Monthly Archives: February 2016
I quite like writing a blog. It’s very enjoyable because getting to write frivolous bullshit about any topic I fancy is more entertaining than the time I tripped on a chair in a pub while carrying two full pints before landing on them and puncturing my wrists with two-inch shards of glass, spraying blood three feet in front of me and ruining an evening’s imbibing for at least forty drinkers. That was a great day. In fact, I should think blogging is very similar to slitting one’s wrists. It can make you feel suicidal, light-headed and bloody. I suspect all bloggers know what it is I’m talking about because most bloggers are either a) emotionally redundant, 2) lacking in any mental acuity whatsoever, or d) in-bred, and thus have an emotional connection with one another that hasn’t been seen since the time E.T. telepathically invaded a small boy’s head in that alien documentary he was in and commanded all humans to submit to him as our extraterrestrial overlord. It’s that powerful.
I’ve previously mentioned how much I feel the blogosphere has helped and encouraged me to pursue all of my blogging goals despite all evidence to the contrary. What I find most helpful and supportive about the blogosphere is simply knowing that they’re there, hanging in the ether like the fallout from an atomic blast; a nuclear winter in which all who survive the initial blastwave slowly but surely die from the inside out because of the toxic atmosphere, the dog-eat-dog nature of survival, and the total and utter desperation to be heard against the scorched landscape of unadulterated shit.
If that sounds harsh, that’s because it isn’t. Granted, not every single blogger is a defiled or broken human being, clawing their way through the digital rubble in order to tell any poor sod they come across how their trip to the beach picking up dogshit with their bare hands as part of a health kick was unequivocally life-altering and every Tom, Shit and Twatty should be doing it. Unlike me whose reason for blogging is because of a deep-rooted vendetta against the living, a lot of actual bloggers have genuine reasons for running a blog. For the most part, however, the majority of blogs are written and shared by some mightily illiterate spelk who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a dotted ‘i’ and a crossed ‘t’ if they were rammed up the shit chute with ‘it’.
With this in mind, I reserve my particular brand of love and vitriol for a U.K blogging group on Facebook that call themselves, originally enough, U.K. Bloggers, the name of which presumably came to one of its admins in a flash of inspiration after a four-hour brainstorming session involving slowly but forcefully pushing their eye onto the tip of a sharpened pencil. I originally butted heads with the fascists at U.K. Bloggers Corp not long after I began throwing shit up on the internet as part of my blogging regime, and, being new to it all along with being a blogger and therefore automatically thick as mince, immediately got things wrong by sharing my blog where it wasn’t supposed to be shared. The online equivalent of wandering into the Forbidden Zone in Planet of the Apes except with more apes. What followed was a digital slap on the wrist, a heart-tugging and sincere apology from myself, then an unprecedented online attack from the ubergruppenfuhrers at U.K. Bloggers Corp at which point I posted this aforementioned clear-as-crystal apology post for my obvious insubordination. Never having been a part of a cyber-war and fearful of a cyber-death and whatever that entails, I crawled into bed and cried for three days solid, drinking the milk from the cat’s bowl for sustenance and gently playing with myself in order to stave off boredom and cabin fever.
However, when word got back to the generals at U.K. Bloggers HQ about my olive branch and potential white flag, the fascists immediately rebuffed my efforts at peace, and another digital offensive was launched at my innocent neutrality, this time involving Twitter ground troops and fighty words. I’d never been trolled on Twitter before but found it to be wholesomely erotic, and because I was so apologetic for my actions I felt I compelled to respond via email to a handful of the humans who’d so lovingly taken the time to call me a cunt on social media.
*The following contains scenes that some readers may find disturbing, and names and dates haven’t been changed to preserve huge egos.
Many thanks for your kind words on Twitter and the extra views I’ve received on my blog due to your advocating and praise of my work.
Such is the sky-rocketing nature of my viewing figures, I suspect you have quite the influence in the blogosphere. I don’t think you’re anyone I’d like to butt heads with should we ever have a disagreement about anything but I don’t ever foresee that day happening. Thanks to your fine promotional skills my blog has never been more popular which is something of a relief as the only person who ever viewed it prior to your extensive marketing campaign was me. Unfortunately I didn’t realise this as I was viewing my blog when logged out of WordPress, and pushing the viewing figures up myself. I genuinely thought I had one unique uber-fan and spent days staring out of the window with my chin resting on my hand wondering who it could be. I must confess that when I did find out it was my own doing I wasn’t overly disappointed as I feel I have many strong attributes including patience, Lego-building skills and the gift of dance.
Unfortunately, due to the excessive recreational drugs I’ve been forced to use since I started blogging, I’ve lost all sense of what #irony is. If you could explain it to me without the constant grammatical errors and poor sentence structure that you employ when writing your blog, it’d be most appreciated.
Many thanks for your Christmas ecard by the way. That was above and beyond.
Thankfully I received no reply from #irony lady which is a relief because she encourages physical violence and I am a lover, not a fighter.
Many thanks for your kind words on Twitter.
To answer your question, no, I do not think Micky Hazard is better than his 2015 equivalent Eden Hazard. However I would be more than willing to open a debate about this with you as I quite enjoy watching netball.
Just for information it’s important to never share financial information with strangers over the internet unless you’re contacted by an African prince who needs your bank details so he can deposit $3,000,000 into your account. So with that in mind I am unable to divulge what I earn from blogging. I can’t imagine it’s more than whatever you earn with your money making escapades.
I hope we can be friends.
Many thanks for your Christmas ecard by the way. That was above and beyond.
Thankfully I received no reply from Eden Hazard fan lady which is a relief because I prefer Micky Hazard.
Dear Sam – A Testing Time,
Many thanks for your kind words on Twitter. It heartens me that you’re speechless at my idiocy. I think you’ll agree that what the world needs right now is less bloggers so your speechlessness is a massive step in the right direction. You’re doing the world a great service. I expect your family is very proud, as am I. I’ve put you top of my Christmas card list.
Though having said that your tweet was 21 words long which doesn’t amount to a total silence but it does give you something to work on if you’re not completely speechless. If you can aim for less than 10 words per day then you might one day become interesting and that is definitely cause for celebration. You can celebrate with the magistrates and solicitors from which you receive legal advice about rogue bloggers. I do take your ambivalent legal threat very seriously though.
When I was about 8 I wrote a viciously disparaging note on the back of my pencil case about a boy in my class who used to eat glue. It was something along the lines of ‘David Pollock eats glue and smells of poo’. While it wasn’t the best rhyming couplet I’ve ever written, the sentiment of the message did get back to him and he threatened to ‘get’ me after school. For the rest of the day I was extremely fearful, so much so that I wet myself during PE which had nothing to do with the amount of free school milk I’d guzzled during the day and everything to do with the severe threat which was hanging over me. I remember thinking ‘that was not a wise move’ and felt terrified. Thankfully, nothing ever materialised as his mother was waiting to pick him up after school like she did every day and the only thing he did was scowl at me as he was frogmarched home by his mother who was angry at the amount of glue on his face. I expect your legal inference should amount to something similar.
With that in mind I am very much looking to our showdown in court. It could be epic as I am quite the litigator. I’ve read ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ by Carly Simon twice, and watch all the glossy American legal dramas in order to gain legal experience should I ever face a legal threat for writing the word ‘blog’ an excessive amount of times.
Many thanks for the Christmas e-card by the way. That was above and beyond.
See you in court.
Thankfully I received no reply from legalities lady which is a relief because I’m not really a trained solicitor. I didn’t even pass the barre exam unlike Leo DiCaprio’s character in ‘Catch Me If You Want’ where he trained to be a lawyer via becoming a doctor, an international con-artist and a dashing slice of pie.
What makes this whole affair truly heartbreaking was that they immediately banned me from the U.K. Bloggers Corporation group, obliterating my burgeoning blogging career with one click of the mouse. What they probably don’t understand – and still don’t to this day by all accounts – is that I’m still very much a member of the group as I have at least seventy-five versions of myself on Facebook in various forms, thirty-four of which are still in the now infamous U.K. Bloggers group. So, really, you could say I was like Leo DiCaprio in ‘Catch Me If You Fancy’ but with a poorer haircut. But I digress.
Unfortunately, the new best friend who’d started this whole U.K. Blogger controversy in the first place by complaining about my poorly developed comment-leaving skills, deleted her Twitter love-letter to me so I am unable to present it to you as a screenshot. As a replacement, I will include this screenshot of the high traffic to my pretendy website off the back of this international scandal.
Despite her initial Tweet implying that she was unable to comprehend the difference between two completely different words in the English language, we managed to send an affectionate email to each other and to this day there isn’t a day goes by when she doesn’t think about me.
Dear Rhian Ragefury,
Many thanks for your kind words on Twitter, and subsequent offer of friendship.
While it doesn’t interest me to write comments on blogs I have no interest in, it does interest me to correspond with new people who tweet me with high praise for my blog so I thank you wholeheartedly for that.
Despite getting something of a twitch in my eye when you confused the word ‘hypocritical’ with the word ‘hypercritical’, I am willing to overlook that fact and embrace your offer of friendship. And though I disagree with the notion that rules must be obeyed primarily because this generally removes one’s ability to think for themselves, I understand your need for conformity. When I was your age and didn’t know any better, I used to have to conform to many rules without question. Especially during science class as the teacher there had a completely rational hatred of anything under the age of 10 and really used to let us know about it if we were insubordinate. My friends and I would cross our fingers and hope that we weren’t the ones he attacked with a Bunsen burner that day. If we didn’t conform the odds were very much on that we’d get a swift punch to the back of the head if we couldn’t figure out the chemical symbol for screaming. We’d know if we were for it because the science lab would smell like whisky when we entered.
But I digress. I expect our blossoming friendship will include many rules and regulations and I look forward to discovering what they are.
Many thanks for your Christmas ecard by the way. That was above and beyond.
I am incredibly sorry if my tweet resembled a want to be friends, I don’t think i’ve got room to cram someone like you in there so any notion of a blossoming friendship please ignore. I’m sure my retraction will cause you some upset or discomfort so i’ll give you a moment to have a little sob to yourself.
If it doesn’t interest you to write comments on blogs which you have no interest in then perhaps you did not read the thread properly that you posted on. The wonderful group of bloggers you asked to be a part of may be tricky but the clear rules showcasing specifically a comment swap which you put your blog on to shows that you did want to ‘swap comments’ incase the phrasing comment swap wasn’t clear enough. If you want comments on your blog (which evidently you did because you put your URL on there) then you have to be prepared to write a comment back on someone else’s blog. Everyone who chooses to put their URL in the thread is prepared to comment. If you merely wanted to showcase your wonderful talents of writing and degrading the blogging world which you are a part of that is what post shares are for then you can read the posts you want to and people can read yours with no commitment or agenda. Maybe you need to get your eyes tested because the wording on these threads is certainly far from hard to read.
I worry for people like you. You join groups understanding the rules of how they work and the wonderful work they do putting bloggers in touch with one another, providing advice when you just don’t know where to turn, wonderful opportunities from PR’s who want to work with us and yes sometimes things like comment swaps (which are completely optional and you don’t have to take part in!) By joining these groups you have a want to be a part of it, the group didn’t invite you because they thought ‘You know who needs to be part of this Chris Peet, he is what our group is missing’ you asked to join it yourself.
Again thank you so much for reminding me how wonderful the blogging world can be as we all joined together last night when your post went ‘live’, but of course you won’t know how many people read it because no one other than the person who found it actually wanted to give you the satisfaction of visiting your site.
Again thanks for your e-mail and I hope you now understand how little I want to be friends with you.
Dear Rhi Rhi,
Many thanks for your friendly reply and your confirmation that you wish to be friends despite initially getting off on the wrong foot. You know what they say though: best foot forward. Mine’s my right foot as opposed to my left as my left is slightly clubbed. Which is your best foot? I’m interested to know. Perhaps you could have a think and write a blog post about it. If you do I will share it with my friends with no commitment or agenda.
Unfortunately I haven’t had time to accept your Facebook friend request as I’ve spent the majority of the day taking down the Christmas decorations now it’s almost over and done with. But I promise I will. I’ll put it on my daily to-do list which today includes taking down the Christmas decorations now it’s almost over and done with, and accepting Facebook friend requests.
I must confess I did have a little sob to myself but this was mainly because you mentioned you were worried about me, and carefully took the time to explain the rules of the U.N. Bloggers group. I have printed them out and put them on my wall next to my festive poster of Michael Caine in his career-high performance as Scrooge McDuck in ‘A Muppet’s Christmas Carol’. It was very thoughtful of you and I can’t thank you enough for spending the time crafting an email in order to encourage our nascent friendship.
In all seriousness though, I hope you’d welcome me using your reply to fuel another rant. If anything I’m sure you’d be glad to help create new content for my blog. And you’ve got to admit my emails are quite funny. I expect you did chuckle at the story 😀 However, I completely understand if you just block me. I’d never be in the mood to argue with a mindless idiot, and maybe you should do your best to refrain from replying anything further from me though. I mean, honestly, how much spare time do I have?!
Many thanks for asking your friends to visit my blog too. I’ve never had so much traffic and this is down to you. You’re like the gift that keeps on giving and I’m so glad we’re best friends.
Thankfully I received no more replies from Rhian Ragefury which is a relief because I was sick of her constantly liking my Tweets on Facebook.
Anyway, with me being such a master of disguise, I was able to covertly follow the fall out from this international incident via the comfort of my bean bag chair which I prefer to normal chairs because they have beans in them and you’re never too far away from a healthy snack should you need one. This fancy gallery below provides just a few of the loving comments about my existence from the group. And don’t be alarmed, I thanked them all personally.
After my viewing figures reached double figures I began to lose interest in the U.K. Bloggers Corporation mainly because they couldn’t decide whether they loved me or hated me. I would have preferred both because being unable to differentiate between love and hate is a vital skill to have in this day and age. Just look at David Cameron, Donald Trump and that pervy bloke off The Great British Bake Off. Although I’m proud to announce that one of the admins of this cyber-terrorist organisation was kind enough to email me privately to inform me that my blog was the finest thing she’d read since finally getting around to learning her ABC not long after she’d turned thirty. This came as something of a shock given the vitriol with which she attacked me within the group. I won’t betray her to her underlings though as that would be pretty U.K. Blogger-esque but suffice to say I’ve included her on the list of invitees to my circumcision operation after-party.
Anyway, parting thoughts of which I have two:
- If you’re a blogger, be glad you don’t know me in any way, shape or form. The fall out of this unfortunate accident caused several of my blogger friends to be booted out of the group simply by way of association. Several of these were fundraising or charity blogs, providing awareness of various causes, raising money and offering information about ways to help and share. By simply knowing who I am they were unceremoniously evicted from a group which, to be honest, didn’t help or support them in a single sodding way. But that’s not the point. The point is that the U.K. Bloggers – and I hate to be the one to invoke Godwin’s Law here – are clearly more Nazi Germany than Switzerland.
- I forget what parting thought number two was so I’ll just say this: if you’re a member of U.K. Bloggers, you can’t spell. There, I’ve said it.
Your move, Goebbels…
About four months ago I got my girlfriend up the duff.
Apparently this is life-altering news which will completely change my outlook on everything that’s ever existed in the history of this 4,500 year old earth. When my outlook will change, however, is anyone’s guess because I’m still stuck in what I’m reliably informed to be the ‘Wow, pregnant? Big day. What’s for tea?’ phase.
I can almost hear the swell of disapproving voices, or stifled laughter accompanied by the ‘he has absolutely no idea what’s coming…’ lecture from the po-faced matter-of-facters. While I appreciate and sense that all the giddiness and otherworldly excitement is in the post and will at some point be heading my way, at this precise moment in time it seems I’m caught in the limbo between the initial feelings of shock, awe, glee and wonder, and the finger-tapping humdrum feelings of ‘now what?’ Apparently this feeling of abject uselessness is completely normal for the father-to-be because, as a father-to-be, the only thing I can really do is sit and feel utterly useless watching my poor girlfriend implode from the effects of her pregnancy. This is because my poor embattled partner, Laura, is suffering from hyperemesis gravidarum which was unfortunately popularised as THE pregnancy illness to wish for after ghekko-faced, shape-shifting lizard-woman Kate Middleton was lumbered with it when she was knocked up with her evil offspring, Prince Georgie Porgie Pudding and Pie. And it’s utterly grim stuff.
For the first few weeks of this intense illness, Laura was violently sick multiple times – not just multiple times a day, but multiple times an hour – consumed nothing but jelly, a bowlful of which would last her up to a week, as well as having such violent feelings of intense nausea that I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d asked me to euthanise her in order to put her out of her misery. This was all day and all night, and culminated in several trips to hospital via several trips to the doctor’s. And while the effects of this misery are currently not as monumental as those first couple of months – or Laura’s putting a stupendously brave face on if they are – she’s still in a constant state of exhaustion, sickness, lethargy and constant unease. Being the utter marvel that she is, however, she’s still managing to work full time, run a household, and look after her 4 year old son, Max – the ‘metre-high whirlwind’ as she delightfully refers to him – as well as put up with my constant whinging about everything and everyone like the absolute male that I am. How she manages to do it completely boggles the mind especially with me not having a sodding clue how to help her feel better thus feeling completely irritable and tetchy.
And let me be clear: this isn’t just morning sickness. All wazzed up women get that. This is unrelenting, unremitting, merciless, all-singing, all-dancing hell. on. earth. But Laura just gets on with it. I should probably start helping out a bit more instead of shouting at her to keep the noise down in the kitchen when I’m watching the football.
Anyway, to get back on point, I’m still waiting for that giddy moment of glee that awakens in me the realisation that I’m going to be a dad. Because it still hasn’t struck home yet. Friends and family have informed me that the moment I hold my future offspring in my arms when it’s a newborn will be the moment that life as I know it will never be the same again; I’ll fall instantly in love with a squidgy ball of flesh and not feel at all disgusted that it’s screaming at me, vomming on me, or shitting on me. Or a sprightly combination of all three. As a gambling man, I would proffer decent odds against immediately experiencing pangs of adoration for something that was doing all of that at me.
Furthermore, I’m still harbouring feelings of intense suspicion towards my nearest and dearest after they all confidently assured me that when I was learning to drive everything would just ‘click’ and I’d be an annoying boy racer in no time. Spoiler alert: it didn’t, and I’ve abandoned all thoughts of driving after my confidence and finances were utterly crushed with nothing to show for it. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t take their word as gospel when it comes to me experiencing appropriate emotion towards my future son or daughter.
Thankfully, however, all is not lost, and there is hope for me growing a soul and developing into a proper human father as I’ve recently been in intense training on how to be a new dad with Laura’s delightful little boy, Max. For the most part, Max and I are best buds. We laugh, joke and wind each other up, have spectacular lightsaber battles, create entire universes with his vast array of Lego blocks, and can wax lyrical for ages about the finer points of Star Wars, Peter Rabbit and what he’s going to get for Christmas off me for the next decade or so. Admittedly, there are moments when things aren’t all as rosy as can be: a constant war of attrition when Max clambers into our bed in the middle of the night, asserting his territorial dominance and booting me in the back 400 times over the course of the night resulting in me relocating to the floor in the spare room is just one of the more stickier moments in our relationship. As all parents can appreciate, when things go well, things are wonderful. But when they don’t, it’s unadulterated terror. I’m slowly but surely learning this but I’m still some way off appreciating just what the fuck is going on.
One of the more disarming things I’ve found about training to be a dad with a 4 year old child is the newly-discovered brevity and concise nature of my everyday vernacular. Where once I’d offer emphatic declarations of awe and affectations of amazement at a messily coloured picture, or a box of Lego successfully constructed, the consequences of hearing my name repeated 400 times an hour, being yelled at to ‘look at MEEEE NOWWWW!’ every 12 seconds, and being attacked with improvised weaponry made out of cardboard has understandably dulled my enthusiasm to respond with apparent fervour. The result of this is my responses to whatever activity Max is immersed in now simply consist of raised eyebrows, a nod of the head and elongated, one word responses – ‘Wowwwww!’ ‘Woooaahhhh!’ ‘Cooool!’ – while hoping I won’t get screamed at if I don’t stand instantly to attention.
Furthermore, I’ve often found myself, with much amazement and wonder, caught in deep conversation with Max before the discourse has really even begun. I regularly have little chats with him, the dialogue of which unfolds something like this:
Me: ‘Yes, Max?’
Max: ‘Chris… Um…?’
Me: ‘Yes, Max?’
Max: ‘Chris! Chris!’
Max: ‘Um…Chris, Chris…?’
Me: ‘Max, Max… yes?’
Max: ‘Um… Um… Um… Chris?’
And so on and so forth. Chats like these happen over the course of about 12 seconds. Obviously this is just his little brain working overtime and getting overexcited, trying to get everything out at once before he can launch himself into another mini-adventure involving attacking my lower body with his lightsaber and repeatedly informing me that I’ll soon be experiencing a bloody and gruesome death involving the removal of several limbs and my head. For a 4 year old, getting overexcited is something that comes as naturally to him as hiding in the bathroom with the door locked does to Laura and me. What I find
terrifying fascinating is the process in which the over-excitement presents itself when Max wants to play a game. Especially if he’s very tired and knows that time is at a premium. Below is a conversation I typed out when I happened to be working at my laptop right at the time Max was asking me to play with him as bedtime was approaching:
Max: ‘Chris! Chris! Chris!’
Me: ‘Yes, Max?
Max: ‘Chris! Chris! Will you… Chris! CHRIS! Will you..?’
Me: ‘What, Max? Will I… what?’
Max: ‘CHRIS! Chris! CHRIS! CHRIIIIIIIS! Will you…? Will you…? CHRIIIIIIIS!’ CHRIS! LOOK AT ME! CHRIS! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!’
Me: ‘Yes, Max, I’m looking!’
Max: ‘Will you… Will you play a game with me? Chris, will you play a game with me? Will you play Lego with me?’
Me: ‘I’ll be twooooo seconds, duuuude…’
Max: ‘Ah-ahhhh! Play Lego with me now, Chris! Chris! Chrisss!’
Me: ‘Okay, Max, what shall we build?’
Max: ‘We have to play Lego. Chris, will you play Lego with me?’
Me: ‘Yes, Max. We’re playing. What shall we build?’
Max: ‘Okay, okay, okay. Chris, Chris, Chris… We have to build Lego men. Chris, Chris, Chris, you need to make a Lego man with a gun and I need to make a Lego man with a sword. Chris, Chris, CHRIS! CHRIIIIIIIIIS! CHRRRRRIIIIIIIIISSSS! Noooooooo! You’re doing it wrong!!! CHRISSSSSSSS! NOOOOO! CHRISSSS!’
Me: ‘Well, show me how to do it, Max.’
Max: ‘That Lego man CAN’T have A SWOOOOOORD! He has to have a gun!!! Aaaarrrrrrrgh! CHRRRRIIIIISSSSSSSSSS!’
On occasion there would follow an explosive scream of frustration, tears and a mini-tantrum which sometimes incorporates an off-the-scale screech that causes the neighbour’s cat to go and drown itself in the nearest garden pond.
Another arresting situation that I’ve found myself being privy to is as a central part of a deep and meaningful conversation while Max is ‘having a poo-poo’. Nowadays he seems incapable of doing his business without me being there to accompany him as he goes through the motions, all the while discussing the salient concerns of which is the most powerful Ninjago character, and how cool it would be to be able ‘spinjitzu’ up and down the stairs. Call me naive, but this was a scenario I never, ever thought I’d be involved in when Laura and I first got together. More recently it’s become an inescapable necessity that I be the one to undertake this eye-opening task, and the times when I’m unable to, or suggest that he’s more than capable of doing it all by himself, can occasionally result in an ‘incident’. A shouty one. So this is something I’m just going to have to come to terms with. Deep discussion and putting the world to rights in the bathroom amid the aromas and symphony of a small boy having a shit.
And I don’t think there’s anything that can prepare you for the shock of watching a child sitting on the toilet doing Chewbacca impressions before standing, baring his wee backside and shouting, ‘FINIIIIIISHED!’ while demanding you wipe his bum without gagging.
But this is all excellent training I suppose. I should expect I’ll be changing nappies and cleaning up throughout the wee small hours when the new offspring arrives in July. You can’t even imagine how much I’m looking forward to doing that especially if there’s live boxing or UFC being broadcast from America at stupid o’clock in the morning. Obviously. And then there’s all the vomit and stuff but, again, I’m getting completely used to all that what with poor Laura hugging the porcelain every day.
No doubt I’ll be posting regular updates about all this and I’ll be sure to let you know if I grow a soul…