Zone Of The Frienders

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep . . . . no Chris Martin, I am not requesting your voice that is startlingly reminiscent of livestock being mutilated to "fix me", I am merely referring to my current state of condition.

Err, sorry for hurting your feelings but . . . well, you just offend
all of my senses . . . err, except 'taste'

And so, with a void of actually having a (a) a reliable job, (b) a chance to socialise and make friends, and (c) a meaningful worthwhile existence, I took a step that is cataclysmic in both how harshly I shall be judged by my friends for admitting it, and that I haven't done so already.

I downloaded all 15 Pokemon movies.

Oh yes ladies and gents; whilst I might never get to catch 'em all, I can at least watch 'em all.

And especially for Adam and Gareth, who will no doubt be storing up the abuse right now, by now you should realise that  . . .

Now, far be it from me for telling Ash Ketchum he is doing it all wrong but . . . he's doing it all wrong.  Considering it's his dream to catch all the pokemon, he does a pretty lame job.  In Pokemon 11 (which has a terrifyingly catchy them-tune) Ash encounters FOUR legendary pokemon in the first half-hour . . . but doesn't throw a single poke-ball.  Moreover, in Pokemon 12, Ash only encounters two legendary pokemon, and at seperate points they are very close to death . . . AND STILL NO POKE-BALLS!  To make it even worse, he actually carries Shaymin all the way to a pokemon centre . . . and let's it change to 'skyform' and fly away completely uncaptured.

What the fudge Ash . . . just what the fudge?

Who's with me on my poke-rant?  Anyone?  What about you over there in the background . . . no?

And onwards . . .

With the amount of time on my hands, I've had a lot to puzzle on with my puzzler, and came to a ground-breaking conclusion.  Oh yes people, lock up yo' daughers/mothers/pokemonz/anything-but-males, because I officially declare an end to the whole "Six Month Single Challenge!"

Croagunk saw this coming and is subsequently bemused.

Again!  I can hear Gareth gloating that he is "always right" - which he isn't, as he boldly stated that damp causes more damage to a house than a hurricane (which means Tim and Claire's sofa is well and truly obliterated!) - as he openly declared "bullsh*t" on it when I made my grand sweeping statement. 

But alas, let me explain . . .

Now let's go back-a-ways.  When me and Melissa were getting together, me and Claire had a heart-to-heart about how I shouldn't lump what happened with Poppy onto her, and she was right and I trusted Melissa completely and had a happy thirty-seven days . . . even if it was filled with one-way abuse (but then I'm a wee bit dysfunctional and take abuse and harsh banter as a sign of affection, and affection and niceness as a sign that something is very very wrong).  Again, you may recall my 'emo-phase' of being miserable because Melissa ended things around the time of Lyla's birthday so it all snowballed into one giant heap of misery, and in all honesty, as much as I liked Melissa, she was a metaphorical plaster over the wound Poppy made, and when she went it was like taking a plaster off and finding an infected wound.

So the six month single challenge was to get some time to myself and let things heal, or so I thought . . .

But then, in one of those bolt-up-wide-awake-at-4am moments, I had to question myself whether the reason was to sort myself out, or whether it was to leave a massive gap from March until September - with the main point of our falling out happening in August - for her to re-materialise in.  True, I maintain that I doubt she ever will, and Lyla along with her, but then again at the time I was missing Lyla terribly, so it might have been it.  I ran this by both Claire and Grace; the latter agreed with me, the former said "f*ck Poppy", which I assume means it got her blessing as well.

Anyway, with regards to the "Six Month Single Challenge" . . .

. . . because we all hear things in Duncan Bannatyne's voice.

Unfortunately however, this saw me end up on perhaps the most awkward experience of my life . . . and as I have recountered, I get into a few.

So I shall fill you in on the background to this tale of woe.  In August 2010, I had my tragus pierced by my friend, who we shall call 'Bobbins', who was an apprentice piercer at a body art studio in Derby, and needed to puncture people to pass the grade (which she didn't, and the fact my tragus got hideously infected is testament to that . . . but I digress). 

With her living in Derby, and me recently moving to Derby and yet not knowing anyone, I asked if we could meet up for a drink and a catch-up sometime, which we did.  When we met, she brought along her friend, who we will call 'Buttons', and all three of us had a merry ol' time.  Bobbins, being a kind-hearted soul, suggested that me and 'Buttons' go on a date together, which we both sort of agreed to if for no other reason than we got each others humour.

The day of this 'date' arrived, and the two of us said that we'd just go and play a bit of pool and have a few drinks, and did so we did.  There was absolutely nothing flirtatious or any sort of attraction to one another, we were just two friends playing pool.  "You're really bad at pool," Buttons exclaimed whilst sniggering.

I said something back at this point, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was, but for some reason she . . . she walked up to me with her phone out, said she had a video to show me and made me hold her phone, and pressed play.

. . . . . . . . . . it was a sex-video of her and some chap.

I can only imagine my face looked like this at the time.

I mean why? Why . . . . . . . just why?  Why would anyone do that?  She looked at my face the entire time whilst I stood there, with someone I considered a sort-of-friend, on a Saturday afternoon, in a pub, with a load of football fans, watching the person I'm on a date with having sex with someone . . . why?

And the worst part - the absolute worst part - was that she didn't turn the sound down.

. . . and this video clip went on for three minutes . . and it was clearly the man holding the phone at the time because . . . well I won't go into the logistics, but it was not great.  What sort of response was she hoping for?  "Well that look nice for the both of you . . . seems like you're having fun." 

AND-SHE-LOOKED-ME-IN-THE-EYE-FOR-THE-FULL-THREE-MINUTES

Y'know the beginning of Fight Club, where Cornelius is tied to a chair with a gun in his mouth, and he thinks to himself "how did my life come to this?" and we get a big flashback to catch up with the present situation?  Well I genuinely did this whilst I was trying to maintain a neutral expression (I imagine neutral isn't what she was hoping for, but it was the closest to 'inoffensive' I could muster at the time) and had a very dull flashback of my life; summers frog-collecting in the forests, scoring the last goal my year ever scored in P.E before we left secondary school, re-enacting scenes from The Holy Grail with Gareth in college, the first and last Lategates gig in Manchester, my many bumbles (such as moving to Derby) and then "BHAM!" - back in the pub with male genitals worryingly close to my face.

. . . . . just why?

I really genuinely wish I could remember what I retorted with when she said I was bad at pool; perhaps if the conversation went like this;

. . . but it didn't, I probably just replied with "well you have a truly dreadful haircut" or something to this effect. 

So I made my excuses - I realised I'd left my iron on (no I fobbed her off with that my mum was visiting) - went home, and did what rape victims seem to find most comforting; sitting in a shower, fully clothed, sobbing, and possibly listening to Evanescence.

A few days later, I was still very much . . .



. . . so I went to a friend, hoping for a consoling word.

Alas, I got told that I should be more liberal-minded.

More liberal-minded?!  Duuuuuude, now I am no hit with the ladies, I don't go on many dates, and I suppose I am a bit of a prude, but surely it is something so obvious, not letting your date see you having sex with someone else, that it is almost an unspoken rule, along with a thorough tooth-brushing and lotsa aftershave.

But of the three people who knew of this, I was the one with odd principles.



As a final note, I should say that this is quite likely to be my last ever blog, or at least one for some time.  The truth is that I have a great many things on my mind to worry over right now and I'm not in a particularly good place. I need to get myself sorted, but if this is indeed my last ever blog, I'd like to thank you all for reading and t he many nice comments, and I'm glad I amused you in some way.

I've been saving this picture up for ages, may as well use it.

*bows respectfully*

You Can't Escape Tim's Biology

In my last blog post, I said I would not indulge anyone in the drunken tom-foolery that my companions and I generally partake in, mainly because no one would find it entertaining other than the few people I have any form of interaction with.

Well, a recent development has created some absolute comedy gold.

Before I begin, I'll put out a disclaimer: Sian and Anna, given your phobia . . . you might be in for a bumpy ride . . .

T'was a few months ago when I mentioned the 'hot Corp twins' (I've even hyperlinked that to the reference; check me and my bad self!) On Friday eve, whilst I am nonchalantly ambling up Division Street to the Green Room (where everyone else was already merry-making) I was about to enter when said 'hot Corp twins' exited.  Now, one of them has an incredibly hard-looking boyfriend, and the other ALWAYS stares at me.  This brief encounter was no different; she was crossing the road and yet kept turning around to look at me . . . t'is a bit intimidating in all honesty.

Casting this to the back of my mind, I pushed through the Green Room crowd towards where everyone was (even though it was packed, it's never a challenge to spot Tim from a fair distance, given his height) and so we all convened and the insults began.  

Standard.

And so, we went to Corporation.  The night was flying by without much a snag.  and whilst me and Adam were having our own little side story in the smoking area involving the telling of some truly appalling jokes to someone called Charlotte (mine were better . . . or worse, whichever the case may be) and Gareth was with his new found friend, it seems all was not well with Tim and Syd.  

On mine and Adam's return, Tim regailed us with a story of how he was not feeling all too good, and said as much to Syd.  Syd, showing her compassionate and caring side, slugged Tim in the stomach.

To quote Lyla-Mae, "oderrrrrr"

At this point, Tim informed us that even though he tried to stop the outpouring of biological matter from his mouth by placing a hand over it, all he had in fact succeeded in doing is making his projectile range greater (like when you put your thumb over a hose-pipe) and fountained vomit over "around twenty people". Whilst most got away with little splatterings, one girl in particular got absolutely covered.

Can you see where this is going?

What should crop up in my facebook newsfeeds, other than this?

That's right folks!  My good friend vomited upon one of the hot Corp twins!  Perhaps both, as I imagine his vision was somewhat impaired . . . and they are identical.

Gripped, are you not, by the cliff-hanger I created there?  Well, t'is at this point where he have two different accounts of what ensued.

The hot Corp twins' friends account (and typing that is a plural-based nightmare which I assume I've made a mistake somewhere)

Interesting . . .

Tim's account

After his bile explosion, Tim went to the toilets to clean himself up, and was followed by a group of the victim's friends who - and I quote Tim - 'were all "you what you what?"'.  At the time, Tim was leaning over the urinal, and others in the toilets were saying that "he was only sick and it happens to everyone".  Still they persisted, and then Tim stood upright, unfolding his 6 foot 5 inch frame . . . and t'was at this moment that the chaps backed down, washed little flecks of vomit off of themselves, and skulked off.

I know which version of events I believe, and t'is the latter.


In other news, what a contrast in weather we've had!  Last week I was out in the sun with Anna at Devonshire Green plotting our next project together - we've settled on it being about a mischevious mermaid.  With me actually encountering sunlight (it's not something we see much of in Derby) I dug out my denim shorts, and check this out, because I am actually impressed!



Me in June 2011, notice the lack of belt . . . but please turn a blind eye to the pink shoe-laces.

Same shorts, tried them on the other day . . .

Err, sorry about the amount of undercrackers on display >.<

But c'mon, that's fairly impressive!

However, I am now presented with a dilemma; there is just something not right about paying £16 for a pair of shorts, so now I am toying between the idea of which will be a better investment.

[A] £16 worth of shorts which I will never need to wear in Derby,

or

[B] £16 worth of custard creams so I can fit back into my current pair of shorts.

. . . I think we all know the asnwer to that.

Just to highlight how I will never need shorts, I woke up this morning to find snow outside . . . snow, in April.  It's a good job that homeless chap who resided on my street moved up the social scale and found somewhere better to live.  Derby is always cold and glum, and snow just made the entire city look that little bit more Soviet.  Additionally, there are some weird people here; just ask Melissa - the two of us were walking through the city centre to my house on an average day (which, in Derby, means bloody Baltic) where we saw a gentleman stood shouting "F%*KING COLD!!!" at the heavens whilst he slammed his bike up and down in a fit of weather-rage.

Needless to say, we exchanged a quick glance and walked passed him, eyes focussed on the floor.

Still, I do have one good thing to say about Derby as a place, and I've created it in the form of a postcard.

*generic witty title*

"Hey Picard."

"Yes?"

"You'll never believe it, but I have actually met someone - a female, I might add - who actually likes me and won't lump me into the 'quirky slightly camp male friend' category."

". . . go on."

"Hah, of course I haven't!  April Fool's Jean-Luc!"

"Yeah, How d'you like them apples Picard . . . if that is your real name?"

Jean-Luc Picard. Not liking 'them apples' since July 13th, 2305

And onwards . . .

Obi-Wan Kenobi once said of Mos Eisley spaceport that "you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy".   Clearly, he never met my next-door neighbours.  The other day - as usual - they were having a rather vocal disagreement, until the gentleman delivered the following pearler of a line.

"I F%$KING WORK ALL F%$CKING DAY AND I COME HOME AND YOU'VE MADE A SH#T DINNER.  YOU CAN'T COOK FOR SH#T . . . . BECAUSE YOU'RE A SCHLAAAAAAGGGG!!!"

Now, I have a few questions . . .

1) If you've been out to work 'all day', how come I hear you arguing at all hours?

2) Please could you elaborate on how being a 'schlaaaaaagggg' would impair one's cooking ability?

I did an absolute peach of an impression to my neighbours bold statement to Adam on a rather eventful evening . . . one in which we were sat in my house at 20:00 on a Saturday evening, and then complained it was a bit cold.  So, being a good host, I turned the heating up and suggested we go for a quiet half and some dry roasted peanuts . . . 


Six hours later, we returned home in a non too-good state.


I won't fill you in on our drunken antics - mainly because most of which are a mystery to me - but boy were we pulling some shapes!  Such shapes were we pulling, in fact, that this one girl did not stop looking at the two of us.


Our collective thoughts at 04:30am;

. . . and at 10:00am;

I've said it before and I will say it again; hindsight is a wonderful thing.  I mean, with hindsight, would Hitler have invaded Russia? Nope.  Well, my 'hindsight' moment is less world-changing than that, but with hindsight, it probably was not the best idea to crumble to Turner's demands of "let's have it large then" when we had to be up at 10:00am for a long car journey to London to watch a football match.

Just to highlight, sitting in a stadium full of 50,000 shouting fans is not the place to be with a cracking hang-over.  No matter how much I asked them all nicely, they just wouldn't tone it down.

That Saturday night at Mosh (in Derby - brilliant!) was the cherry on top of a good week; this whole single malarky is actually awesome!  It was also a week in which two new entries came for the best insult I've ever received.

Adam - Yeah the reason you always get ID'ed is because you look like you're fourteen . . . and a fourteen year old girl at that.

Claire - One day you'll find someone and have the whole marriage and children thing . . . or more likely a civil partnership and an adoption.

Still, I think the ultimate best came from one of Claire's friends, Becky.  T'was a night where we nearly got "shanked" in an alleyway, but once the altercation had died down Becky turned to me, completely serious and sobbing, and said;

"Oh Michael I'm so glad they didn't do anything to you to ruin your beautiful face."

. . . I'M A 25 YEAR OLD MAN!

Recently, I've had people seeking my advice a lot over relationships and these fancy womenfolk in general . . . . I know! Me?  Relationship advice?  Excuse me while I lolwut.  I doubt there is anyone less suited to giving out relationship advice; christ, I asked my last girlfriend out over a bag of gummy bears, clearly this highlights at just how bad I am at such things.  This happened to me a few years ago - I swear it's purely due to having 'Silk' as a last name that people come to me - where someone had a massive crush on a girl and asked me what to do.  My reply?

"Erm . . . . why not try writing her a letter?"

In the end, this chap got the girl, but through no usage of letters.  In fact, he went to another friend who told him to make sure "he is never the last one to text" and "leave massive gaps before texting back".

Hmph!  I'll keep the letters and gummy bears to myself!