalent calorie count at the gym in advance of any drinking indulgences. This should help me obtain better control over my drinking and sustain a healthier lifestyle in the future. Even though there seems to be no discernable benefit whatsoever.
Sat 4th July 2009
Regular readers may have noticed that I have not updated my teetotalism progress for a while. This may have led you to suspect I have fallen foul to the lures of alcohol, and have avoided mentioning it as an attempt to brush my failure under the carpet. On the contrary, oh ye of little faith. In fact the reason I have not been documenting this so much is because I have not really been thinking about it. I find the longer I go without a drink, the easier it is becoming. Over the past few years I have conditioned myself to drink on a Saturday evening, and last Saturday I did feel at a bit of a loss. But having managed to maintain restraint on that first weekend, I think I built sufficient personal confidence that my will is strong enough to succeed. And when alcohol is taken from the equation one is forced to think of more creative ways to spend a Saturday evening. In many ways, the pub just provides a bit of a cop-out from having to think about other ways with which to spend free time. But instead of widening my horizons I went to Derby to watch ace post-punk band The Nightingales (live entertainment being the thing I do for a living) at venue which was technically a pub (pubs being the place I’d usually spend my leisure time). Ok, so not the most wildly out-of-the-box thing to do but at least no-one can accuse me of changing and getting all sanctimonious just because I am sober.
When I got to the venue, a bearded and slightly inebriated fellow started chatting to me it. It transpired that this was the promoter of the show. He asked me where I had travelled from and I told him Wolverhampton. After hearing this, he said I could enter the gig for free. I told him that this wasn’t necessary but he was having none of it, insisting that he was losing so much money on the show it didn’t make any difference because his benefit cheque was due next week (such is the weird but affable logic of the booze-addled mind). It was very generous of him, but I am not quite sure what his reasoning was. The only viable explanation is that it is generally perceived that people from Wolverhampton are so unfortunate they should be treated charitably. We must be considered so wretched, that even unemployment is no barrier for pity.
The Nightingales were as impeccably ace as ever, and this is current incarnation of their revolving-door line-up is the strongest I’ve seen to date. But it was the support act, a New York-based duo called Christy & Emily,who were the biggest revelation. I would strongly advise you to get their album “Superstition”, which is the most fragile, ethereal and beautiful thing I’ve heard in ages. If I have learned anything at all from tonight, it is that you don't always have to be drunk to appreciate good music.
When I got to the venue, a bearded and slightly inebriated fellow started chatting to me it. It transpired that this was the promoter of the show. He asked me where I had travelled from and I told him Wolverhampton. After hearing this, he said I could enter the gig for free. I told him that this wasn’t necessary but he was having none of it, insisting that he was losing so much money on the show it didn’t make any difference because his benefit cheque was due next week (such is the weird but affable logic of the booze-addled mind). It was very generous of him, but I am not quite sure what his reasoning was. The only viable explanation is that it is generally perceived that people from Wolverhampton are so unfortunate they should be treated charitably. We must be considered so wretched, that even unemployment is no barrier for pity.
The Nightingales were as impeccably ace as ever, and this is current incarnation of their revolving-door line-up is the strongest I’ve seen to date. But it was the support act, a New York-based duo called Christy & Emily,who were the biggest revelation. I would strongly advise you to get their album “Superstition”, which is the most fragile, ethereal and beautiful thing I’ve heard in ages. If I have learned anything at all from tonight, it is that you don't always have to be drunk to appreciate good music.
Fri 3rd July 2009
Sorry I have been so long updating. This has been due to my dongle having failed to procure any sort of connection. This of course refers to my broadband connection and is not some innuendo to après-pos yet another entry trudging through the ‘filthy-minded, sad-loner’ territory. But while we are on the subject, I have now had a few thousand page-loads. You’d have thought one of you would have picked up on the sub-text of sexual desperation over the last few entries, and offered some kind of pleasurable relief. Not even the American who clearly found my blog arousing has been in touch. Honestly, it’s all take with you people. In fact the nearest I’ve come to any sort of offer recently is this graffiti I pass in town on my way to work.
I presume it to be some sort of sexual open invitation. But you can’t even know this for sure, because any clarity of intent seems so ambiguous. If we were to take the meaning of the graffiti literally, this is a ‘gal’ called Dave, who happens to be able to use her eyes for their intended function. It is strange how she feels her sense of sight to be her most prevailing character trait. What a wasted opportunity. Surely the ‘gal’s’ vision is something we can take as a given, since she has clearly been able to legibly operate a spray can. I would argue that the absurdity of a ‘gal’ being called “Dave” is of much more prevalent interest, yet she seems only to have mentioned this as a tacked-on, passing after-thought. Clearly she would need some assistance with prioritising if she is ever planning to publish an autobiography. Although should anyone wish to point this out to Dave, it is convenient there is a mobile number to get in touch.
Thu 2nd July 2009
One of the interesting things about keeping a blog is seeing the types of Google search terms that visitors have used to find your page. You can learn some surprising things about people by the types of web-pages they’ve visited prior to yours.
Today I discovered that someone from New York who had found this page after using the search terms “pubic hair”, “mother’s friend” and “cum” together. One can only make assumptions about what was being searched for, but imagine what a crushing disappointment it must have been when they came across this blog (perhaps ‘came across’ is a poor choice of wording, but you get what I mean). It is a big responsibility to consider you have ruined someone’s evening plans who you have never met, just by existing.
Had the searcher just been looking for “Mother’s Friend” and “pubic hair”, one could at least consider that they were maybe hunting out some type of thrush cream, “Mother’s Friend” probably being the kind of discreet but suggestive brand name that might have existed for such an application during the war. But there is little doubt this was a quest for salacious material to quench a specific perversion. The perversion itself is rather more ambiguous. Possibly someone rather fancied their mother’s friend, but didn’t know what their name was and had chanced upon the internet as a resource to find some compromising material about them. The dirty sod.
I decided to click the link to Google myself to follow the path of this curious American and his interest in “Mother’s friend”, “cum” and “pubic hair” (I know what you might be thinking – but this really was just for research purposes only and for no other reasons. I was definitely not motivated by any of my own lustful curiosities. I could see how yesterday’s blog entry wouldn’t bode too favourably towards my protestations of innocent intent; but for Christ-sakes, can’t you just let that one day go? You’re obsessed, man!)
I was interested about how “Days of Enlightenment” had managed to get itself categorized in alongside the keywords “Mother’s Friend”, “pubic hair” and “cum”. And sure enough, as I perused the Google search results, there was my humble blog. Go look for yourself (thankfully this links to the 3rd page of search results so I am not the top entry - which is a bit of a relief, as clearly it means I’m officially not the world’s biggest authority on matters involving “Mother’s friend”, “pubic hair” and “cum”. Unless the persistent use of the words, "Mother's friend", "cum" and "pubilc hair" in this entry has now tipped the balance and put me at the top-spot).
I was a little taken a-back by the little summary that Google had used underneath the link. It rather oddly quoted me as having written:-
“At some point during this feast, my mother's friend enquired about my own tearing my pubic hair out with own my bare hands in sheer, self-loathing.”
Now I had no recollection of my “mother’s friend enquiring about my tearing my own pubic hair out in sheer self-loathing” whatsoever. How could I have simply forgotten the occurrence of such a strange (and seemingly very dark) episode in my life? I had to click on the link to my own page just to refresh my own memory and check that something so traumatic hadn’t happened to me in the last couple of months, that it had been completely erased from my memory (as I have seen the film “The Machinist” and understand such things do happen). And in any case, I was curious as to who was this friend of my mother’s was, with whom I feel comfortable enough to openly discuss clinical levels of misanthropy and violent, depair-fuelled hair removal techniques from areas that should normally not be spoke of in the presence of a mother’s friend.
Thankfully, when I clicked on my own blog it turned out that this description was not from one specific event, but a rather unfortunately sequenced composite of a couple of different blog entries (from here and here). I believe my American friend may have found a misrepresented version of me. I was relieved that I had I still had my pubic hair but I also wonder if this is this how MP’s and celebrities feel when they go on about getting quoted out of context? I should probably sue Google for deformation of character.
Perhaps more worrying, is the fact that this American actually read this brief content description of my blog and actually decided to click on it. Had this sort of thing been exactly what he’d set out to look for all along? Does his ideal fantasy involve some lower-middle class bloke from England discussing ripping his pubic hair out over dinner with his mother’s friend? Had this been some sort of onanistic jackpot to him?
I think you’ll agree this is quite a revealing perversion to discover about someone. And yet someone had the audacity to leave a message on yesterday’s entry calling ME a grotty man! How ironic that you all thought you had free admission to some of the darker thoughts of my mind, yet all along I could have been staring at yours. Now that’s made you paranoid hasn’t it! At least you know how I feel on a day-to-day basis. We’ve all learned something today. Specifically, I’ve learned a new literary device for provoking an authentic new type of empathy between writer and reader. And you’ve learned about some of the strange perverted desires that Americans have.
Today I discovered that someone from New York who had found this page after using the search terms “pubic hair”, “mother’s friend” and “cum” together. One can only make assumptions about what was being searched for, but imagine what a crushing disappointment it must have been when they came across this blog (perhaps ‘came across’ is a poor choice of wording, but you get what I mean). It is a big responsibility to consider you have ruined someone’s evening plans who you have never met, just by existing.
Had the searcher just been looking for “Mother’s Friend” and “pubic hair”, one could at least consider that they were maybe hunting out some type of thrush cream, “Mother’s Friend” probably being the kind of discreet but suggestive brand name that might have existed for such an application during the war. But there is little doubt this was a quest for salacious material to quench a specific perversion. The perversion itself is rather more ambiguous. Possibly someone rather fancied their mother’s friend, but didn’t know what their name was and had chanced upon the internet as a resource to find some compromising material about them. The dirty sod.
I decided to click the link to Google myself to follow the path of this curious American and his interest in “Mother’s friend”, “cum” and “pubic hair” (I know what you might be thinking – but this really was just for research purposes only and for no other reasons. I was definitely not motivated by any of my own lustful curiosities. I could see how yesterday’s blog entry wouldn’t bode too favourably towards my protestations of innocent intent; but for Christ-sakes, can’t you just let that one day go? You’re obsessed, man!)
I was interested about how “Days of Enlightenment” had managed to get itself categorized in alongside the keywords “Mother’s Friend”, “pubic hair” and “cum”. And sure enough, as I perused the Google search results, there was my humble blog. Go look for yourself (thankfully this links to the 3rd page of search results so I am not the top entry - which is a bit of a relief, as clearly it means I’m officially not the world’s biggest authority on matters involving “Mother’s friend”, “pubic hair” and “cum”. Unless the persistent use of the words, "Mother's friend", "cum" and "pubilc hair" in this entry has now tipped the balance and put me at the top-spot).
I was a little taken a-back by the little summary that Google had used underneath the link. It rather oddly quoted me as having written:-
“At some point during this feast, my mother's friend enquired about my own tearing my pubic hair out with own my bare hands in sheer, self-loathing.”
Now I had no recollection of my “mother’s friend enquiring about my tearing my own pubic hair out in sheer self-loathing” whatsoever. How could I have simply forgotten the occurrence of such a strange (and seemingly very dark) episode in my life? I had to click on the link to my own page just to refresh my own memory and check that something so traumatic hadn’t happened to me in the last couple of months, that it had been completely erased from my memory (as I have seen the film “The Machinist” and understand such things do happen). And in any case, I was curious as to who was this friend of my mother’s was, with whom I feel comfortable enough to openly discuss clinical levels of misanthropy and violent, depair-fuelled hair removal techniques from areas that should normally not be spoke of in the presence of a mother’s friend.
Thankfully, when I clicked on my own blog it turned out that this description was not from one specific event, but a rather unfortunately sequenced composite of a couple of different blog entries (from here and here). I believe my American friend may have found a misrepresented version of me. I was relieved that I had I still had my pubic hair but I also wonder if this is this how MP’s and celebrities feel when they go on about getting quoted out of context? I should probably sue Google for deformation of character.
Perhaps more worrying, is the fact that this American actually read this brief content description of my blog and actually decided to click on it. Had this sort of thing been exactly what he’d set out to look for all along? Does his ideal fantasy involve some lower-middle class bloke from England discussing ripping his pubic hair out over dinner with his mother’s friend? Had this been some sort of onanistic jackpot to him?
I think you’ll agree this is quite a revealing perversion to discover about someone. And yet someone had the audacity to leave a message on yesterday’s entry calling ME a grotty man! How ironic that you all thought you had free admission to some of the darker thoughts of my mind, yet all along I could have been staring at yours. Now that’s made you paranoid hasn’t it! At least you know how I feel on a day-to-day basis. We’ve all learned something today. Specifically, I’ve learned a new literary device for provoking an authentic new type of empathy between writer and reader. And you’ve learned about some of the strange perverted desires that Americans have.
Wed 1st July 2009
I don’t know what it is about the hot weather, but it always makes me feel insatiably horny. In my lunch hour today, I was walking through the high street looking at some of the passers-by, feeling positively aroused. Now if you’ve ever been to Wolverhampton, you will appreciate this is no mean feat. For any readers who have never witnessed the people of our town (they call it a City, but it will always be a town to me), just imagine the queue at your local Greggs the Bakers. Can you picture that? Now imagine that a heyday Geoff Capes enters the shop amidst some kind of nervous breakdown, and indiscriminately launches into a fit of merciless violent attacks. With a hammer. The resulting aftermath gives you a vague idea what the populace of an average Wolverhampton street looks like. In other words it is grim. The only saving grace is that at least it’s not as grim as Dudley. For any readers who have never witnessed the people of Dudley, just imagine the kind of produce sold at your local Greggs the Baker. Now imagine that a heyday Geoff Capes enters the shop amidst some kind of nervous breakdown, and indiscriminately launches into a fit of merciless violent attacks. With a pnuematic drill. Any resulting chunks of squashed pastry and smeared gushy filling gives you a vague idea what the populace of an average street in Dudley looks like.
I am joking of course. I don’t know why I am specifically attacking the people of Wolverhampton or Dudley. I could have picked anywhere. In many ways, these are actually the most ill-advised places in the world for me to be making fun out of, as I am effectively in danger of alienating myself from both my home-town and its neighbouring town as well. This isn’t so much shitting on my own doorstep, as frenziedly wanking through my own letterbox.
Although judging by the current state of my libido, that coquettish letterbox might yet turn out to be a tempting consummation.
I am joking of course. I don’t know why I am specifically attacking the people of Wolverhampton or Dudley. I could have picked anywhere. In many ways, these are actually the most ill-advised places in the world for me to be making fun out of, as I am effectively in danger of alienating myself from both my home-town and its neighbouring town as well. This isn’t so much shitting on my own doorstep, as frenziedly wanking through my own letterbox.
Although judging by the current state of my libido, that coquettish letterbox might yet turn out to be a tempting consummation.
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