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!

Oh to be a pencil-pusher again . . .

Well as usual, I'm in a terrible mood . . . mainly because I've managed to do something to my laptop and now it types really slowly and makes a clicking noise, and freezes if I press the same key twice too quickly (this also applies to the 'backspace' button, which is infuriating!)

Additionally, these last two weeks or so, I can't help shake the feeling that . . .

. . . perhaps it's part of my education as a History graduate, but I tend to reflect on past events, and eventually dig out things I missed when the occurance -erm - occured (what?! It's late and I am feeling unimaginative in my utilisation of vocabulary) and so it is fair to say that I am momentarily somewhat riled. I keep being told that I am 'a really nice person'; the truth is, I'm actually not, I can just disguise it incredibly well; cutting remarks, bitchiness and downright petulance are just three of the services I offer, and I do so hate attempting to take the moral high ground at times - it clashes horribly with my never-ending mission to get the last word in.

Anyway, since Gareth claimed earlier that I have 'gone all weird' recently, I suppose I shall cease my grumblings and lighten the mood which I have worked so hard to darken thus far.

Like most people, I loathe my job . . . I mean really loathe my job.  True, I was once told by my boss to spend four hours doodling because there wasn't much work for me to do, but when I compare that to the cushy job I had at Durham County Council, I pretty much had two years worth of being paid to doodle and invent ever more productive ways to be unproductive with my existence. 

Alas, t'was not just me that had this issue, but everyone in the office . . .

On a bright day in the North East of England (which obviously means that the sun held absolutely no warmth) I arrived at work, turned my computer on . . . and turned the Metro newspaper I picked up to the 'Puzzles' section. T'was at this precise moment, when I reached for my trusty chewed Biro, that I realised that not all was as it should be in my domain, and there was an evil presence.  Everything on my desk had gone; my stationary, my pile of papers (which I was relatively pleased with at the time) my foot stool, even my football boots from the drawer had all gone missing.

Because nothing says you're bemused more than a Togepi armed with a banana . . .

In a state of puzzlement, I raised my newspaper, half expecting to find all of my missing possessions underneath it. Alas, there weren't there, but I did find something of great importance to unravelling this spiralling conspiracy (for there was an awful lot of poker-faces around the office.) The note conveyed the following message;

"At 09:30, go to the fax machine."

I checked my watch; 08:46. It was here that I began to realise the full extent of the malevolent goings-on surrounding me; this was no simple "oh let's hide all 'le Silk's' stuff". No, this was on a par with the Da Vinci Code. I waited tentatively, and even had to sacrifice my 09:30 scone time (oddly, in Durham you are considered 'la de dar' if you pronounce 'scone' properly, for it is allegedly a 'sconn', which in Derbyshire is considered the 'la de dar' terminology for said bread-based product).  At 09:31, the fax machine began to violently hum it's distress call of having a function, so I sprang into action, hoping for my next clue to retrieving my Biro (for I do enjoy chewing my Biro's to buggery) and I suppose my football boots weren't particularly cheap either.

I received what I can only describe as a treasure map . . . directing me into the ladies toilets.

With the evident look of mortification on my face, there was a ripple of sniggering, and then a suspicious lack of eye-contact.

After what I can only describe as a sinister amount of time to be waiting outside the opposite gender's restroom, I was confident that the coast was clear . . . so in I went.

My stapler awaited me inside, with a stapled treasure map lodged in it's unforgiving jaws.

And so the trend continued; I followed the treasure map down two flights of stairs to a meeting room and found my calculator hideously tangled with my sellotape reel with another treasure map. Now, the Council building was fairly sizeable; 12 floors, if I remember correctly, and I was being forced to spirograph my way through it's maze to find my possessions. The last item to be retreived were my football boots, which were in the room directly above mine (according to the crude drawings I was presented) and it was here where I uncovered the mastermind of the hideous ploy, beaming with smug satisfaction.

That Rebecca from upstairs . . . I shook

my fist in her general direction.

However, this was not my favourite memory of working in an office, no.  That came nearly a year later, when I was working in Mansfield.  T'was the day of the Royal wedding, and some jester at work decided that it would be brilliant if everyone came to work as if they were going to the Royal wedding . . . for some reason.  Well, no one out-jests me . . . no one!

You need security at a Royal wedding.  Oh yes ladies and gents, I'm not just a freakishly girly face.

Please not that I am sat down, and whilst I'm doing my best to look like I'm deep in thought (as it was my boss who took this photo) that folder spent most of the day lying across my lap.

Why, you ask?

Well, it was the first time I had donned such a costume, and unfortunately it was only about twenty minutes in to my nine hour shift when my co-worker Mark noticed that my trousers . . . how to say . . . were somewhat unforgivingly tight around the crotchal region.  Being the first to notice, he seemed to delight in spreading this information to everyone else in the office . . . and then asked me to come over to his desk (which was greeted with much cackling).  

It turns out that, on this occasion, I was out-jestered . . . TWICE!

Michala, the manager of the sales team, was wiping her tears away at the . . . unfortunate show I inadvertedly put on, and declared "oh I can't take it" whilst she weeped feebly.  Mark's riposte?

So I slinked off to my desk, placed a folder over my lap, and rued the day I got a 'good idea' whilst on eBay.  Still, the torment was not over; at lunch-time, Hollie came over to my fortress . . . 

Hmph, last time I try and do anything novel and a bit quirky . . . in theory.

Almost impressive . . . almost.

I'm just going to put this out there for anyone that may empathise; being single on facebook is scary.  Unfortunately, I didn't screen-print it at the time, but the advertisements facebook deemed most suitable for me were the following;

"25 and still single?" - 'Still'?  Duuuude, ouch!

"Ever thought about adopting?" - Erm, no . . . and I am quite happy to go on not thinking about adopting.

"Protect yourself" (with a picture of a rifle) - Facebook even knows that I have moved into the ghetto!  After some investigating though, it turned out to be an online game . . . shame really.

But alas, I am no longer plagued thusly, following mine and Adam's man-love matrimony.

Now, I realise I promised an amusing story about a brilliant office prank, but this shall have to wait, for I have a pressing issue that needs addressing.

Several years ago, Grace and I were on a day-trip to Nottingham (as Derby is just awful . . . #TheSmithOpinion: "why did you come 'ere?!") when she was trying to not-so-literally twist my arm and make me buy a felt jacket . . . mainly because she had a crush on Richard Fleishman who did some nonce-esque celebrity singing competition in a felt jacket.

 My response?

True story.

A few weeks after this event, my dear friend Richard accompanied us to Nottingham (again, since we were too embarrassed to show him around Derby) and visited the same shop with the same felt jacket.  Not unsurprisingly, no one had snapped it up in my absence.  Grace once again said it would suit me, to which she got my flippant riposte, and then Richard stated something along the lines of . . .

"it wouldn't look gay, it would make you look like Dr. Who."

Orly?

Needless to say, I bought it.

Me and said felt jacket had many a treasured memory in our years together, and not once did I ever suspect that I looked even remotely gay attired as such . . . . until last Saturday evening.

Having visited my sister's house, where my jacket was located, I decided to take it back to my dwelling in Derby (which recently has seen a homeless chap move onto the street . . . not into a house obviously, or else he wouldn't be homeless.  No, he lives down near the Kensington Arms) but couldn't fit it into my bag, so instead just wore it.  I was stood outside Chesterfield train station, with twenty minutes to waste until my train arrived.  Approached was I by an incredibly small southern male called Tyler who asked me for a lighter.  Unfortunately, he appeared to want to socialise with me, whilst I was more than happy being nostalgic over my bleak teenage years listening to Finch (anyone remember the band Finch?  Brilliant!) when, about forty seconds into our conversation, he slipped it in (err, in fact, it's best to swap that to 'dropped' it in . . . or just 'mentioned'; 'mentioned works) that he had 'recently split up with his boyfriend and was looking for a relationship'.

This left me with something of a bone to pick with Grace when I saw her at the weekend.

Grace: "What else were you wearing at the time?"
Me: "Well I was wearing a woolly jumper underneath the felt blazer, these shoes (gestured at the shoes) and some black skinny jeans. . . . . . . . . in fact yep, yep I must have looked gay."

Last week seemed to contain many a deep conversation; through facebook messages with Linda, a very one-sided drunken conversation with Adam (since I wasn't allowed to drink due to medical tests) and again with Grace.  The most stand-out of all of them, with a quote which sort of made me die inside, came from the latter.

"Michael . . . . . . . . . is the reason that you are always so down and miserable because you are denying that you are gay?"

                                                                                                     Grace Cunningham, March 2012

Now, bare in mind that I was in a relationship with Grace for six years - five of which we lived together - you would think that if there is one person on this planet who whole-heartedly would think I'm straight, t'would be her. 

Nope.

She has previously dished me one of my Top 10 all-time insults, which goes;

"You are so far in the closet that you are technically in Narnia"

. . . in fact, thinking of it, Poppy was also fairly convinced I was gay; her 'affectionate' nickname for me was 'Harrygay McBentfag', and I still have the barbs of her brutal form of fraping as evidence to this day.

'Mike' as well . . . I hate the name 'Mike'; t'makes me picture a grubby mechanic.

I couldn't quite say whether Melissa is able to complete the hat-trick in having all my exes convinced I was gay; we never made it that far as we only lasted thirty-seven days.

But then she didn't stay around too long to realise just the full extent of my perceived 'campness' - it takes me longer than thirty-seven days to lace up my Converse All-Stars.

My friends and family are not much better at attacking my alleged sexual preference; I seem to have been lumbered with the unfortunate moniker of 'Captain Queero'.  Both my mother and sister have asked me on different occasions whether I'm gay or not, and I accidently 'gayed' my father at Hallowe'en.  He popped over for a flying visit, and I quizzed him whether or not he was heading back into Chesterfield centre.  He responded in the affirmative, so I asked him if I could get a lift as I needed to go in, to which he convivially asked what it was I needed from town.

"I need some more make-up . . . "

My father's reaction.

". . . for my Hallowe'en costume."

At times it all gets a bit much, so I turn to my facebook friends for some comforting reassurance . . . and find none whatsoever.

. . . . yeahhhhhh so it transpires that Melissa also thinks I am gay.  Hat-trick of ex-girlfriends who think I'm gay.  When you think about it, it is almost impressive . . . almost.

Not a one for the easily outraged . . . or my mother.

Y'know you watch far too much anime when one watches 'Tales of Earthsea' undistracted (unlike last time!) and recognise that Arron is voiced by the person who does the voice of Light Yagami in Deathnote; brilliant series, Deathnote is, people need - and I mean medically need - to read or watch it.  Unfortunately, Melissa managed to escape my vile clutches before her anime conversion was completed . . . along with an introduction to Flight of the Conchords and a crash course in Red Dwarf.

Oh well, more foreveralonetime for me.

Friday 9th March proved to be a date that shall long live in my memoirs; the fact that I have managed to get the material for an entire blog post in twenty-fours is quite impressive.

On Thursday, I got a text message from Gareth loosely conveying the following message for the forthcoming Friday evening;

Having no real valid excuse to respond in the negative, I reluctantly responded in the positive. Tim and Tommy had already arranged a Left 4 Dead night in, and combining our efforts we bullied Adam into partaking, and after some tense negotiations between Claire and myself, we agreed that we could stay over at myweekend retreat in return for a bottle of Smirnoff for Tim and Tommy, and drinks for Claire.

It worked out cheaper than a taxi back to Chesterfield, so t'was agreed, and Adam and Gareth were press-ganged into the bargain, much to their bemusement.

Upon meeting Gareth, the insults just seemed to be hurled in my direction, and the volume of which only seemed to gather momentum as our group slowly expanded.  There's me, concerned over a mystery illness and coming to terms and accepting other things, and there they are, telling me I'm 'softer than a cotton cloud' and 'such a fag'.  I was hoping that Claire might subdue their tirade, as she has been known to defend me before, and drunkenly exclaim loudly that I'm "SOOOOO CUTE!" when I'm asleep . . . obviously I'm not asleep to register this, and in my mind it's all

 

But no.

"You can be such a twat at times," Claire de-claired.

Ouch

Why such abuse, you may be wondering.  Well, t'was the first time I'd seen Gareth since me and Melissa broke up, and there were an awful lot of questions thrown about.  I can't quite remember how it came about, but the whole Poppy 'fiasco' got thrown into the mix, and he seemed completely dumb-founded that I don't either hate Melissa or hoped that something bad had happened to Poppy for what she did.

(Neither were said with any malice I should add, but more trying to wake me up a bit and shake off any remnants of feelings I might have for either of them and establish how I'm feeling based on my reactions.) 

And then, that question came;

"If Poppy re-appeared and wanted to try again, would you get back with her?"

. . . and because I paused briefly before answering he made his own answer of yes, and went talking louder than me to everyone about how I want Poppy back.  In all honesty, I was a bit hurt how everyone believed Gareth - man man who is utterly convinced that 'chicks dig buttons' - on my previous relationship/friendship with said subject than myself.  Well, since I know Tim, Claire, Gareth, Adam and Tommy read this, it's now my turn to explain, so firstly please . . .

No, I don't hate Melissa.  Why would I?  We crammed in a load of giggles in just over a month and we had some utterly hilarious moments in a short space of time (the 'that's what she said' moments in the lift were just brilliant.)  I don't hate any of my ex's; me and Grace were together for six years and are absolutely best friends nowadays and it's great, and me and Poppy broke up in August but remained thick as thieves together up until December. I don't understand why people think that it is 'normal' to hate or just pretend someone you once thought the world of is no longer of any significance to you.  I'm happy that Grace is doing well in her career and has someone who clearly adores her, and I'm pleased for Melissa that she is now with someone that makes much more sense for her to be with than me.  Now, whilst I think it's good to have ex's still as friends, sometimes it gets a bit strange - Poppy was once messaging Grace to find things out about me, and the other day Melissa suggested that maybe me and Grace should give things another go.

And yes, that means I don't even hate Poppy.

True, she showed herself to be - and I do hate to swear, I really do, but I think in this circumstance it's justified - a calculated conniving cunt . . . but for a while she was my calculated conniving cunt. She was my best friend and there wouldn't be a day goes by without us phoning one another (well that's a lie, since we fell out every Wednesday and made friends again every Saturday) and it is fair to say that she and Lyla combined changed me for the better (I'm sure Grace will be more than willing to testify that.)  And so, to answer the question; no, if she did suddenly re-appear, I wouldn't get back with her.  How could I after what she did?  That doesn't mean that I don't want her to come back into my life, because I hope that wherever they both are that they are okay, and I do miss them both terribly.

Anyway, onwards to Friday's tomfoolery!

So the night consisted of Adam, Gareth, Claire and myself, and after visiting 'the Bowery' - a pub owned by the drummer from the Arctic Monkeys - we ventured on to Corporation.  We got in at around about 23:00, and Gareth disappeared by 23:15 . . . . on one of my many trips outside, I found him giggling to himself on a bench at 23:45.  Quite how anyone can get so schmock-faced in a thirty-minute period is truly beyond my comprehension, but alas, this was the situation I was faced with.

Now, perhaps I am doing him a disservice, but I honestly do worry about Gareth's survival skills - he doesn't now how to cook bacon . . . even I know how to cook bacon and I've been a vegetarian since I was 13 - and he considered it a ground-breaking achievement once he had mastered the art of cracking an egg at the age of 24. So with this at the forefront of my mind, I whisked him outside and text Claire - our student nurse - that "I found Gareth, he is bloody obliterated. Halp!  Come outside plz (:"

Claire always seems to get messages from me containing the word 'HALP!'

Adam and Claire arrived and believed that he was faking it . . . and then it all became apparent that he wasn't.  Like a child with too much sugar in his system after his bed time, we couldn't get him to be still, and he spent the night prowling around Corporation.  With Adam and Claire dancing, it sort of left me with a great deal of 'reflective' time outside . . . . until it happened.

A girl came up to me. An actual female!  She reminded me of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on it.  She said that my jumper was 'brilliant' - chicks dig woolly jumpers, fact! - and we were 'talking' for a while, all the time I was trying to place where I knew her from or who she reminded me of.  Then, we . . . err . . . sort of kissed . . . quite a bit . . .

. . . and it was at this precise moment that my world collapsed and realised that she was an absolute Poppy-clone - angel-bite piercings and everything.

 

Oh for a really world-class therapist . . .

Now, I am no good at this whole 'being single' malarky.  Despite Gareth's claims that I am a 'serial womaniser' I've only been in three relationships, and can probably count the people I've kissed on my hands, but what was more alarming is, after we kissed, she asked me "where are you staying tonight?"

Not sure if come-on . . .

And so with that, I blurted out "I'm staying at a friends house . . . . I should really go and look for them."  And so I skulked off into a dark recess with a whole heap of regrets.

Gareth wasn't entirely finished though.  I saw my good friend Rachel quite a few times and got one long lovely hug from her because I 'looked so sad', and just as she was leaving, she said "I spoke to your friend Gareth, he is sooooo funny." She left chuckling.

Oh Cheesus now what's he done?

I found Gareth, strolling around . . . bleary-eyed . . . a big cheesy grin on his face, but I questioned him sharply about what he had said to Rachel.  I would have preferred not to have known, but alas, hindsight is a truly beautiful thing.

"I said . . . I said . . . said 'Rachel . . . I said 'leave it with me Rachel.  I'll make Michael get his nob out for you."

                                                                                                             Gareth Smith. 9th March 2012

What?  Duuuuuuuuuuuuuude!

We got him home without too much further trouble - although he did try and lick someone through a chip-shop window - but then the troubles re-started once we got him home.  Immediately he was asleep on the sofa, and despite me asking so nicely if I could sleep at the end of Tim and Claire's bed like a dog, I got turned down (I attempted it anyway, but Tim being the cruel master that he is slapped me in the juggular . . . TWICE!) So I was confined to sleeping on the floor near Gareth, where I came very close to being vomitted on whilst I slept . . . TWICE!

Fortunately I used the sleeping bag as a cocoon against any onslaught.

Oh he was a sorry state the next morning, there are even photo's to prove it which he promised would never put them on facebook . . . . . nothing got mentioned about a blog though.

Consider it justice for calling me a 'soft fag and offering my genitals around >:D

Well that's me waffled out, the next one will be about the peach of an office prank I had played on me, unless something else crops up over the weekend.  Buh bye!

 

. . . the fudge is 'Woman Day'?

The new look blog . . . too jazzeh?

Ummmm, I feel that I should openly apologise . . . well actually, I should apologise twice.

Firstly, I direct sincere regret for my vindication of the baby next door.  Previously, I have grumbled incessantly about just how noisy it is, to the extent that I couldn't wait to be back at work to be surrounded by heavy machinery for twelve hours solid for a pleasant relaxing time.  My loathing has since shifted to its parents (or a very close approximation) who spend all hours of the day arguing loudly, and then shouting at the baby who is upset because its parents are arguing.  I now just feel pity for the child, and a level of empathy . . . tempted to steal it for myself and raise it in my image - thus granting me the all-clear to be the proud owner of the Sheffield Steelers piece of merchandise "Baby Steeler On Board" - and together we shall walk the sands of time, across the wastes and . . . . . . . . . well I forget where I was going with this, but yo' get my point.

Gah!  It sort of pains me to admit this but . . . this morning, I got in from work at 07:30 and went to bed, and drifted off with the sound of the baby giggling and laughing to himself with the Rugrats theme-tune playing quietly. It was . . . I mean . . . how to say . . . it was . . .

adorable.

There, I said it!  Lyla-Mae turned me into a softie!  Before that fateful time when I first met her as a bump at a party I detested anything under the age of 14, and strongly thought that the world would be a better place if child labour was re-introduced.  For some reason children just hate me; on public transport they stare me out, on mine and Melissa's first ever date I somehow managed to destroy one that ran into the back of me, and I will never forget that grim grim memory of me and Grace in Chesterfield, an infant male was sprinting directly at me with his unco-ordinated feet.  I panicked.  Releasing Grace's hand, I aimed for the relative shelter of pressing myself against the window of Superdrug.

It didn't work.

So much hatred this child had for me, that he deviated his path and charged straight into me.  Pinned against a shop window, I had no escape.  The impact came.  Bham! Headbutted with his big wobbly head right in an area God never intended for foul treatment . . . and he still kept on sprinting!  So I was there, on a Saturday along Chesterfield's busiest street in full view of everyone being essentially sexually assaulted by a seven-year old male who, I presume, was a catheter in a previous incarnation.

Not a consoling word from Grace, just a "come along nob'ed" XD

Secondly, I feel like I should apologise for being such a mard-aardvark recently.  I had an awful lot of things thrown in at once over the last few weeks; Melissa ending things, trying to finish Lyla's story which brought up a lot of what I would term as 'unfinished business' , these worrying black-out spells which seem to be getting a bit more frequent, and it was this time last year when my grandma died so I've been in a rather sullen and reflective mood for about three weeks now . . . which may not have helped things between me and Melissa because I just don't like opening up to people - which is sort of why I write a blog, letters and books, it helps me unjumble my thoughts -  but alas, hindsight is a wonderful thing.  Basically, what I am trying to say is, I have lost what is medically termed as ones 'mojo'.

I was at the doctors this morning (Friday) and was put back on anti-depressants for the third time in three years, which is just a peach. In all honesty, I should probably have been on them since late December, because . . . well, there can't be many worse things to go through really, but I can't thank Claire, Gareth, Tina, Grace, my mum and Melissa enough for the way they looked out for me and made January one of the happiest months I can remember.  As for the blacking out episodes I'm having, I have to go back for some extensive tests next Friday, but the moustachioed Asian doctor who called me 'Michael Sick' said that it is most likely to be epilepsy, but he ran off some other scary medical conditions too. I endured the awkward moment when the doctor was taking my blood pressure and querying whether I felt okay today, and I replied 'yep, fine'.  He continued, asking whether I usually feel like I do today, which I do - perfectly fine.  He directed my glance to the read-out, which was 98 over 86 (most people's is 120 over 80-something, and unconciousness usually occurs at around 80 over something-something.)

Croikey, I should probably change my nickname from 'Kilroy' to 'Kill-joy' at the moment.  Anyway, to more positive things.

On Tuesday I received my blogs 1000th pageview, and a rather impressive 93 pageviews in February alone, which makes me a happy boy . . . see below for further details.

. . . and this is why I never smile . . . ever.

It pleases me that something which started out as an ingenius way of wasting my life in November regailing my own buffoonery and the tomfoolery of my cohorts and posted solely on facebook (I don't put le tags in or anything like that - effort!) has now got readers in America and people actually googling this blog . . . quick!  Back to the happy face picture!  Additionally, since the events of last week, it turns out that I've also bid a not-so-fond farewell to 7lbs, which I lost in 9 days simply by sleeping my woes out the window.

Not that you can tell; it's the equivalent of 

throwing a deck-chair off the Titanic.

Those of you that have followed my blog from the very first post might remember that it used to be called 'Like A Billionaire But With Nothing To Spare', based on the beautiful song 'Waste Of Space' by Delays (but you probably haven't heard of them: my hipster moment of the day there).  I picked this as the title, as the following line is 'All this time on my hands doesn't go anywhere' which rang true of my November, but alas, this is no more the case, as I've had a relatively productive week.  Along with getting closer to uncovering my latest medical ailment, I also finished the tedious tale of 'Volbert the Mole' which was intended just as a silly but sentimental present for Lyla, an ex-girlfriend/former best friend's daughter, I thought "meh!  Why the fudge shouldn't I try and take it further?" so I've been doing some enquiring around at some childrens book publishers . . . turns out that it is a rather complicated process.  

Who knew?

To be quite honest, I don't think it'll get anywhere, as it wasn't particularly written for a child to read, but more for an adult to read to a child . . . well, one particular adult to read to one particular child (which limits the target audience somewhat).  Also, I really didn't like doing a child's book; my other one -  'The New God' -  involves a lot of backstabbing, assassinations, foul language, violence, a love-hate romance, a main character who goes manically insane, one arse'ole of a woman, and even a scene I found cringe-inducing to type of someone making themselves no longer a man . . . .

. . . which I got really involved in (well that sounded wrong!) but with childrens books . . . . . . okay, I'll say it.  The two things I hate most about myself are (a) my chin - it makes me look like I have a head the shape of a baked bean - and (b) my voice.  Anyone who has ever heard me talk will understand why; it is completely devoid of emotion and sentiment; I would say my wedding vows on the happiest day of my life in the exact same voice I'd read my own mother's eulogy, and when I try to sound warm, welcoming or enthusiastic, it just comes across as patronising and sarcastic.  And so, as I was reading back through the finished 'Volbert the Mole', I could just hear my own voice narrating . . . t'was grim.  Still, I suppose the worst these publishers can say is 'no, its a load of bobbins', and even considering my rather fragile emotional state right now, it's not like I can put my head in the oven and turn the gas on . . . I even fail at failing at life.

Six  Month Single Challenge - Update

Wednesday evening saw me encounter my first obstacle, in the shape of Kristina at work, who - I think - was flirting with me . . . but then I have never been good at determining such things.  Usually I never talk to her - or anyone - but since they have banned everyone from listening to mp3 players now, I am prone to being socialised with.  Kristina, the 5ft 1 inch, blonde Polish girl who it is impossible to put an age on decided to walk across the warehouse to where I was playing with craft knives, and start talking to me about 'Woman Day', which is on the 8th March (apparently).  This is the conversation (and please read Kristina's part in a Polish accent);

Kristina: Hello Michael, I haven't seen you for while, how are you?

Me: Erm, I just cut my finger with a craft knife, so not great.  How are you?

Kristina: You always bleeding!  I'm sad.

Me: . . . . . why are you sad?

Kristina: Tomorrow is Woman Day, and every woman is meant to get flowers for Woman Day, but I never had Woman Day flowers.

Me: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Woman Day? Do you mean Mother's Day?

Kristina: No!  I mean Woman Day.  You never heard of Woman Day?!

Me: I don't think anyone's heard of Woman Day.

Kristina: Is Woman Day tomorrow!

She proceeded to google 'Woman Day' on her phone . . . turns out the 8th March is Woman Day.

Kristina: See?  It Woman Day, but no one ever buys me Woman Day flowers.

Me: . . . . probably because no one knows it's Woman Day.

Kristina: I'll be sad tomorrow if I come into work and I have no Woman Day flowers.
Me: So when is Man Day?
Kristina: Is . . . . five days away . . . after Sunday.
Me: Oh! Oh no, no. . . no.  Man Day for . . . a man. (at this point I semi-pointed at myself; she didn't look convinced).

Kristina: There is no Man Day!
Me: . . . . . s'a wee bit unfair.
Kristina: [in a patronising voice] Awww, would Michael like pretty flowers?

And with that, she walked off giggling to herself and talking to a friend in Polish, who also started giggling, and all before I could even answer in the affirmative that I would indeed like some pretty flowers.

My thoughts exactly Picard.

My plan of action.

. . . nothing, obviously.  Six-month single challenge ftw.

Sorry Kristina, but no 'Woman Day' flowers 
for you for another year.