Adulting.

It's hard being an adult.

I think that's the main thing that's happened to me since I last blogged. I became an adult. I now adult full time I think. Does Adulting consist of doing things like hating made up words like Adulting? (Pause for reflection) If so, I am pretty sure that I'm doing this thing.

 

 

 

I have an adult job (I'm a teacher #wtf), I did something pretty Adultish (made that up and immediately fucking hate it) in August and got married, I rent an apartment now (not a flat as that sounds too studentish and not Adultish) with two bedrooms and some wicked skylights, I really enjoy cooking now too, as it is "a creative outlet" apparently (which is something that I do truly believe, but never thought I would hear myself say when I wasn't adulting as I always thought I would be doing something too creative full time to need an outlet), I wear Polo Necks in a way that's not ironic, but purely because I like the hug they give my neck, I do "big shops" now and the few "little shops" I do these days aren't to grab a four pack of Tesco's own brand lager, but to purchase something like scourers or grease proof paper.

 

Neckhugger

 

 I could go on about all the things I do now that I feel make me an adult but I feel like the only reason I would be doing this would be to try to convince myself that I am now a full on Adult, a full time grown up, a man.

But the truth is, I'm 29 and I am a fraud.

I would like to state at this point that this isn't a confessional post where I spout a load of shit about being true to myself etc, as that is something that I have done fairly well, and where I haven't I try not to dwell on it. What I mean is, I don't think I will ever fully feel like I have reached adulthood. Or if there is a point where this is the case, I definitely haven't got there yet.

There are times where I pull on some clean,  black skinny jeans and a nice, crisp, patterned shirt and wear a long, black coat with leather gloves and a scarf, and although I feel comfortable and am dressed as the person I want to be that day, I know I am playing dress up and I cannot sustain the persona of a mature, grown up sensible chap that people see when I am wearing those clothes, for too long. I know I will inevitably let myself down when a civilised Wine and Cheese evening goes too far and I end up polishing off a bottle of Sauvignon (and any other alcohol the host pityingly donates after I have slurred my selfish, teenage request for anything else I can devour) before sneaking off with a likeminded fraud to trespass in the neighbour's garden and come back covered in mud much to the disdain of the "Adults," or I will go for lunch with a friend and have to order a side and a tap water as I spent my last bit of money on a Crunchie bar on the way home from work. It's a given, and those close to me will recognise this facet of mine. But I find it hard to hide this even when alcohol and Crunchies are not involved.

 

He KNOWS it. What a guy.

 

I will use the old analogy of the swan swimming on a pond, where everything seems calm on top but below its feet are paddling like the clappers. But what I feel represents me more accurately, is perhaps if you threw a baby into the same pond. Its limbs would certainly be working overtime but you can clearly see it's struggling to get anywhere. And the swan would swim past all graceful and calm like, looking down its bill at me the beautiful little shit, before someone wades in and easily scoops me out, bounces me on their hip before chucking me back in again 2 weeks before next pay day.

 

Is this a swan? Still a smug BEAUTIFUL prick.

 

So the question is, do we learn to Adult or do we become unable to Child? I feel it may be the latter. I feel I have grown up when I spend less money on a night out, not because I have learnt that it is beneficial, but because I know my soul/head/face cannot hack hangovers any more. If they could hack it, honestly, I don't know if I could say for certain that I would abstain wholly for financial gain. I feel grown up when I wear a suit, but rather than this being due to a revelation of feeling somehow more responsible and aged, it is down to the fact that socially it is unacceptable for me to turn up to a wedding or funeral or work in jeans, converse and a T-shirt that says "hellfire" on it (which I did once own. It was somehow cute then). I feel grown up when I'm in bed at 10pm, not because I get some smug boner looking back at when I used to be starting my first pre drink at 10 and thinking "LOOK HOW FAR I'VE COME AS AN ADULT!" Honestly: it's because I'm tired,

And I think that's what it boils down to.

Which is fine. It's ok to be tired. It's natural. Sure there are things you can do to be less tired and I feel I do them; I don't drink during the week, I eat a plant based diet, I go to the gym, I read, I listen to music, I am stimulated constantly by the wit and weirdness of my wife but at some point, I still become tired. 

But it doesn't make me an Adult.

 

 

 

So having said that, it is vital that I tire myself out with things that are worth it, because Wake, Work, Eat, Sleep, Repeat is a killer. And that is what I am going to begin to blog about. What the hell I do to survive this existence, where I eat, drink, walk, what I've thought, read, watched and so on.

Take note if you like, or just read for the sheer HELL of it.

Peace Out.    

 

    

SUSPICION ON TRAINS. A small case study.

Hi Bloggers. Don't panic, im a lot better. It wasnt fox AIDS. Or any kind of AIDS in fact. I actually think i maybe exaggerated the whole illness thing, but what can i say? I was afraid. Bunged up. Cold one minute, warm the next. But thats all in the past now, i feel good.

Thanks for your concern.

Just want to ask some advice really. You can treat the question as rhetorical or you can actually answer if you wish in the comments section, its up to you. But anyway, on the train yesterday, the lady who lives on the train next to the microphone and makes the announcements asked me to report anything suspicious that i notice, to a member of staff. Now I suppose this is a fair enough request on the first time of hearing it, but when you travel on trains as much as i do, which is a lot, then you begin to break down this request.

National Rail really need to make clearer what they mean.

For example to a paranoid schitzophrenic ANYTHING is supsicious.

"Excuse me officer, but theres a man in the next carriage whos biting his nails, and i don't know about you, but Im pretty sure hes thinking about spitting them at me, you know, like aiming them at my eyes? trying to blind me? beacuse hes fucking my wife and wants to eat my kids? you know the sort. Just thought he looked suspicious. Cheers mate."

He Hates You......

They also need to make clearer what they class as suspicious and whether suspicious is a particularly bad thing.

"Sorry sir, I notice the robotic lady asked me to report anything suspicious at the start of my journey? Yeh well just along from me on the train just now was an Otter in some Hareem pants and a beret, listening to the lighthouse family on his headphones? I dunno about you but i have NEVER seen anything like that, pretty incredible yet suspicious dont you think?"

Literally proof if you type anything into Google images, its there.

And finally we need to define whether variations of the word suspicious count in the things that need to be reported.

"Hiya mate, do you work here? Or do you just like ridiculously bright coloured.....oh...yes you work here, well on the train, sat next to me was someone who looked suspiciously like Peter Sutcliffe? You know, the Yorkshire Ripper? Yeh i'd just keep an eye on him if i was you. Thanks."

The worst Doppelganger. Poor Guy. You can see the years of
serial killer based rejection in his eyes.

Come on national rail sort it out. Otherwise you will be inundated with what you may see as hoax suspicions, but the rest of us see as a serious misinterpretation of the word suspicious.

Peace Out.

Menthol Cigarettes.

Just a quickie.

A quick one rather....

......quickie implies a brief burst of sexual activity, which isnt happening right now.

Well not to me anyway....

........its 17:20 for heavens sake.

YOU ANIMALS.

SICK

Anyway.

Something has just occurred to me. Something about the marketing of Menthol Cigarettes. I don't know whether people are up for this or anything....

......and considering you can no longer advertise or market cigarettes really at all, it would be impossible to achieve....

........ but in a parallel universe....

........Cigarette companies should hire koala bears to showcase their menthols?

Its perfect.

Koalas LOVE eucalyptus.

So if one of them was unfortunate enough to fall in with the wrong crowd and they were offered a menthol cigarette, they would immediately become addicted, spread the word and pass on a crafty cigarette to a furry grey pal and before you know it, the whole koala population is hooked.

GOOD FOR LAMBERT AND BUTLER.

SHIT FOR KOALAS.

Or maybe the company already know this, and the demise of the koala population is an inevitability, and all for a sick, cruel advertising scheme.

I hope not.

God I hope not.

Craving.

*sob*

peace out

The Protocol of the Elbow

Today, I elbowed somebody. I say this with neither pride nor shame but with a slight matter of fact tone about my voice. Perhaps with the same tone one might announce that they purchased something rather unusual during the course of the day. Like a pocket watch or a hemp basket. Anyway the tone of voice is neither hither nor thither, the elbow however remains.

It happened as I got on my train to work, I sat down and my elbow nudged the book of the lady next to me. She was reading a Graphic Novel of some description. She immediately scowled without expecting me to notice, but being the keen eyed wizard that I am, I saw her scowl as plain as can be, and immediately apologised. As quick as I could. Just so I could take satisfaction in seeing her facial expression change from a dirty judging grimace to a simpering apologetic smile. She said "it's ok! Don't worry." it was at this point I wanted to tell her that:

"I wasn't worried or worrying in the slightest. Its not like i did it on purpose. And also that if it was ok then what was with the scowl bitch? And that if her graphic novel wasn't the size of a semi detatched house then people wouldn't accidentally elbow her on the train. And if she stopped reading graphic novels in PUBLIC then she would reduce the risk of being elbowed altogether by a significant amount. And that if her emotions and attitudes change as quickly as her facial expressions suggest, then she would be a terrible friend, let alone partner to anybody, no wonder you're alone."

I thought this over. I thought quick yet hard like a thought ninja, and realised this was excessive. I merely smiled back and the journey continued without incident.

Peace out.

LONG LONG LONG TIME no blog.

Hey Bloggers! In the space of time i have been away from blogging (not that i was ever really a hardcore blogger, i dont think that 3 blogs even gives me the slightest right to call myself an amateur blogger), i believe that blogging has become ridiculously popular, what with the uprising of the mighty Twitter. So therefore saying Hey Bloggers has become socially acceptable, NOT JUST ON THE INTERNET!! NO! I guarantee that if you walked into a bar/pub/public toilet/holland and barrett anywhere in Britain, there would be someone who Tweets! So therefore i can walk down the street, use a urinal, tie my shoe laces, buy vitamins and supplements, all the while yelling HEY BLOGGERS! at the top of my voice feeling no shame. Hahaa in yoour face past social convention. Whilst we are on the subject of twitter can i ask what the past participle of tweet is? I'd like to think it was Twat. but alas i fear it is probably Tweeted. Boring. Yet unoffensive, so in the end, a more sensible option...sigh....well done social convention....

The last place i yelled

It has come to my attention, that i have neglected my blog for a good 2 years. 2 long and exciting years of history have past without me commenting or rambling about it. well whats to be said? heres a brief summary:

• I have moved to London and am now in my second flat in the shittest suburb of the greatest city in the world! FAIL yet WIN! FIN. I live with my Girlfriend, yes the same girlfriend that held my hair back whilst i vomited in my last blog....shes still here, clinging desperately to the hope that underneath my broke, drunk, bad tempered, paranoid facade, is a charming, attractive, succesful young actor. I dont know how shes managed it, but really well done and thankyou..keep going.....keep the faith. Good things come to those who wait. I also live with James, a legend amongst men, a boy with whom i share wine and cheese and the occasional chat roulette session. He is the only person i can sit with and watch middle aged men masturbate (whilst their wife is asleep in bed next to them) with and find it hilarious and not weird. It is Weird, lets be honest. Really fricking weird, but we tell ourselves that its just funny.....GOSH.
• Demi Moore and Aston Kutcher have divorced. I pose the question WERE THEY MARRIED? celebrity culture really isnt my thing. Apparently according to a friend of mine, John Lennons dead aswell?! gutted.
• ive done a show. I did a show that toured Dublin, Brighton and Greenwich. Dont ask me how Dublin went. Its Dublin. Its hardly fair to expect me to stay completely sobre at any given time throughout that leg of the tour. And as for Brighton well...Its Brighton. Its hardly fair to expect me to stay completely sobre at any given time throughout that leg of the tour. And Greenwich was good. Apart from this show, i kind of havent really done much acting...plenty of auditions, but not much results. well i tell a lie, if you class being heckled by a dog as a result. Tis true my friends, I was heckled by a dog. I auditioned last year for the Wizard of Oz in a place called Heckmondwicke, which does exist. well I really hope it does, unless someone set up an elaborate reality TV show in which aspiring actors head to bizarrely named audition venues and have to undergo distraction trials throughout, like being gassed, or on a less holocaustal theme, having faeces thrown at them, or in my case being howled at by a deceptively cute dog whilst being filmed...anyway i went to the audition and during my song (So Close from Enchanted, irrelevant, yet in hind sight soooo wrong for the part of the Scarecrow that i thought it was worth a mention) Toto piped up. Needless to say, as i was deemed unacceptable by the dog, i didnt get the part. Bastard. I love dogs. but not this one. I wonder if its name was Andrew Lloyd...bastard...?

C**T

Should i be depressed that 2 years of my life can be summed up in 3 bullet points? One of which isnt even about me? I'm going to say no. NO this is just the start my friends. I promise that now i am in London, I shall blog as much as possible and excite and titilate you with amusing tales and dittys from this Great City. Treat this as a reintroduction back into my brain, have patience with me, im slightly rusty, but full of new inspiration, like a reconditioned old jaguar. The car, not the big cat you understand. I doubt a Jaguar has ever shampooed let alone conditioned in order to recondition...has anyone ever conditioned a Jaguar?

New Tresemme Ad

ON THAT NOTE.


i need to go and put a light wash on. theres an England shirt drenched in blood and tears that needs washing....peace out.

Long time no...Blog.

Hey bloggers (still sounds gay). Well its been a while. Its been emotional. Its been due to the fact that i think ive only been sober for about a day since i last blogged. Well what a few weeks its been. In order i've had : Results day, Results Party, HORRIFIC hangover, Lots more drinking and debauchery, Grad Ball, Nudity at the beach (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) and finally Graduation, which consisted of a lot more drinking and another Horrific hangover. although not quite HORRIFIC but still up there, hence the use of the same word but in lower case.

So yeah, Results day. well i went and got my results from uni which was fairly standard and then started drinking the Champagne. A lot of it. i think i had about 5 glasses in the space of an hour, which although impressive, is foolish when you have an empty stomach. It was quite nice actually, speeches from tutors, pictures, memories, Nibbles etc. It is at this point that i will explain my love for nibbles. A party is not a party unless there are nibbles involved. Forget that, a place is not a PLACE unless there are nibbles involved. Anywhere i go i always consider my stomach and if there is food at this place then it is a good place. I think i could be in a shack in a bog in north lithuania with nothing but a sock puppet for company, yet be happy if there were some paper plates with maybe a wee pork pie or a cocktail sausage, or even better, Cheese and pineapple on a stick. Crisps i dont care for much, you can buy them in a packet, they are not classed as nibbles, but small savoury goods on paper plates. They are nibbles. so yeah all was good at Results day due to nibbles and champagne. After the nibbles and champagne i made the mistake and Gross miscalculation of buying a box of 15 Carlsbergs. Now the miscalculation wasnt whether i could drink that amount or not, the miscalculation was whether it was a good idea or not. it turns out that it wasnt. Halfway throught the night after i had drunk 8 of these cans, me and my girlfriend went to a gig. a great gig by the way, i would post a link of the band but i cant remember how to spell it. I'll do it later. anyway, great gig, yet 4 more pints of Lager. After the gig we walked back to the party and by this point i was feeling slightly brazen and brash and im pretty sure there was a rendition of some song going down, or i shouted something at someone on the way back. Either way i was drunk.

Regardless i carried on drinking the remaining 7 cans at the party and 2 cans of cider that i found...in my...hand...and then, THEN my friends was i pissed. i had gone past the sweet hazy meadows of drunk into the spiky swirling chasm of the pissed. I had to be carried home by my girlfriend who is quite a bit smaller than i am and who was also pretty pissed, where i proceeded to be very sick in her toilet. Not very attractive or pleasant i assure you. Yet i was well looked after and had a bed for the night. and the whole next day as i literally found it difficult to blink without feeling like i was going to die. So that was Results night. It made me consider drinking less. As a rule. but i decided later that that was a silly idea.

I have also decided that I am going to blog about the Grad Ball tomorrow BECAUSE the crickets about to start. check out the new underused word of the day and USE IT.

use it until it bleeds.

Thats horrible.

But i thought it. so its going in. 

oh my what a vile person i am.

i thought id been alright yknow? talking about academia and nibbles. How oh how did it come to vomit and Bleeding Words? Im going. before i disgrace myself or my parents any further. 

Have a good Evening and enjoy whatever you may be doing, whether its Doing a Jig or Manipulating a Pine Marten. 

Dave     

Maurice.

So the other day i rescued a pigeon. which is unusual for me, because id always convinced myself i hated pigeons. i dont know why, i think its popular to hate them and to mutter "rats of the air" under your breath whilst walking past them. almost like if you say it too loudly theyll kick off and fly into your mouth or something horrendous. stab you up i dunno anyway, i digress. i was watching the football and heard a rustling noise outside my window but passing it off for a gust of wind i continued watching the footie until i heard it again. louder this time. almost cocky loud because id ignored it the first time, like an attention seeking cough. so i got out of bed and looked out of my window onto the roof of the bay window under mine and sat there, in complete discomfort and looking really annoyed was the pigeon we have come to know and love as maurice. I really quickly went next door into my housemate lauras room and told her to come and look at the broken pigeon i had found. her automatic response was to grab a camera...says more about her than anything else. SICK. But broken pigeon fetishes aside she came into my room and looked at Maurice and (after a few sneaky snaps) agreed with me that i should call the rspca. so i did. The woman on the end of the phone was thick. lets not beat about the bush. she was thick as shit. It took about 10 minutes to describe why i was on top of a bay window to see this pigeon. im not sure how but she ended up making it sound like i had a seedy reason for being on top of a bay window, rather than it being that my room looks out onto it. a few awkward silences and "sure Mr England...."s later she told me to clap at the pigeon. "yeah. clap at it, see if it moves." so i did. and if ever a pigeon could look superior to a human, that was the time. nobody on the street below could see Maurice, due to the ledge of the roof so as far as theyre concerned, i'm hanging out of my third floor window clapping at what appears to be average masonry and a leaking gutter. The pigeon waddled over to the other side of the roof and did a shit. Literally, if it could talk it would be saying, "Yes i can move. Oh wait....i...i can also SHIT ON YOUR ROOF." After assuring the lady that the pigeon was very much mobile on its legs and other bodily functions she told me that someone would come round the next day to save him. in the meantime i should keep checking on him. so i did. every half hour or so i leant out the window and made that wierd tutting noise that you use to attract cats (attract is probably the wrong choice of word here. i dont want to attract cats, or any other animal. just to be clear) to see if he'd come and say hi. so now the passers by who previously thought i was an over enthusiastic building inspector now took me as a disapproving pervert who hung out of windows in his boxers tutting at them and their children as they innocently dandered past. all to no avail. Maurice didnt move. i left him for the night.

The next day i was woken by the RSPCA lady who was coming to rescue Maurice ringing me just checking that i still "had a pigeon on my bay window" (again making it sound really unnecessarily pervey, like some ineffective inuendo) so i checked if he was still there. and he was. so a few hours later she came with a net and rescued him and checked him over, apparently he'd broken his sternum by flying into my window. Thats something thats always confused me. loads of birds fly into windows every day but why was maurice trying to get into my room in the first place? did he want to watch the Brazil game? or did he see the en suite and think Luxury! before hitting what is seemingly a sheet of hard air and breaking his breast bone and spending the whole night being clapped and tutted at? hm? i dunno. but she took maurice and i feel empty. alone. bereft of company. That is the tale of Maurice. Amen. Maurice, we barely even knew ye.