Archive for October, 2011

Apologies for missing a couple of days, I was unavoidably muntered. Anyway, carrying on!

Something you hope to do in your life.

There’s an absolute ton of things that I want to do. We all have those dreams of winning the lottery, and I remember the first time I bought a ticket I put some serious thought into the whole idea. It was the Euromillions, the jackpot was up over £100 million again and I divided out all that money in my head. I figured that I’d spread the wealth, give a million to all my family safe in the knowledge I could still live better than most people do several lifetimes over. My other plans involved keeping it quiet until my brothers were older so they could still go to uni or whatever they wanted to do and would always have something to fall back on if they blew all the cash. Another involved me again telling no-one so that I wouldn’t be treated any differently, but live comfortably and say that I’d made a few lucky investments in various companies. And of course there was the private jets, expensive cars, orgies, trips into space, with a castle and the ability to stand at the top of a hill, look in any direction and take comfort that it was all mine thrown in for good measure.

But my more realistic aim is to skydive. I love heights, and I love the sensation of falling. Without trying to sound suicidal I’ve found myself standing in flats on the 20th or so floor wishing I could jump out of the window. For the trip down rather than the end result obviously. The company was a bit shit most times as well, so ending it all might’ve had something to do with it now I think about it. Right now the highest thing I’ve jumped from was a cliff into some diesel flavoured water somewhere near Oban a few years ago. I’ve got a rather small fund barely into three figures to put towards finally doing it, but unless I really do find a big wad of cash it’ll be a couple of years and some more serious weight loss before I can even begin to think of the cheaper tandem skydive nevermind solo jumps. My Point Break fantasies will have to stay on the backburner for the time being.

Skydiving also isn’t a viable career option, so my more practical hopes are that I can finally figure out what the hell it is I want to do with my life. That way I can focus my energy into succeeding at it and not wonder about the other possibilities constantly. For the very short-term I’ll settle for a job and my hole, ta very much.

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Sweet titty fucking Christ I feel rough. Had a change of plan regarding the costume. I couldn’t find a shirt that would suit a dog collar and I figured being a priest wasn’t really the best thing to dress up as in a building with a few hundred girls using the night as an excuse to dress a bit more freely than usual. I didn’t want them to think I was the famous author of A Reminder Of Morality after all. So I went out and got myself a cheap long-sleeved black shirt with matching trousers and wore my “employ me” shoes with it, making a rather dapper ensemble even if I do say so myself. As the people I was going with had never seen me in anything other jeans or various states of undress, I was suited up like I never am outside of funerals. The face ended up being all white along with the hair and beard and black around the eyes. There wasn’t really a name for it but someone mentioned the words “suave Beetlejuice” so that’s what the whole look became.

The night started in Marsha’s pre-drinking with her, her boyfriend (zombie prom dates) and Marsha’s friend who was dressed as a gorgeous mime. Unfortunately her heels were on the wrong side of the infallible mathematical formula which dictates that the higher the heels a girl wears corresponds with a vastly increased probability of her becoming miserable with discomfort before very long. So despite her looking completely stunning in what were bordering on miniature stilts I knew way deep down in my heart that her face would be tripping her by the time we even got to where we were going. After getting suitably inebriated we headed off to the train station for the ride in, ending up in a queue so long to get in I’d practically sobered up. The bouncers had all dressed up as neds: old school Kappa tracksuits, Berghaus jackets, and old slasher caps to top it off. They’re an alright bunch in there, given the Cathouse’s clientele has a large number of effeminate posers in skinny jeans they don’t have to worry too much about anything big kicking off.

Inside the place was packed, which a lot of people don’t like but I find a bit of comfort in. They had more staff on so I got served quicker, which has always been my main gripe about clubs. You want to dance or try your luck, not stand around waiting to spend your hard-earned on overpriced drink. Though that wasn’t such an issue last night, where sambuca shots were a pound a time. Looks like water, but you really shouldn’t drink it like such. That’s why I was being responsible and made sure that every time I bought a shot I washed it down with a pint of Bulmers too. Got to be sensible about these kinds of things after all.

I had a thoroughly good time, mainly because I was always doing something and spent more time in the middle of the crowd dancing than I did on the outskirts talking to people like I have done the past couple of times I’ve been in there. Managed to thaw out the ice queen mime a little bit as well. We had all set up shop in the back bar, which has the comfiest seats but the music is inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t already know what it is. She’d been semi-abandoned (not set up as my date or anything so I’d buggered off to get in about it) and was sitting herself when I remembered how the Cathouse can be fucking terrible to a lot of people not used to it. I asked her if she’d been there before, was she into that kind of music, both answered no predictably. We shared the latter part in common, but try being a guy who looks right at home in a rock club telling someone that you don’t know a single track that’s playing and you’d rather be raving than headbanging and it gets you a look of “Aye, right then pal.” Kind soul that I am, I took her to the more mainstream part of the place which had been playing LMFAO not long before but had decided to throw on some metal just in time to make me look a fool. Saved by Marsha appearing in the nick of time I buggered off again to look for the redhead that had taken to rubbing her face on my beard and was carrying around a cauldron of every drink on offer mixed together. My kinda lass.

Not everyone else had as good a night, me being the one without anything on my mind for once. For the rest it was a collection of exes, place being too busy, nearly avoiding being vomited on and the aforementioned Burj Khalifa of high heels that made them call time an hour before closing. Figured that it was better to quit while I was ahead and left as well before the place started to empty. The centre of Glasgow was filled with people either waiting on buses or taxis, but it was fairly good natured, with a minimal chance of random violence that there usually is. We were gifted to the surreal view of a man dressed as a baby (with nothing on the lower half other than an adult nappy) finger banging an air hostess before running to his taxi with his boner bouncing around.

The taxi ride back constituted various discussions on Minecraft, college, horror films, old TV shows and my traditional “Gaunnae fuckin’ watch Breaking Bad ya shower ae fuckin’ cunts!” Dropping a couple of people off on the way before the original four of us ended up back at Marsha’s again. The mime got a lift home from there and I buggered off at the same time after waiting for a taxi that hadn’t shown, deciding to just walk the forty minutes or so home. Was offered the customary Stanley blade (previously used to zombify clothes, now in the off-chance that I wasn’t the most mental thing awake) which I kindly refused and left. As I should have known, five minutes later and I was getting the call back that the taxi had shown up at long last. Now realising that I had nearly an hour of marching before I’d get back to mine, motorised transport sounded bloody brilliant. Almost on cue a taxi was driving towards me (which could’ve been mine anyway, let’s face it) so I did the only thing you can do when it’s five in the morning and you’re dressed like a suave ghoul: I walked out into the middle of the road causing the taxi to stop, noticed there was nobody else in it, walked up to the driver side door, opened it, and asked him if he was free. “Eh, um, sure jump in.” was the reply and a couple of minutes later I was home. He told me I didn’t have to pay as he was going home anyway but being half cut I gave him a fiver. Wasn’t until later on that I realised exactly what I’d done. The guy must’ve thought I was going to steal the car or something. Part of me is slightly offended at that.

I cured my usual munchies with a pizza, some water and a packet of crisps which meant I wouldn’t be going to bed with nothing but fluid in my belly and passed out for twelve hours as content as you can be. Nice to have avoided the downer and the worst of the hangover. Total score was one bottle of whiskey, two pints of Fosters, five or six of Bulmers with matching shots of sambuca and half a cauldron full of whatever the hell it was that it was in it. Best night out I’ve had in a while, but moving onto a different club next time, for the music if nothing else.

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This has been a completely and utterly unproductive day. My sleep schedule is all fucked up. Stayed up until the not so early hours of the morning, meant to get back up at eleven but ended up sleeping through until five in the evening, so that’s a day wasted. I’d been meaning to get all my stuff together for this night out tomorrow, guess I’ll have to practice it on the fly. I’ve decided on what design I like, a fairly simple one I remembered from an old Scissor Sisters video. Apart from the eyes and an easy mouth design everything is white. Managed to procure some glow in the dark stuff for my mohawk too, which works rather well. The clothes were still an issue, but then I figured I’d find something to use as a dog collar and call it a voodoo priest. I’m going to have to be very careful how I tell people that lest I sound like one of those complete and utter pricks that spends hours coming up with a really witty costume and then looks at you as if you’re stupid for not knowing what the fuck it is. I had one guy look at me like I was an idiot for not realising that wearing a suit and carrying a sheild meant he was a defence lawyer. Aye, well done mate, you’re not a wanker at all. I’m going with the far cooler “Like, yeah babe, it just totally came to me!”

A fair number of people I know have been getting tax rebates in, ranging from £200 to over £700. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I get a little bit in, could seriously be doing with it. Looking at a fairly boring night unfortunately, going to download some music and try doing a little bit more work on this NaNoWriMo story.

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Something you have to forgive someone for.

I’m starting to think that I’m a bit shit at sticking to the “rules” of this little project. Fuck it. This one’s a bit of a dud, as I’m not holding any grudges that aren’t deservedly held. I’ve got enough trouble not buggering off from the people who I do like to have to worry about the ones I don’t.

In no specific order the people who have wronged me in the past: there’s the girl who cheated on me, the guy who split my lip wide, the auld prick that crashed into me and then had the bollocks to criticise me for not taking the blame when he had a new work van eight hours later when that was my first car I’d only had for three fucking weeks, that little wanker who broke my lovely frameless specs in school, the dog who chewed the head off my Captain Scarlett toy, the Maltese tarmac that broke my fire engine and gave me my first traumatic childhood memory, the dog who chased me when I was ten and made me so terrified that I my legs shook with fear, the neighbour’s dog (I should have developed a fear of them, but where’s the fun in that?) who bit my hand when I was little and gave me my first bloody injury, the wasp that stung me on the arse when I was playing in my toy box, the guy who had a gang chase me but was on the verge of tears when I confronted him myself, the guy with the receding hairline from my old work, the three women I worked with at the kennels who would drink their tea and coffee while simultaneously moaning about me stopping for two seconds for a drink of water, the arsehole that examined me during my driving test and said he didn’t want to give me my licence but didn’t have a worthwhile cause not to, my little brothers for being the gobshites they are, my parents for all the things we all hate our parents for, that student teacher in primary school with the massive tits who hated all the boys, the teacher who accused me of trying to force feed my classmate by sticking a Wagon Wheel in his ear, another who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t kick someone which was my first lesson in you-might-as-well-do-it-you’ll-be-blamed-for-it-anyway, that guy at college who everyone hated and is the closest I’ve come to finding a real-life Arnold Rimmer yet the cunt has a hot girlfriend, the Down’s Syndrome kid that somehow kept on sneezing out bits of rice onto the cafeteria floor, the government for making petrol dear, the SNP for not letting me buy my drink after 10pm, Cadbury’s for making Freddos SEVENTEEN FUCKING PENCE, and just so there’s a big black emo cherry on top: me!

Cunts one and all. Every single one worthy of death in various creative and hopefully ironic ways. I could get a lot of mileage out of that lot, but the truth is I don’t give two fucks about them. In the grand scheme of things they don’t mean much, and other than family I don’t think I’ve seen a single one of them in about six months at the very least. Guess I’m fortunate enough to be surrounded by people that I like, and any I don’t aren’t around often. I’ve never been mugged, never had anything stolen from me, it’s been years since I’ve had to get into a fight, my car’s never been keyed, my neighbours don’t complain about anything, I don’t get any verbal from people and as far as I’m aware nobody is running around behind my back telling everyone I’m an arsehole. I just merrily wander around looking like Hagrid in peace and quiet. Now that I think about it that’s not half bad!

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I had another appointment at the “work programme” on monday. They seem like a fairly disorganised bunch, giving out random and sporadic times to go and see them. The girl who works in there does possess one of life’s most precious gifts though: the ability to talk for twenty minutes without saying anything at all. She didn’t so much prattle on about a load of gobshite that a lot of women (and a fair few men) do, more that what she said was very serious, completely useless and I couldn’t tell you what it exactly what it was about. I walked out with 20 copies of my own fucking CV (despite me saying that yes, I had a printer) and went back home. She did tell me that I’d be seeing another person from now on, seems that I didn’t get a job quick enough and fucked with her commission. Almost worth it to be honest.

Really slowed progress on losing the beef, only a pound gone this week. But it’s something so I’m not worried about it. Have to watch what I’m having for my dinner, which I’ve been treating as my main meal and just taking whatever’s on offer. The stuffed-crust pepperoni pizza was awesome, but after checking the box and realising that it holds more than a day’s worth of fat it’ll need to be a very occasional treat from now on. Having chicken in various ways is still a great dinner having said that, and some pasta to fill it out a bit. Exercise wise I need to get to the gym. I’ve nowhere to do circuits properly, no space for free weights and with the weather getting worse I wouldn’t mind training indoors a bit more often. There’s one nearby to where I live run by the council, so I may get money off for being on the dole. My dad has his card for it through work, I may see about using his. And if it’s still too expensive, and as it is run by a public body, I could try being cheeky and going to the doctor to get prescribed gym sessions. Needs must when you’re skint.

And now I’m going to tell you that while I can’t spare any money for the gym, I can for drinking at the weekend! It’s Halloween after all, when the girls are out in outfits officially starting with “naughty” and “dirty” and a man can hide his face behind makeup and pretend that the belly is all padding, and I’ll prove it back at your’s hen… I’ll be at Scotland’s premier rock club on Saturday, avoiding as much of the rock as possible and hunting for any hint of bass. The one thing I don’t have is a costume, so I’ve decided that I’ll shave my head into a mohawk, cover it all in white face paint, and black up a funky skeleton / voodoo design. Perhaps a Baron Samedi? Clothes-wise I don’t know, I’ll probably just throw any old shit together. Riggers and a G-string. I could pull it off.

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Day Three – Something you have to forgive yourself for.

There isn’t any single one thing that I’ve done that I’ve carried with me every day. No great crimes committed or anyone that I’ve wronged in any huge way, and I’ve never had prescience of anything bad that’s happened to others that I’ve simply chosen to let happen. There’s been no point where I’ve had to choose between two paths knowing that my life would head in one direction or the other as a result and where I’ve chosen the wrong one. Nah, it’s a thousand little decisions, tiny nudges that in themselves don’t constitute anything significant but when all added together show how the course of your life has been changed. I need to stop kicking myself over what I didn’t do, my lack of inaction and laziness. The fact is that it’s the things I’ve done day in, day out that I regret the most.

I regret things like not going to a house party when I was fifteen because the weather was shit and I couldn’t be arsed walking for twenty minutes in cold drizzle. I hate the fact I was lazy and settled in with two girls for the majority of my teenage years. I should have been outside and dragging people out with me instead of sat in watching TV or playing games since the days of fucking Goldeneye 64. I should’ve drank, smoked, fucked and went further off the rails and with a vastly more varied group of people. I’ve never fulfilled my full potential when I know it was well within my capabilities to be sitting here today with a degree tucked under my belt and wishing I didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. Fuck, even the qualifications I got from college a couple of months back I can’t bear to look at, because I know that even though I did better than a lot of people, I didn’t try a fraction of what I could have. They’re a reminder of what I did just for turning up, not for all the effort I put in. And in many ways I regret not realising what I had back then, and maybe for not going along with the crowd a little bit more.

I’ve had this rant before, my legacy of nothing other than a knowledge of various TV series and savegames sitting spread over a pointless hard drive. It’s a pathetic moan, this:

But coming from a guy who isn’t too old to turn it all around, to actually do something instead of withering on the vine. So that’s what I’m doing, I’m hunting rather than looking for work, I’m getting fitter and doing what I can to improve my lot in life. Have I forgiven myself for what I’ve done? Fuck no! Acceptance means peace, and life’s been far too peaceful as it is. I’m looking back with wonderful scorn and a determination not to be like that ever again. Sometimes a little constructive self-hatred is what you need to get yourself going. Fuck loving myself until I’ve done something worthy of doing so.

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30 Days – Day 2 – “Love”

Day Two – Something you love about yourself.

This one’s a bit harder. Does anyone wander around with something that they truly love about themselves? I don’t think anyone does. They’re more than aware of their weakness and can tell you a couple of strengths if push comes to shove, but something they love? Nobody other than the most egotistical of people can do it, by dint of the fact that we live with it every day to the point it’s invisible if nothing else. But that’s a bit useless for the purposes of this, so I’ll start with one thing and see if I can’t maybe tease out a couple of other things that make me as awesome as I am.

Teeth! Fuck yeah, teeth. I’ve got good ones. When I was a youngster I drank my milk like a good boy, didn’t wolf down a load of sugary sweets or drinks, and was fortunate enough not to have them shattered in some childhood accident. They’ve grown in straight and white, and I guess I’m fortunate in that I don’t have to hide my smile like some people. Your chompers make or break how you look when happy. I’ve seen girls that look great when they’re pouting turn into hyenas when they’re smiling, and guys that look halfway intelligent with a straight face transform into the gurning village idiot when something funny happens. Never needed braces either, but I put part of that down to me wearing a gumshield at rugby for a few hours most days while my adult teeth were growing in.

I suppose I’ve always seen them as my best feature, and as a result it’s what I worry about most. I wouldn’t go as far as to call it a fear, but getting my teeth smashed in is pretty much my kryptonite. I don’t think of it all the time, not even when I was playing rugby, but if I take a good hit in the mouth it’s always the first thing I worry about before anything else. When I was fourteen I got sucker-punched by a guy wearing a couple of sovereign rings on each hand, who to this day is the only person that’s ever knocked me down. By the time I stood back up he’d already run away but not before doing a fair bit of damage. I stood there with my bottom lip basically torn in half, feeling it swell up and seeing it jiggle out of the corner of my eye whenever I talked yet the first thing I thought of was whether or not my teeth were still in my mouth. Thankfully they were, and none of them were loose. I guess it’s the permanence of any damage that worries me the most. With the likes of my lip I knew that it’d heal (and I had an excellent doctor doing the stitching, so that now you wouldn’t know it’d happened unless I pointed it out.) but if you lose a tooth, it’s gone.

There’s the usual shit like not stabbing grannies, helping people who need it, loyalty to friends, but that’s all pish. My teeth, now those are the dog’s bollocks.

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I’ve came across something called 30 Days of Truth (courtesy of Elexxa, go check her out) and figured that I’ll give it a go. Those of you who spend any decent amount of time on the likes of Facebook will have heard of this kind of thing before, usually along the lines of posting a song that reminds you of something or whatever. Normally I neither do nor really like that sort of thing, but it gives me something to talk about in a bit more of a structured way than normal. And it can be treated as a sort of faux-interview, as I write whatever comes to mind at the time, this may bring about half decent things I wouldn’t often talk about. Not on this first day though, because it’s a fairly obvious what it’ll be. I’ll also be keeping them seperate from other blog entries, because I’m a neat freak like that. It’s grown into a biggie, so the meat’s after the jump. Enjoy…

Day One – Something you hate about yourself. (more…)

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Fuck sake, I really am a great big poof at times. I’ll have to avoid being around keyboards with a drink in me from now on. Surprisingly literate though, and I remembered to click the spell check button so that’s a little thing I can take pride in. And not one tear was shed, it was a manly angry drunken rage! Anyway, after struggling to sleep until nearly noon and then spending all of yesterday with a hangover that felt like I was carrying a horse on my back I’m slightly more All Better Now™ .

But yeah, what’s said when drunk is often what’s thought when sober: I’m getting steadily more sick of being single. I’d rather have phrased it in a less melodramatic way than I did, but there it is. I’m not getting all Ally McBeal over it, I’ll come across someone at some point. Seeing the kind of people who are together gives me faith that I’m not in any real danger of ending up a hermit. They can do it, so can I. The whole “timer” thing is something I’ll need to get over though, that’s a bit fucked in the head even for me. Oh christ I’m of them aren’t I? One of those complete cunts with baggage. I want you all to promise me something, if these things develop into “issues” you fucking tell me. Preferably in big block capitals so I can go and string myself up at the nearest sturdy tree.

For all I whinged and moaned when I got in, saturday night was indeed a good one. It was the first time I’d been in this guy’s flat and it was true what they say, you really can tell a lot about a person from their house. From the Union Jack as a centrepiece to two pictures of Big Ben on either side (one with a phone box, the other with a double-decker bus, both artfully black and white) and a London canvas hanging on another wall, you’d have struggled to tell he was a Rangers supporter… It was at this point I was going blabber on about unrequited love tying in with that girl feeling it too and it’s a horrible thing that I once felt long ago etc then I remembered that that’s not what I’m feeling now, bitch! I’ll mark it down and be sure to expand on it the next time I’m half cut though.

And a thank you to whichever kind soul decided to grab a link to here and run with it to that place that shall not be named, it was a welcome wee bump in traffic, which resulted in me only being called a nigger faggot once! They must like me or something.

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Right, straight from the off I’ll admit that at this current moment in time I’m half cut and just missed the “up” side of drinking and have slipped into the melancholy, lonely-man-hugging-booze-at-the-bar-in-the-afternoon phase of my drinking. Was at a friend of a friend’s house for a few jars, and there it was all good. It was a good atmosphere, we joked about old shit and the games we used to play, I got talking to a hot girl about her application to work at Rockstar North and everything, it was great. Even the shit that’s on my mind now was funny back then, I laughed it off and felt great and as is the way with these things it wasn’t until I was back in the taxi by myself with a bit of silence so my mind could speak up and torture me that I hit a bit of a fucking downer. The girl that’s been on my “fuck sake why was I such a dopey cunt” list and has been for a while came up into conversation. Big fall outs had happened and the usual shit and it transpired that she was into a taken guy. This pissed me off man, without so much as a bit of flirtation or particularly good looks she was still draped all over him. He’s sound as a fucking dollarpound but fuck me, the shit’s depressing you know? I hate to act like a angsty depressing cunt but when a lassie does fucking laps but never seems to see you it gets laughably bad y’know? Maybe if I was head over heels about her it’d be forgivable but to get worked up over a casual ride is downright shite.

Part of me wishes that I’d bought two bottles of whiskey instead of just the one, then I’d have been too wrecked to contemplate anything other than the vague notion of bed. Another part of me wishes that I’d fucking grow up and just start going out with a girl instead of sticking my dick in everything then bolting not long after. But I know I won’t. From the very first kiss a timer starts counting down to the moment where I convince myself that it’s went on for too long and walk away. I can’t bear the thought of wasting another five years on the one girl only for it all to go to shit and miss out on all the other experiences I could have had. At once I’m both more than willing to give love but not accept it back. I see the clock counting down and see every girls middle name along the likes of “used to” or “could’ve.” And I know that you don’t just wander across “The One” and that you have to work your way through shit relationships and work at the one you’re in at the moment, I can’t bring myself to even start. It’s not fear of abandonment or never getting anyone in the first place, in many ways it’s worse: That uncontrollable outside influences impact on something that’s fantastic and there ends up being an unstoppable decline.

There’s no-one I can really talk to about this sort of shit. Normally it’d be Marsha but in this situation we’re too similar to each other that I’d risk saying it. Not wanting to commit to someone after your last relationship lasted five years because you think the next one will inevitably go to shit too? I’m paranoid that it’d be the one tiny little seed of doubt that starts to grow in her mind and I’d feel in some way responsible for any trouble that’d happen between her and her new boyfriend, who’s really cool.

That’s me done. I’m going to go sober up, play Batman and wait until I can see all the shit that gets me down in a nice ordered clarity in my mind’s eye rather than the blurry smudge it is at the moment. Rant over.

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