A bit of exposition first about this post: I have a colleague in the creative industry (I am in it, shut up) who had a slightly creepy experience this weekend. She's a single mother, hard working, putting herself through Uni whilst maintaining her family and career, and is exactly what you'd picture if I was to say 'Irish beauty'... no, not the tracksuit, cigarettes and large bottle of cider along the Lagan towpath kind, that's only around a very specific part of Belfast.
So anyway, on Sunday morning a neighbour to whom she has never spoken landed drunk at her door at 4:30am hoping to make a call, because that's what ladies love, awakened from bed by a drunk guy who doesn't even know your name. Eventually after pissing off he came back at 5am to ask if she would like him if he was sober. God does love a trier.
After being my usual helpful self on Facebook (read that as 'not at all') I was inspired to write a poem in his honour:
I am in a boat lost far out at sea,
Surrounded by water yet there is none for me.
The sun rising on another dawn,
The fever of the night has not yet gone.
I need something to taste,
From this thirst to be set free,
And awake my soul from this melancholy dream.
Over there on yonder shore,
Is it a trick, mirage or something more?
Some fool of the light or maybe the brain,
A promise that I might be fulfilled again.
Streams of fire, sands so pale,
and cool waters pure for my thirst to sate,
To find this land could be nothing but fate.
Crashing on rocks and thrown asunder,
A hidden reef and waves booming thunder,
This haven of passion is not as expected,
my ardor, my thirst to be somehow rejected.
Yet maybe still the fates have conspired,
For hope there is in the waters below,
The fingers of the mermaid beckon me so.
Reaching out for that warm embrace,
I find myself now in another place,
A desert, alone, a shore with no name,
having lost my way to a growing shame.
Not merely for my journey
for I realise this land it belongs to me,
I have passed out at home, in a puddle of wee.
I did promise some dick jokes in my last post and this guy was being a pure dick, I like to be a man of my word.
I love you, I really do. Most of the coolest stuff comes from you, you have that endearing 'can do' attitude, and you really do try to always do the right thing even if it doesn't work out that way for the rest of the world.
And you, you've had your tits done and your teeth done, your hair has seen more chemicals than a BP oil spill and you've had so much laser eye surgery I'm afraid that you could melt me like Superman. And you've done that all because you think that's what it will take for me to love you back.
You don't need to do that, America, that's nothing but self-harm in another form. Just be the homely, straight talking country girl who could melt the hearts of us stodgy European cynics with our 'could do' attitude and history of making our problems everyone else's.
I want to help you break this cycle of self-harm that you're locked into, and I think we should start with maybe getting your toys under control. Now don't be getting upset thinking that I want to take your toys away, I don't want to do that. I like guns, I have two myself.
All I'd like to suggest is maybe a single page questionnaire before someone can get licensed; it only needs to have a couple of questions like 'Do you have a manifesto?', or 'do the words "kill the bitch" have a warm place in your heart?'.
I know that's easy for me to say, I live in that peaceful little backwater called Northern Ireland. We only had about 30 years and change of terrorism/conflict that more or less ended a decade ago. With that lack of commitment on our part what could I possibly know about the need to own an assault rifle in case Russia decides to invade through somewhere other than the White House?
There are a wealth of statistics freely available online proving that violent crime outside of actual war zones has been decreasing globally over the last 20 years despite the best efforts of the gun lobby. I'd post the facts myself but unfortunately I think that I had those files stored on the same server as Hilary's emails.
There, I picked on both sides, now we can maybe sit down and talk about how controlling guns just means a slight inconvenience for the majority in order to keep firearms out of the hands of the lunatic fringe? I'll even let you pick the coffee shop, so long as it isn't near a book store in Dallas.
Don't think that I'm some cheeky upstart lecturing you, it's not exactly like we have our shit together in Northern Ireland. We've got the largest party in the country who are so anti-gay that they wouldn't watch Star Trek because a fencing foil isn't the only sword that Sulu has had in his hand. And the second largest party are brought to us by the manufacturers of mercury tilt switches.
I hope that this little note hasn't damaged our friendship, America, I just don't like to see the one that I love hurt. But if things are going to go on the way that they are could you let the rest of us know if there is a 'safe word', just so that we know you are working on the global equivalent of a Red Room?
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That was a bit of a more serious post, but then I still haven't figured out what I'm going to do with this blog yet, though I'm expecting my first bit of hate-mail shortly. I like trying to make people laugh though, or smirk at the very least so I promise the next post will have a few dick jokes. Not about my own though, that would just make people sad.
Ah, St Valentine's Day.
I've had so much love this morning that I had to register my phone on a telephone preference service just so that I could take five minutes to pleasure myself and have a wash. I've had calls coming all the way from Massachusetts to India, which tells me that rumours of my sexual prowess have got out and masochism is on the rise.
That's not to say that I'm into chains and leather, but if someone makes the right offer it would give me pause for thought. At present though I'm more about disappointment followed by a cuddle.
As a single man you might expect a rant from me about St Valentines but that's not the case, I like that there's a designated day when people are supposed to at least pretend that they still love each other. And when that is the case, hate-sex is great.
Like most people I fancy myself as being great at spotting when someone likes another person but short of a dead rabbit showing up in a pot on my stove I couldn't tell the difference between someone being interested in me and them having bad gas. I've got crap sinuses too so the smell isn't even a hint.
Then there's that one thing I always forget: The Barmaid Rule.
If you aren't familiar, this is when guys think they can pull the attractive barmaid because she smiles at him because they forget that it's her job to be nice and tips are nice. Consequently I'm known as a good tipper. Although I do try to tip fellas as well, I don't know if that means I'm naturally flirtatious or if I'm just trying to give them hope.
The same rule applies to baristas, waitresses, and pretty much everyone in the service industry, although you don't see as many people going on the pull in Tesco. Round my way though if you want a classy bird you go to Lidl, nothing says romance like standing in a queue in your slippers with 3 litres of own brand vodka and a crushed soul.
I will admit that I have been caught out by the Barmaid Rule myself, I think it's something of a rite of passage for every growing boy to have that little bit of humiliation, although I maintain the last time it happened wasn't entirely my fault.
Elsewhere butchers will be rubbing their palms together today because they can get rid of all that fillet steak that has been building up in their fridges since Christmas. And off licenses will be setting up romantic displays of prosecco, sauvignon blanc, and Buckfast. And don't forget to stop in the garage for the chocolates and condoms.
You'd nearly think that St Valentine had planned his martyrdom to coincide with the January credit card bills being cleared. Maybe that's the case, he was a prophet for profits?
Oh I'm being wilfully facetious, I know personally tonight I'll be settling down to a nice steak and a bottle of wine, and staring lovingly across the room at my freshly lubed Fleshlight.
So I decided to finally bite the bullet and make a website. I've no idea what I'm actually going to do with it at the moment but much like gender identity these things are fluid. Maybe I'll stick up a page with a load of really crappy memes and funny posts by other people, that seems to be what works for Facebook if my news feed is anything to go by.
I think first and foremost I should give a shout out to a mister Butch Mellom who gave 'When the Man Comes Around' one star on Goodreads. I didn't even know any of my books were listed on it, let alone that someone really didn't like it. Sorry that you didn't like the book Butch, can't please everyone but thank you for taking the time to read it.
I'm not going to do that for everybody, Butch got in there first. And with a name like Butch you know not to mess with him. I will add a caveat though, if someone gives a really creatively awful review for one of my books I will go out of my way to publish it here in it's entirety. Gotta support creativity and all that.
I'm probably going to get myself into real trouble at some point blogging, but a 15 minute social media outcry followed by my subsequent shame and spiral into depression will be a bit of fun. Lets make it an adventure together, shall we?
Views expressed may not be representative of reality.