Crumbs #6 – Judging a Book by its Cover

I think I will write and publish a book called Actual Proper Literature, so that people reading in public can silently admonish those with hack fad books simply by sitting next to them.

Alternatively, for much less effort, I could sell ‘I’M WITH STUPID’ t-shirts.

Advertisements

The Social Nitwit

OR An Uncomfortable Journey of Self-Re-Discovery Along Facebook Timeline

OR The Well of Self-Hatred Never Runs Dry

A Blast From Your PastI have recently been forced on a walk down memory lane, taken an unsolicited journey of self discovery, and suffered a deeply personal history enema. That last metaphor is one of mine. I wonder if it’ll catch on?

If you’re blissfully unaware, the social networking giant Facebook has forced all its peons into a regimented new system. Some people are born with Timeline, some people achieve Timeline, and some people have Timeline foisted upon them. I am of the latter subset, and we’re all quite annoyed about it. We’re the upset subset.

Those for whom Social Networking is a fun, active pastime will already have jumped at the chance to have a big splash picture accompanying their head-in-a-square, but for the rest of us (the Resistant, the Hesitant and the Uninterested) Facebook Timeline is now the best option out of a choice of one. For someone who is depicted to be the face at the forefront of the future,1 Zuckerberg seems to be obsessed with the past – specifically that time a few months ago before Faceberg went public and everyone could see exactly how financially ramshackle it is.2

Zuckerbook’s newest bright ideaTM charts your history on the site, as well as extending deep into the past to your birth, or if your parents are a particular type of Facebucker, your conception. It’s intent was presumably to provide users with a personal history book, celebrating their life’s achievements and zeniths and witty statuses and offering a nostalgic stream of highlights: your very own Greatest Hits record.

What it actually is is a perfect time-capsule of your lowest lows and most public failures.

I’m on Facebook, and I can just about stand it. I’ve avoided many of the archetypal Social Lepers that plague the site.3 I have my own uses for the network; my favourite thing about social networking is that it allows me to add a numeric value to my popularity and measure it accordingly.4

Now, however, I am confronted with all my past misdeeds, evidence of arseholery and endless, increasingly demoralizing photographs of my own nauseating face. According to the Grand Exulted Overlord Zuckerberg and all his little wizards, I had until August the 8th to systematically delete all that I’m ashamed of, which is everything.5

Through extensive research into the last five years, I have discovered that I am an astronomical prick.6

To be honest, I suspected this already, but I’ve learned that it’s true for for an entirely different set of reasons than previously thought. I’ve had to sit down and ask myself some very serious questions:

  • Why is past-me such a prat?
  • When did I stop being such a prat?
  • Will future-me look back at this in five years time and think that present-me is a prat? (Definitely.)
  • Is there anything I can do to quell the righteous self-hatred of future-me in advance?
  • Does voicing these thoughts make me look as mental as I think it does?
  • Is future-me a delusional mental prat too?

***

Anyway, you didn’t come here to read my witterings – you came here for salacious secrets and uncomfortable truths.7 Without further ado; may I present what I believe is my first proper blog-list:

Uncomfortable Truths and Lessons Learnt About Myself due to Obligatory Facebook Timeline

  • I joined Facebook to play a pirate game with my friend Paul. That game has escalated into a hideous social networking beast that I am unable to slay. I am not a pirate and neither is he, so on top of that, it was futile.
  • Apparently, a relationship, however farcical, is a more important life event than meeting all but two of my best friends, living with said best friends, going to university, winning an award for my design work and meeting four of my heroes. A relationship is on par with being born.
  • I was at one point deemed worthy of a relationship.
  • I can now calculate precisely how long said relationships lasted for, and judge myself accordingly.
  • My last girlfriend has managed to delete our existence as a Facebook-Official couple long before I had timeline forced on me. This is annoying because I wanted to do it.
  • Alcohol does horrible things to me. (Refer to previous point.)
  • I only learned to spell/communicate without resorting to slang in 2008, or maybe I was bring ironic. Irony does not age well, and I look like a moron.
  • I twice did those bullrubbish cryptic statuses that don’t mean anything. Fortunately no one cared.
  • I cared about my old band for much longer than was necessary or welcome.
  • The flyers that I designed for bands five years ago are so depressingly untalented that I deserve to be disemboweled, or at least sacked.
  • McDonalds warrants a status update.
  • It snows occasionally, and I recorded it for posterity. Nobody else ever does this so it’s a good job I did.
  • I have only been funny since April 2010. Thanks to FB, my first joke told to the public is preserved for posterity. Unfortunately, it is topical, so it is no longer funny.8
    Here it is. It concerns the run-up to the last British general election. Gordon Brown was the Prime Minister Incumbent and ‘The Mirror’ is a particularly unethical tabloid rag.

The First Time I Tried to be Funny

  • In 2010, I thought this was funny:

I'm Hilarious

  • I still think that’s funny. I’m bringing it back.9
  • In February 2011 I went to an art exhibition so shit it became a ‘life event’.
  • Best Friend Dan and I had an impromptu hat making competition in honour of the Royal Wedding in April 2011. Mine was three feet tall and had a paper Will and Kate and a banner saying ‘Eee! It’s a Right Royal Wedding Celebration Hat’ on it and a tiny crown on a stick as its centrepiece. It was a hat so awesome it had it’s own hat. Dan’s was a plastic sandwich carton with some penlids in it stuck to his head with tape. I do not regret this at all.
  • In late 2010 I spent four consecutive nights chronicling the adventures of the homeless people who camped in the band stand in the park over the road from my flat. They would do a lot of drugs and sing Lady Gaga and Bohemian Rhapsody til 3am. One of them shat in another’s sleeping bag.
  • I have dreadful posture.
  • I have dreadful haircuts.
  • I have dreadful fashion sense.
  • I have dreadful taste in everything.
  • I am pathetic and have achieved nothing.

Thanks a lot, Zuckerballs.


1 Because Justin Timberlake said so, and as we all know, The Social Network was 100% accurate.

2 Can you smell that satire? It smells good doesn’t it. Want to come back to my place and take a sideways look at the week’s news?

3 Here’s a checklist: the Excitable Superfan, the Activist, the Evangelist, da GramMMartick CRimmiNul, the Over-Sharer, the Promoter, The Self-Fetishist, The Passive-Aggressive Problem Child, the Comedian LOL, the Fundamentally Unstable Relationship, the 24-Hour Party Person, the Chest-Exhibitor, the Twat, etc. Please comment and add your own!

4 ‘If the numbers go up, you’re having more fun!’ – Calvin off of Calvin & Hobbes.

5 I could leave, but I don’t hate Facebook nearly half as much as I do Twitter, and anyway, how else would I show all my nemeses and ex-girlfriends that I’M DOING FINE.

6 Not literally – an astronomical prick would be hideous. It probably is a constellation though…

7 Unless the opposite is true, in which case you’re about to be sorely disappointed.

8 This is another sample of satire, however, it is two years old. Satire does not age well. It still smells, but now it smells like a stale trump. Or Donald, as he’s known to his friends. HELLO! We’re back in the game!

9 I’m also bringing back the phrase ‘bringing it back’.

The First Post Post Freshly Pressed

Eep.

I have been Freshly Pressed. It’s lovely. Hello to any and all new readers!

Middle Finger Salute

Even your blog stats are capable of giving you a middle finger salute.

It’s an honour and a privilege to be included amongst the pantheon of actually-good writers out there, even if the success of my contribution was mainly due to being at the right place at the right time in a good mood.

I shan’t let this achievement go to my head – ego can be a horrible beast – however, I think it’s fair to say now that I am definitely The Best. The view from the upper echelons is spectacular. I can see my house from up here, which makes me realise that anyone can see my house from up here, which makes me want to move.

On Monday at stupid-o-clock-in-the-morning, I received an email from a lovely lady at WordPress HQ telling me how much she/they liked the post I’d penned about the Olympics, and that more people should see it. This was a very nice thing for her to do. She even gave me a day’s head start to purge the grammatical errors, spruce up the necessary links and put out drinks and canapés and assorted nibbly bits for the influx of guests.

As well as being quite flattering, this alerted me to the thought I’d not previously entertained about the WordPresidents. They’re reading everything you write, and judging you accordingly. Whilst that’s legitimately scary, the flip side is that it’s someone’s job to read everything you write, poor thing, which means you have an obligation to make it interesting for them. Let’s all raise our collective game.

To my new followers, hello! Thank you for following! You are more than welcome, but I shall leave your jackets by the door for your inevitable swift exit when you realise that I’m not actually very interesting. You’re my favourites. Henceforth you shall be known as ‘Team A’.

And to my old followers, nay, to my friends. You’re my favourites as well. You can be called ‘The A Team’.

Anyway, thanks to everyone. There’s a post about the agony of social networking going up in a bit, just as soon as I’ve waded through all your notifications, comments and blogs to return the favours. You’re all most welcome.

A Very British Olympics: It’s The Taking Part That Counts

OR A Big Sporty Party ‘Round Our House

If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to gush a little more about the Olympics. I’ve already said a great deal in the comments of my previous post, but I’d like to take the opportunity to organise my thoughts and move on from just doing blogs about different countries all the time. This post is not particularly funny, per se,1 but I want to record my feelings at this moment so that I can look on them in years to come. You’re welcome to skip it, if you’ve had enough of all that, and you’ll be pleased to know that there’s a proper post going up very soon.

Tower Bridge w/ Olympic Rings - Image via Google

I’m not particularly athletic, and I’m not incredibly competitive either; the product of being a small skinny child. I never took PE lessons too seriously; I’d joke around or make up new sports or provide ‘hilarious’ commentary, and then play football all lunch instead. As far as my teachers were concerned, however, I was so unremarkable that I had two report cards that got my name wrong. And not ‘Kris’ wrong. ‘Thomas’ or ‘James’ wrong.

My relationship with most sport is that of a spectator: I love watching tennis and cricket, but out national sport is football (soccer) and I find it very difficult to get behind a ‘sport’2 that seems to encourage division along lines of where people are from and what colour t-shirt they’ve got on, and that rewards ludicrously overpaid pronks3 with the lifestyle, luxuries and ego of Joffrey from Game of Thrones, but if he had as much sex as the rest of the cast.

I find it too easy to respond with cynicism to people who a lauded to the upper echelons of celebrity purely because they’re good enough to be the public face of a sport-come-business venture. I’ve always responded to effort more than anything else: if someone’s doing something for love rather than money I can get right behind them, whatever it is.4 Amateur level sport, or even just non-mainstream sport is right up my proverbial street (and my literal street in the case of a few events).

It seems to be a very British Olympics. I’ve read a few American blogs on the subject, and (depending on the blogger of course) there’s a real thirst to beat China and prove that the US is the best in the world at sport. I love that we hope Team GB will come fourth in the Medal Table – that’s British values right there. We know exactly how good we are on the world stage, and our dearest wish would be to achieve the honours we feel we deserve, nothing more. We can do cycling5 and sailing and a bit of rowing, and we’re happy with that, thank you very much.

If there’s two things us Brits enjoy it’s Credit Where It’s Due and a Good Underdog Story.6 As a nation, we can get behind anyone who is a talented competitor, or anyone who deserves a good win. We don’t have to have a native attachment to Michael Phelps to enjoy watching him cruise to victory, and Usain Bolt is exhilarating, wherever you’re from. Us Brits will give a hearty cheer for whoever’s at the back of the race, because hey – they deserve it too.

What’s so inspiring is that these values are clearly echoed across the world; athletes who don’t win gold are humble and appreciative of talent, displaying a sportsmanship that appears to be absent from mainstream, moneyed sports like Football (soccer), and I imagine Baseball and American Football are similar. Team GB’s Rebecca Adlington conceded defeat gracefully twice, as she accepted bronzes in the two races she was excpected to win gold in, and just this afternoon I watched Roger Federer give a poignant post-match speech, singing the praises of Andy Murray.

To me, this is exactly what sport is about; it’s why I’m finding the Olympics so enjoyable – I am delighted to find myself able to root for somebody simply because they’re the best at something. That’s what good sport can do – think of all the crises and conflicts going on in the world, and everyone’s put their problems aside for a fortnight for a big party round our house.

If I may quote John Candy’s character in Cool Runnings:

‘…It doesn’t matter tomorrow if they come in first or fiftieth. Those guys have earned the right to walk into that stadium and wave their nation’s flag. That’s the single greatest honor an athlete can ever have. That’s what the Olympics are all about.’

In fact I only have two complaints about the whole shebang: I don’t see why a horse rider should get a medal and the horse should only get a sugar lump, and I’m a bit disappointed that Team GB is not nicknamed the Heebie GBs.

***

On the topic of national pride, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so patriotic as I have done this past week. Last Thursday, I wrote a short post belaying my cynicism at our country’s ability to put on an overzealous display of extravagance. My immediate reaction was evident in the comments, but I thought it was a triumph. It was doubly exciting for me, because thanks to WordPress, I knew I’d be able to share these experiences with people across the world.7

What international readers may not realise is that the Ceremony, the Torch and who would even bring the flame to the stadium was shrouded in mystery until the last minute. Our biting wit kicked in, and many of us, myself included, expected something similarly farcical to what went down later last week8  :

Boris Johnson, Lord Mayor of London - Image via Google

Britain is an eccentric little huddle of islands, and to pander to the rest of the world’s expectations would have been a disservice. We instead invited the world to look at us and say ‘they’re an odd bunch of looneys aren’t they?’

My main worry about the ‘Open Cez’ was that it would be over-eager, facile, saccharine and very difficult to stomach, like so many of these ‘Big Shows’ are.9 I needn’t have worried, as it seemed out country’s tongue was firmly in it’s cheek.

From the moment Frank Turner (for my money our greatest unheard-of talent and most genuine singer) stepped out for a little pre-show concert, I knew we’d be fine. We had our green and pleasant land, and we had our dark satanic mills,10 but we also had Bean and the Queen,11 who I feel were not only hilarious, but were absolutely necessary. We pricked the bubble of the Monarchy, and hence the pomp and ceremony of the country, in a way that showed that even on the world stage, we are not afraid to laugh at ourselves, and that we don’t take ourselves too seriously.

I stopped worrying what the world might be thinking12 when the forty-foot Voldemort took to the skies. The NHS (and free healthcare for all in general) is a wonderful thing; everyone in the UK passes through it’s doors at least once in their life, no matter what their social or political background.

I loved the celebration of our music and popular culture. Every artist featured is a display of home grown talent, all of it worthy and none of it a product of a TV Talent Show’s machinations. I did wonder whether Sir Tim Berners-Lee sat concealed in that plywood house, looking out at the jubilent tweeting generation and thought ‘Is this what my legacy has begat? “#TeamBreezyLOL”’ but then the house lifted away from him life he was a lobster on a silver platter and he got the eyes of the world on him. That must have been pretty special.

I was a love-letter to Britain, from Britain. And it was marvelous, and Danny Boyle will no doubt be a Sir by this time next year.

I read a great tweet which summed it all up wonderfully, which I’ve promptly forgotten. I think it was said by a bloke called Ian, if that’s any use to you. Basically, Ian said this:

The 2012 London Olympic Opening Ceremony has reclaimed the word ‘patriotic’. Whilst bigots and the far right would use it to defend indefensible actions and to oppress those of a non-white-native origin, it once again means what it should always meant: love and gratitude for your country and fellow man.

Lovely stuff.

In conclusion, the London 2012 Olympics has rekindled in me a love for sport, greatness, and people the world over that has played second fiddle to cynicism for years. If I may, I’d like to once again quote Cool Runnings’s Sanka Coffie, I am feeling very Olympic today.


1 Humour, like many things, is subjective, and if you’re not enjoying my scribblings then that sentence would be the height of arrogance, and for that I am sorry.

If you would like some sport-based humour, may I direct your attention to the sports section of satirical news show The Day Today. Here you will see the unbeatable Alan Partridge in the character’s first iteration as a failing sports reporter, before he became a failed talk show host and failed radio DJ to boot.

2 This isn’t strictly true; I watch football for the punditry. I don’t mind who wins as long as someone says something stupid. Here’s a few gems from pundit Mark Lawrenson:

‘The longer the game went on, you got the feeling that neither side really wanted to lose.’

‘Call himself a keeper? He couldn’t keep bees!’

– and the joyously irreverent –

‘When I lived in rural Oxfordshire, I was walking home across a field when I stroked a cow. The damn thing butted me in the orchestras.’

3 I’m writing with footballer Christiano Ronaldo in mind. He has a barber’s chair waiting for him at half time to get his hair re-did. There are a lot of bad sportsmen, but Ronaldo’s arrogance is painful and infuriating to behold. He is accused often of playing football for himself rather than the team, and shows what a man thinks of himself when, during the penalty shoot-out if the last European Cup, he purposefully went last so that he could be Portugal’s hero. The scoring went as such that Spain had won before he could even step up, and every football fan in Europe went ‘AAAAAAAAH!’

4 Note: must be morally sound. If you love hitting geese with a carpet beater, and would do it even if nobody would pay you, please don’t mistakenly think you can count on my support.

5 Our champion cyclists Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish were accused of being arrogant, but as it was put very succinctly by the anchors in the studio, they’ve been proven to be the best athletes in their field time and again, and not as a product of luck either. The phrase used by the commentator was ‘The Gold Medal is his to lose’, which is a spot-on phrase – statistically, Wiggins (in that instance) should be the best claimant for that accolade, and it’s up to him to put on a performance worthy of it. Aren’t words great when they’re used properly?

6 In the depths of my hard drive I have a document called ‘A Great British Underdog Story’, which is an outline for a novel. Aside from the title, there exists only one line of text: ‘It’s a story about an underdog who wins something.’ I look forward to critics praising it’s brevity and simplicity.

7 Should they deign to read this far down.

8 I love that the Major of our Capitol City got stuck on a zipline with two Union Jack flags. He didn’t drop them, and he didn’t call for help either. He’s Boris Johnson, Mayor of London, goddammit, and if he got himself into this mess then by jove he can get himself out of it. And he’s not dropping the Queen’s standard either!

9 If Her Majesty selected the playlist for her Diamond Jubilee this year I’d be surprised and bitterly, bitterly disappointed.

10 Dear the New York Times. Isambard Kingdom Brunel, as played by Kenneth Brannagh, is not a Charles Dickens character. He was a real bloke.

11 Which sounds like an 80’s Cop Duo waiting to happen.

12 I know NBC aren’t doing a very good job, and I understand they cut a five minute tribute to the victims of the 7/7 Bombings, a terrorist attack that happened the day after we won the Olympic bid, which was a tactless, thoughtless thing to do. If we, or anyone else, had neglected 9/11 there’d be uproar. Apparently NBC also were quite ignorant of our nation and customs, which was nice of them. That said, NBC’s gaffes did also result in this gem:

Excellent Logo Placement - Image via Twitter

Crumbs #5 – An Olympic Proposal

Later today the London 2012 Olympics will begin, and we will welcome the world into our home, provided they’ve wiped their feet on the doormat.

There has been wide speculation as to what the opening ceremony will be. I devoutly hope that we don’t try to out-do the Chinese. We just can’t do it, and we aren’t that extravagant as a nation. Four years ago, we accepted the flame with a loveable fool waving a flag, a man who kicks footballs kicking a football and a disposable popstar with a bus for a dress.

We need something that celebrates the best of our nation, yet shows that for all our pomp and ceremony we don’t take ourselves too seriously: dignified and intelligent and pleasantly subdued, yet with an underlying sense of knowing humour about ourselves.

Let’s just have Stephen Fry lighting the flame with a sparkler.

Stephen Fry. Image from Google.

Dinner For One

The world of culinary delights is vast, well populated and infinitely wondrous. If I had to come down on one side, I would say that I am pro-food, and that everyone should have as much as they like, especially if they’re hungry.

If I may paraphrase the great Douglas Adams;

When all the questions of space, time, matter and the nature of being have been resolved, only one question remains: Where shall we have dinner?

I like to cook for others; when I lived with Best Friend Dan we would make sure we made time to have Wednesday night off and I would make a spicy meaty pasta dish from scratch, with crisps on top, and homemade ice cream and we would watch stand-up comedy and thriller films and eat ourselves sick. They were some of the best nights ever.

However, there comes a time when one must fend for oneself, and only for oneself. If you’re like me, that time is all the time.

The amount of times I’ve been dining out alone, writing in a notepad to convince people who aren’t interested that I’m a restaurant critic and thus have a reason to be there, ruining the atmosphere and spoiling their night is, frankly, none. Why leave the house? I read an article about a man who proposed to his girlfriend and was publicly humiliated when she rejected him, but he had to sit and eat his steak because he’d paid so much for it. She took hers to-go.

***

One of the semi-tragic benefits of being fundamentally lonely is that whilst you won’t be sharing your mealtimes with a loved one, making pleasant small talk about the days events or what’s on telly, you will be able to relive the whole experience verbatim the next night when you eat the other half of your dish, with an additional aftertaste of microwaves and shame.

Your diet will hold out for as long as your pride, but there will come a point when it isn’t really worth putting effort in, as no-one will be impressed anyway. This is the tipping point; it’s very easy to give up and settle for quick fixes and things the come in plastic trays. A cheeky pizza or takeaway is an indulgence for a couple, or group of two-or-more friends1 but for one it’s a bit tragic. It says ‘I have given up on me. I do not deserve my own effort. I will eat this, not because it is tasty, but so that I can survive to see if things get better.’

Eventually you may grow to resent the process of cooking, opting instead for the quick and painless microwave dinner or similar meal for one, just to avoid being seemingly judged by your saucepans. This in turn may spill over into seeing every aspect of a meal as a failed test of companionship. It never goes quite as far as writing ‘PATHETIC’ in alphabet spaghetti, but I have caught myself staring forlornly at the plate like it’s done me a personal injustice.

The ultimate question is whether any dish, and the preparation thereof is a suitable metaphor for apathy, whatever the cause. Either way, I’m in trouble, as some of my favourite dishes are self-indulgence; macaroni cheese bagels, for example, or peanut-butter beans.2 

The self-scan areas of supermarkets have been a godsend for people like me who have to endure the admonishing gaze of scorn or pity from cashiers. A machine won’t judge me as I zip a microwave meal across it’s laser and straight into an opaque bag, lest anyone see. I make sure to thank the robot for its discretion as I pay. ‘Thank you, Discretion Robot.’ I say. It receives my platitudes coldly, telling me to take my change and sod off.

One of the first signs of madness must surely be personifying inanimate objects, and another still must be the feeling of being negatively judged by them3 but with all things considered, a microwavable dinner for one need not be a metaphor for your failings. You just need to make the meal look more miserable than you.

Macaroni Cheese Bagels

BWAAAAH!


1 I’m making it sound like Twister.

2 A recipe via Musical Adam: for a sublimely self-indulgent meal, thwack a glob of peanut butter in a pan of baked beans and cook. Enjoy this new goop over toast or a hot sausage roll. Add cheese to taste.

3 I assume that these are two signs of madness. I don’t want to look in case the first sign of madness is looking up what the first signs of madness are.

A Callous and Brazen Attempt to Drive Traffic to This Blog

Rated R.
Big time.

I have tried writing proper fiction. I have read about the sort of thing you women like and I have had a go myself, with the apprent-requisite level of contempt that the authors and publishing houses have for their readers. Just call me Stephanie E.L. Shitty Bastard Biscuits. Here goes sod all.

Blanche Canvasse was just an ordinary girl, which was fortunate. She had a relatable fault, such as clumsiness or a weird mole, which, she mused, would probably make it easier for readers in need of some escapism to identify with her. She was also a virgin because apparently that’s important.

Despite there being plenty of penis in whatever town she lived in, most of it attached to men who were sane and healthy, Blanche Canvasse found herself attracted to an unhinged man who lived in the woods/bins/a swanky apartment. His name was Dick Metterfore, and he liked Blanche back for no adequately explained reason.

As soon as she saw him, Blanche’s heart/lady-business erupted in a glut of positive adjectives. She assumed she wouldn’t be good enough for him because a) she was just an ordinary girl and b) because of her relatable fault, but Blanche had forgotten that she was the only woman in the book who had been talked about at all, and thus a relationship of some kind was in the narrative interest.

Blanche wrote in her diary/talked to her subconscious about some necessary inner turmoil she had going on.

‘Dear Diary,’ she wrote, ‘can I just make it absolutely clear now that Dick Metterfore is superlatively excellent in every possible way? I don’t want to have to keep repeating myself over and over and over and over and over again, or else I shall doubtless go a bit insane and compare him to a statue or let him tie me up and abuse me or something. He is dreamy. End of.’

As Blanche closed the diary/repressed her subconscious with her prescribed medication, Dick Metterfore himself showed up unannounced like a sex criminal. Something was in the air. Was it lust? Was it pheromones? Was it carbon monoxide poisoning? Only time would tell.

Dick undressed her with his eyes, but he didn’t have that power, so he did it properly with his hands. Then they had sex. It was moderately okay. Nothing to write home about.1

With a thick wedge of book still in the reader’s right hand, Blanche and Dick had an obligatory wild adventure, during which their love was questioned, tested and pushed to its conceivable limits, and also much sex was had.

Then someone else turned up that demanded both Blanche’s affections and a decent amount of narrative attention. Much jealousy happened and there was some big climactic event and –

You know what? Fuck this. I have some pride.

Normal service will resume forthwith.


1I think this is my favourite paragraph of anything I’ve ever written.