3rd Wave

Mary Whitehouse was a woman who fought against freedom of speech and strove to censor TV and film to keep bad language, violence and sex away from the eyes of the fragile. Conspiracy theorists believe in an elite group of people called the illuminati who rule the world and look after the interests of their own. Psychological Projection is a theory within psychology where people blame others for their failures and fail to discern the true root cause for the issues that deny them agency or perceived liberty. We could sum up this pedantry and paranoia using these words: Micro-Aggressions, Trigger Warnings, Patriarchy, Male Privilege.

Fan Fiction

In February 2013, about 8 months after watching the glory and the disappointment of Prometheus, I decided to write a fan fiction short - about 5,000 words - as an attempt to correct the failings of Ridley Scott's film. After that I wrote a longer story, about 40,000 words, as a sequel to Prometheus. I used the characters: Elizabeth and David (David's head). The story was set on board the ship of a new crew of 'Engineers'. I loved writing this story. A few days after completing it I wrote a sequel to that story and set it about 4 centuries later where the crew of an Earth based ship discover Elizabeth and David on LV426. Elizabeth is pregnant. David receives a new body. Aliens are brought on board the new ship and eventually all hell breaks loose. Unfortunately I didn't complete it before starting university and so ended by writing a short breakdown of the climax. I loved writing this story too. It was about 80,000 words. All together, these two fan fiction stories came to around 130,000 words which is a medium-long novel. I had hoped to write a final story about the arrival on Earth of the Xenomorphs and the destruction they cause. I had touched on this at the beginning of the sequel. Unfortunately this remains as unwritten as the denouement of the sequel. The titles of the stories were The Harvest and Second Harvest. Maybe the final story would've been titled Winter Harvest. It's with regret that I never completed the trilogy. The Xenomorph universe is part of my DNA.

Meme

There's an Internet meme where there is a young lad sat in front of a computer and he's straining like a motherfucker. The subtitles usually read something like 'When you're a vegan/feminist/transsexual and you haven't told anyone for 10 seconds'. I'd like to use this meme and change it to 'When a friend posts a photo of themselves with a new haircut and everyone is complimenting them on their new 'do' and all you want to do is write 'OH MY GOD WHAT NICE FUCKING TITS YOU'VE GOT!'

But I'm a gentleman, so I don't write this.

Beemato

Imogen:               I’m cooking a bermato

Me:                        A what?

Imogen:               Bermato.

Me:                        … do you mean a ‘tomato’?

Imogen:               Beemato

Me:                        No, it’s ‘tomato’.

Imogen:               Beemato.

Me:                        To-mato

Imogen:               Bee-mato

Me:                        To-mato

Imogen:               Beemato

Me:                        ‘To’, say ‘to’.

Imogen:               Beemato.

Me:                        No, say ‘to’.

Imogen:               Beemato.

Me:                        No. Just say ‘to’.

Imogen:               ‘Ber’

Me:                        No, ‘to’.

Imogen:               To

Me:                        Mato

Imogen:               …

Me:                        To--mato

Imogen:               To-beemato

Me:                        Tomato

Imogen:               To-beemato

Me:                        No, just tomato, there’s no ‘bee’ in it.

Imogen:               Beemato

Me:                        To

Imogen:               Bee

Me:                        No, it’s ‘to’. It’s doesn’t even sound like- just say ‘to’

Imogen:               To

Me:                        Mato

Imogen:               I can’t say it.

Me:                        What do you mean? Just say ‘mato’.

Imogen:               Beemato

Me:                        …

Imogen:               …

Me:                        Tomato

Imogen:               Beemato

Me:                        …

Imogen:               Beemato

Me:                        …

Imogen:               Bee-

Me:                        To, just say ‘to’

Imogen:               t-

Me:                        Mato

Imogen:               …

Me:                        just say tomato…

Bemato…

Citroen AX

I liked the Citroen AX as a car and in the early 90s my sister got one. My car was a K series Rover. I really liked that car. My sister's car wasn't the newest but mine was and so, when I was posted to Hong Kong I decided I'd prefer her to drive around in my car than hers, so with the help of my mum & dad paying off the remainder of the loan on it, I gave it to my sister. It was 3 years old. My sister gave my mum & dad £800 for it. It was worth about £3-4,000.

When I came back 4 years later with very little money and needing a car for work, I asked for the car back and I expected her to give it to me for free. After all, she had only paid £800 for it and £800 depreciation on a 3 year old car after four years is nothing. Her husband said they could get £2,500 for it when they trade it in and so they wouldn't give it to me. Basically, our relationship wasn't worth £2,500.

I went out and bought the best car I could get for £1,000. The brakes failed within the first week. My mum & dad again came to the rescue and helped me buy a newer car. 2 years later I traded the car in for what I thought was a better car. A week after that I found out I had been posted to Germany. In Germany you can buy a brand new car tax free for the same money I had bought the car I had just bought. The car i had just bought, although a great car in itself - a 3 year old Audi A4 - had 70,000 miles on it.  Immediately the catalytic converter failed. It cost me £300 to replace it.

I got posted to Germany with a second hand car that I couldn't trade in cost effectively and I had lost my sister.

When I came back I got divorced and lost my kids.

When my dad died 3 years later, although we were united in grief, the relationship with my sister never felt strong.

My sister died last December. I hadn't had a healthy relationship with her for 19 years at that point and hadn't seen her for over 7 years by then. I've just watched a film where an adult family come together for a funeral, and even though their relationships with each other weren't perfect, they had an easiness with each other. They just sat next to each other and talked about things and life and how things were going. It was taken for granted that the peculiarities of each other were accepted and dealt with. No one accepts or deals with my peculiarities in a way that doesn't end conversations with me. What I mean is, when people realise I suffer from what has happened to me in my life, the conversation becomes strained. Their is discomfort in the air.

I just want my family back.

No Title

It was coming up to Easter 2006 and she told me she wanted me to have my children a week earlier, which would mean I wouldn't be able to see my kids for the three weeks after I'd had them. I told them I didn't want that. I was to have my kids over my youngest son's 5th birthday, I had a cake and we were going to have a party at my house. I was going to pick them up on the Friday.

I phoned my kids on the Wednesday but their mum didn't pick up her phone. I phoned her again. And again. And again. And again. Over the course of the next two days I phoned her probably somewhere over 200 times. I continued to call over the weekend until I finally found out on the following Monday that she had taken them on holiday. I missed my week with my kids and my youngest son's birthday.

We had a court hearing already scheduled for the Tuesday so she would no longer be able to mess me around with regards to contact. When we arrived in court she told the court lies about me and I was told I wouldn't be able to see my kids for at least 3 months until the court's family's office could interview me.

3 years later, because of the court's processing system, I lost contact with my kids. It's now been over 10 years since I've seen my kids.

Memories

Some are riddled with cancer.
Some are riddled with memories.
Ninety-five percent of the good memories are the ones that give most pain.
There are bad memories too.
And pain.
Each new memory holds within it an expectation of more pain.
Memories.
Regrets.
Bitterness.
And Pain.

Roam

One step
        A hundred thousand

                          The journey ends

                                          It must always reach its end



                                                              And fall.

An Ode to Aunt May (and Marisa Tomei)

Marisa Tomei
Rhymes with Aunt May.
You're a hot Aunt May,
Marisa Tomei.

Love Was...

Hong Kong.

Have you ever been to Hong Kong? My brother has. He arrived about a week before the wedding…

As we exited the air-conditioned airport I removed my glasses to clean off the fog that had formed. I turned to my brother, “Aircon. The humidity here is ridiculous.”

Hong Kong Fact #1: The Humidity is Ridiculous

We had two stops to make. Our second stop would be The Watering Hole pub in TST, and so we made the hour long journey to deposit his bags in my flat.

Hong Kong Fact #2: You will lose bags while drunk.

I hailed a green taxi. “Tsim Sa Tsoi, mgoi.” I told the driver.

Hong Kong Fact #3: The locals don’t know the abbreviated names you give to their towns so you must learn how to pronounce them:

TST     =>        Tsim Sa Tsoi   =>        Jim Sa Joy

I had told my brother many things about Hong Kong before he arrived, and like any sane person, he hadn’t believed one word I uttered. When you tell someone that people of all ages will expel phlegm regardless of location, be it in a park, on a bus, or in the cinema, the usual response is: stop exaggerating. You have to physically show them the signs in the shopping mall that read No Spitting for them to eye you less suspiciously.

Hong Kong Fact #4: You will see a lot of mucus.

“Can you stop doing that?” My brother asked.

“What?”

“The Hong Kong Fact thing. It’s annoying.” My brother had a short fuse. My fuse was lengthy. It’s a yin and yang thing; which was apt as we were in Hong Kong.

Hong Kong Fact #5: Hong Kong is bizarre and that demands recognition.

But it's the locals. They are what makes Hong Kong so perplexing. Their indifference. Their lack of empathy with other living organisms regardless of its level of sentience. They seem to be knowingly oblivious to the plight of others. Imagine this, your ex-wife (who is your then wife) is pregnant with your first child and duly faints in a busy bus station due to low blood pressure. A few minutes later, she regains consciousness, picks herself up off the floor, and continues on her journey. She picks herself up. The other commuters simply step over her.

That’s one example! I hear you cry. Okay, well, if you hold a door open for someone in Britain, you wouldn’t expect to receive a look as though you were offering them a rat on a stick.

“All Gweilos are rapists.” I announced.

My brother wasn’t amused.

“I was dating a young Chinese girl when I first arrived here. That’s what she told me.”

“They don’t all think that.” My brother informed me.

“So I’m a rapist? I asked her. In Hong Kong, that’s what we say, she said.”

“So this taxi driver thinks we’re rapists?”

“No,” I replied, “he probably just wishes we were dead.”

My brother was having none of it. Part of me felt pity for him for not truly understanding.

“Do you think it’s because we took their country?” he probed.

I pointed out of the window as the taxi began its descent of the mountain, “Look at that…” It’s hard not to smile when you suddenly see the lights of Hong Kong come into view from high altitude. If they could bottle the feeling, they could use it to suspend all arguments globally. “They love blonde hair though, the Chinese. That’s the Peak over there.” I informed him. “The highest point on Hong Kong island. I’ll take you up there. There’s a tram that runs up its side. It’s almost vertical at times.”

He nodded. Seeing this kind of awe on my brother’s face was magical to me.

“But they do like to touch it.”

“Touch what?”

“Blonde hair. They think it brings prosperity or something. Good fortune.”

“What’s that over there?” He asked.

“Erm, that’s the Bank of China building. You can see where they’re building the Exhibition Centre just further forward of it. It’s on reclaimed land that stretches out into the bay.” I pointed at the flashing lights of a Boeing 747 as it was making its final descent into Kai Tak airport. He began to laugh.

“The crazy bastards. It’s lower than the buildings. It’s flying in between…”

Again, it was awe.

“There’s nowhere on the planet like here.”

He nodded.

I waited for the moment to end before redirecting the driver to a new destination – Mong Kok. “It is the most densely populated place on Earth.” I told my brother. “Nine human beings per square metre.”

“That’s not possible.” He corrected me.

See, this is what I mean, there is nothing about Hong Kong that is conceivable. If you want to picture a normal day in Hong Kong, think of the maelstrom of Christmas shopping in a big city. That's a normal day. “They’re all in high rise towers. If they all left home at the same time, they’d be shoulder to shoulder. They save that for Chinese New Year.”

Again he was quiet.

“And don’t apologise when you bump into them. You’re going to bump into them. Endlessly.” When you first arrive, you are in a constant state of apology. This lasts between 7-10 days, about the same length of time as the cold virus. After that you become numb.

But when you were in Hong Kong, you could be that person you were never given permission to be back home. You could be ill-mannered, badly dressed and rude. You could take the last seat – the weary old woman be damned; I will swear as loudly as I like; and if I’m coming through a doorway, you’re getting out of my way. You walk in a straight line through the crowds, the cries of Aya! and Cheesin Gweilo! following you as the locals ricochet off you and into each other, into shop windows or onto the beckoning roads of chaos.

We left the taxi and, avoiding as few locals as possible, headed towards the MTR.

“Smells, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” At last we were in agreement.

“I can’t smell it anymore. It takes about three weeks to get used to it.”

“It’s like something died.” He said.

“Yeah. It’s like decomposition, recycled body odour, grease, the rotten corpses of animals, human waste and potato skins.” For all its failings and putrescence, it is a place I can only ever look on with fondness. It was physically impossible for me to get more than five feet into the market in Yuen Long, but I am glad that smell was so offensive. It gave the place even more character. And on 30^th June 1997 it would all be given back to China. Goodbye to the bilious odour, but also, goodbye to the nightlife, the food, the sunshine, the Kowloon waterfront with its view of Hong Kong island, its mountains, the lights of Central, the Admiralty and Causeway Bay at night… it was breathtaking. Spectacular. Some say weak eyes are fondest of glittering objects, but I would give anything to feel that glow once more.

We forged on through the crowds and I noticed the build-up of sweat causing my brother’s t-shirt to stick to his back as we shimmied under the bamboo scaffolding that clung to the outside of one of the buildings like an intertwined colony of stick insects. “Gets hard to breathe in this heat, right? I’ll be in work a couple of days next week so you’ll be by yourself. If you come down town, just remember these three words for when the hawkers follow you down the road – I live here.” I played the words back in my head: I. Live. Here. Yeah it was three. Phew.

“What do they sell?” He asked.

“Copy watch. Copy suit.”

“Copy suit?”

“Yeah, like Armani, or… Gucci? Do Gucci do suits?”

“The fuck should I know?”

We didn’t know. Maybe we’d never know. I looked up at the scaffolding. “You know, on average a worker a week dies falling from bamboo scaffolding.”

He looked at me. “And that’s funny?”

“No.” I replied, “Well, yes. You have to live here a few weeks to see the humour in it, I suppose.” Basically I was describing the amount of time it takes for your morals to decay like the Chinese teeth of a fifteen year-old girl. It’s the constant attrition. “There’s no Health and Safety here. They don’t care.” I told him. “No one cares. The locals don’t care so we don’t care. They don’t care that we don’t care and we don’t care that they don’t care. No one cares.” He was silent. “It’s liberating.”

When you talk to your friends about the locals, it’s never with adulation or awe, it’s always with disgust and derision. “I saw one defecate by the side of the road. She didn’t even go behind the bushes. She was stood – crouched next to-”

“Thanks.” Maybe I’d said enough. I was bombarding him, but like I’d already said, Hong Kong is bizarre and that demands recognition – Hong Kong Fact #5.

I needed a new way in so that he would see the place I loved through the same contemptable lens from which I saw it. “They spit on you. Well… in front of you. Have you noticed all the fat little boys yet?”

He smiled at this. “Yeah, I did notice that. It must be a genetic thing going back to the times of the dynasties when the emperor would-”

“McDonalds.” He looked at me. “Ronald McDonald. He arrived here in the late 80s and the diet of the little uns went from rice to fries overnight. It’s the only thing in Hong Kong that is disproportionately under-priced. Hong Kong discovered McDonald’s. Or maybe McDonalds discovered Hong Kong.”

“It’s probably genetic.” My brother corrected me. I stayed silent. The contradictions were beginning to irritate me, but it’s how our conversations always went when I was educating him. He’s always been two years older than me, you see? But I let the argument on the cause of Hong Kong’s growing childhood obesity go. I had a surprise for him that I didn’t want to ruin by too much talk around the topic of McDonald’s disproportionate pricing.

As we made our way across the street to the Mong Kok station a teenager on a four year-old’s bike swerved out off the pavement into oncoming traffic as carefree as you like and then swerved back onto the path. Yes, there were horns blown from the cars, but the horns on Hong Kong cars are ever-present. They're connected to the accelerator. And the brake… the indicators, the headlights, the radio dials… they’re basically connected to everything inside the car and so go off incessantly. The noise of Hong Kong is car horn. The smell is rotten potato.

I smiled and looked at my brother. His mouth was agape.

“What the fuck… did you see what that kid just…”

“They’re fucking idiots.” I told him.

Our journey continued.

Oh, but I have to go back to the teenager on a child’s bike anecdote… they all, all of them, from five to ninety-five, ride children’s bikes. Not bikes made for an eleven year-old, or an eight year-old, but bikes made for four year-olds. I don’t know why. I never asked. We just used to watch them ride past. We would watch them. They didn’t even notice us watching them. They didn’t care. They all rode bikes made for little children.

All right, don’t believe me. Whatever.

Now, before I get to the next part of my story, I have to preface it with a boast. In my younger days, I was freakishly strong. I was the strongest person in my school at fourteen when the eldest pupils were as old as seventeen. I had muscles on top of muscles, as my dad would say. My brother was freakishly strong, but, although I was two years younger, I was stronger than he.

Preface ends… please read on…

It was actually my brother who reminded me of this story a few years later. I didn’t remember it when he told me, but it sounds like the kind of thing I’d do to get through the day without resorting to actual murder. I’d warned him about the trains. They just push on. They don’t let you off. They just push on. He told me he hadn’t believed me at the time. Pushing onto a crowded train is counterproductive. No sane person would do that.

“We were getting off the train at that place,” he said.

“Tsim Sa Tsoi.”

“Yeah… I couldn’t believe it. As soon as the doors opened that guy just tried to push past you to get on…”

“Did I push him out of the way?” I asked.

“No. You grabbed him by his upper arms, lifted him up off the ground and walked him back onto the platform. You then placed him to the side and carried on walking. I was in shock.”

We both laughed at that. I don’t remember it, but I really do hope it was true.

The underground exit led us out on to Nathan Road. In the air was the bitey taste of skewered duck, chicken, and meat of no recognisable type. The smoke clouded the air above the rickety looking stalls that lined the pavements and there was the sizzle of fat which complimented the neon buzz of the signs outside the many hundreds of electrical outlets. The signs glowed, but never flashed. Flashing was verboten. The low flying aircraft could mistake them for runway lights and that could be tragic.

So tragic.

We perspired off towards the Watering Hole, or rather, my brother perspired. It was October. The temperature was around 30°C and the humidity was comparatively low. To me, it was bliss.

“Look at that.” I said, pointing.

My brother looked and his mouth opened slightly in preparation to chide me.

But he didn’t say anything. He just looked, trying to work it out and trying to find some words to explain it.

But there were none.

And so he processed it.

He watched as the woman got closer before finally asking: “What’s she doing?”

I responded in my driest of tones: “What’s up… it’s a fifty-five year-old woman on a bicycle made for a four year-old. What’s unusual about that?”

He didn’t appreciate being mocked. “I can see that. Why?!”

She was getting closer. “You should ask her.”

“Would she understand me?” He asked.

“Probably—but she’d pretend not to.”

The woman cycled past us, not a care in the world. “We’re here.” I said and gestured across the other side of the road with an upwards nod. “The Watering Hole.”

The Watering Hole was an Australian pub, but we never held that against them. In there, I had spent many evenings singing along to the jukebox, laughing at the talk of the misfortune of others and destroying my liver with extreme prejudice, and now, as I entered with my brother, I was giddy with excitement.

“I’ll get them in.” My brother announced. It was happening just as I’d planned.

Now, I wanted to warn him. I really did. But I stopped myself. It was going to be fun after all. We’d laugh about it one day. What made this moment even more exhilarating for me was that my brother was also serving in the Royal Air Force. He was based in Germany, and whereas, in England, a pint of lager at that time was about £1.80, in my brother’s squadron bar he would pay around 1DM… 30p.

I took a seat and set my eyeballs to [RECORD] … … …

About five minutes later my brother arrived back at the table. I had enjoyed watching his return as he held the two cold, frosty, welcoming pints in either hand. He looked exsanguinated. Opaque. White and clammy. “Two pints”, he said, “it cost ten quid for two pints.” Now, at the time of writing, I haven’t spoken to my brother for twelve years, but when I look back on that moment, a moment that happened twenty-one years ago, I remember that I loved him deeply. We named our first child after him. When I refer to him now, it’s usually to say, I have a brother, but I don’t talk to him anymore.

Hong Kong Fact #12,762 – Thousands of miles from home, your family may grow used to you not being there…

I smiled. It was a broad smile. The kind of smile that exposes the maximum amount of teeth without causing discomfort.

He stared around the bar looking for answers. “Ten quid.” I didn't tell him I once paid £13 for half a pint. He didn't need to be haunted by such details while still in shock.

I raised my glass and he clinked it instinctively before seating himself. He exhaled. “Cheers.”

I scanned the bar fondly and took a sip of my beer. “Yeah,” I said, “It’s extortionate, it smells, the locals are evil… but there’s nowhere on the planet I’d rather be. Just wish we saw more of each other. Glad you could come.”

“I'm your Best Man.” He replied and smiled, “I had to come.”

I laughed, “You've always been the best man, Michael.”

You Don't Know What You Want

Men want a woman who has the same manly interests as them. But she has to be womanly.
Women want a man who is a man. But he has to be like a woman because feminism. And he has to be sensitive because feminism. But he has to be manly because that's what she wants. But she can't be seen to want what she wants because feminism. And while she has what she has because feminism she is going to want what she isn't allowed to have. And so she is unhappy. But she will then have to blame it on the man because feminism. And the man will be upset that he is being blamed for something he is doing that he feels is right and isn't necessarily wrong but is still frowned upon and ridiculed because feminism. And they will break up and they will start to look for a new relationship only this time they will be more cautious. The woman will have to still look for the impossible man and the man will have to now look for someone he doesn't want but someone who he is told he should want because he wants his relationship to work but it will never work because they are both now looking for something neither of them want because feminism.

'A Mother' - Dubliners by James Joyce

The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase and came to a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr O'Madden Burke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly man who balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silk umbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella upon which he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely respected.

Steady State

Old thought by spectacle replaced.

A hidden sway revealed to play.

In falling night the silver light.

The lies will rise to be reborn.

Cacophonous peace explodes.

Breaks into that single piece.

That dances in cruel beauty.

Soft dissolve into the earth.

As the uninvited guest.

It falls into the sky.

Embrace in dance.

Wrapped within.

Flooding in.

Solitary.

Finally.

Awake.

Oh Cold Cup of Tea

I just wrote this. It didn't take long to write. I was inspired by the cold up of tea next to my computer.

Oh cup of tea,

There are many ways I forget you.

From afar as you sit next to the kettle

The tea bag browns you

It makes you bitter

And I sit, I poured you.

I just forgot.

By my side, your heat is lost,

As I sit, distracted by the world

You cool and stagnate

And I grow thirsty.

In the microwave, you hide

But I put you there to warm

To make you drinkable

Nice testable once more

And I know you want to call to me

But your voice I never hear.

Oh cup of tea

Oh cup of tea of mine

I forget you in so many ways.

Bollocks Pronouns

These #notagirl people... you know if we're all the same, which we are (in rights (in the West)), and if gender is not something that should be focused on, then why does it matter if someone calls them agirl? You can call me agirl if you like. My pronoun is 'zutpaswang'. “Hey, have you seen that nobend, Chris, this morning--- zutpaswang's wearing a purple yellow polka-dotted hat. Zutpaswang looks like a dick.” In 1^st person, my pronoun is wixswath. “Wixswath love the smell of napalm in the morning.” The possessive 2^nd person is xgfyhwd. “Chris looks like something from Alice in Wonderland. We should napalm xgfyhwd hat.”

I think the bollocks in people's heads should be listened to and then ignored. Letting them vent and share their frustrations is good, but it doesn't mean we have to change anything because of them.

The Dating Game

I once started dating this girl - back in the days when I couldn't bake etc - and she said she liked men who knew how to cook. "How hard is it to cook?" she asked, "All you have to do is applying yourself. Practice." I was encouraged by these words. I could cook. "Yeah," I said, "I can cook. It's not hard. You just follow the instructions on the jar."

Year 2 - Semester 1

After the first week of the first semester (the semester in which our results start to mean something) I realised I wasn't going to enjoy two of my three modules. From there things went downhill. I had no motivation. I put little effort into my work and revised very little. I read even less. Most of this, I believe, is due to the fact I worked so hard in Year 1. I finished with a First - and if not a First, a very high 2-1. A low mark in my final essay, an essay into which I put all my energy, really affected me. I felt like there was little point in putting hard work into something if some touchy Irish bint could give me a below par score.

So I struggled. And because I struggles I started to feel low. Because I felt low, I found it hard to revise and do my work. It spiraled forever down. It was only at the last minute that I could find the motivation to complete my work. I simply took quotes from the first page I found or a random page further into the text.

And then, in the penultimate week of the course, I had a meltdown. I was alienated by my peers, but given overwhelming support by one of my tutors and support from another. I was going to leave university, but knew it was impossible to do this. Unfortunately, even though I knew I was going to be lucky to pass my assessments, I knew that if I left university, that meant having to go to the job centre. It was a horrible place to be. I then lost my sister and was called a racist by an ignorant, black lesbian feminist. She ticked all the boxes for minority privilege. Colour, sexuality and gender. She called me racist because she misunderstood a Facebook status about Star Wars.

Christmas was a good one. Imke and Djodi (my niece's mother and my niece) visited. It was nice to be with family and feel loved.

In the New Year, I managed to somehow complete my final assignment. I didn't feel confident. Up until this point I had only found out two results: a disappointing 67% (a high 2-1) and a disappointing 72% (a low First). I could not face finding out my other results.

I knew I would have failed something. I was basically now just waiting for an e-mail confirming this. The stress was increasing, but I was trying to ignore it. And then I received an e-mail. The e-mail contained my results. It was telling me about how to go about preparing for re-sits (in case of fail) and so I knew I'd failed something. And because of this, I opened the e-mail...

I've never got more than 68% for an essay. I saw at the bottom it said 'assessment incomplete'. Fucking brilliant. There it was - I'd got no mark.

I then looked above this and saw the words PASS three times. I had six assessments and so I deduced I had passed three and failed three. But then I saw six different module titles. I was looking at the whole Year's modules. The three passes where in the first semester. Three modules: three passes. I had got 60s and 70s. My average marks were in the 70s. In all three. I had achieved three Firsts. I had achieved 73% on two of my essays. 72% on another. 66 & 67% on two presentations and 70% on a combined practical and essay assessment.

I didn't feel any relief, but I know there must be relief in there somewhere as I felt happier afterwards. I had achieved a First in:

Contemporary Approaches to Writing and Performance - 72%

Literature, Adaptation and the Screen - 70%

Page to Stage: Drama Text in Translation - 71%

From about week 3 I knew that I would get my lowest mark in Lit, Adap., but I didn't think that lowest mark would be a First. And now I can carry on and try to build on an undeserved mark and try to drag it with me to the end of Year 3 and somehow fluke a degree with a First.

This was really badly written.

Minimum Opus

‘Sometimes’, wrote Oscar Wilde, ‘the anticipation of the memorable line exceeds its rendition’.

There is a feeling that comes over me when I know a line is about to emerge. It’s quite similar to the feeling I get when I am doing mental arithmetic and the answer is about to show itself. I ‘feel’ the answer and I say it before I even see the number in my head. The story I am about to tell contains no mathematics, but it does reveal what happens when you add ignorance to self-loathing and multiply it by paranoia. The result:

In November 2014 (or thereabouts) I was chatting quite leisurely with a fellow student on Facebook. University was still new and exciting and there was a presentation coming up for the module Intro to Drama. It was our first presentation and the word ‘presentation’ at this time conveyed all the nuance and terror of the word ‘execution’. We both agreed that the prospect of talking in front of almost ten people whom we both knew was – well it was too much to ask of any mere Northerner let alone mortal and quite frankly the nerves were becoming a distraction. She seemed to be more daunted than I and this calmed me some. I know that I can fake confidence, but inside it still feels like a bag of cats. Still, I attempted to reassure her, but she was having none of it.

'If I get too stressed out during my presentation' she said, 'I'll just start crying'.

-  I felt something witty a-stirring in me noggin -

'Oh, that's not possible for me', I wrote, 'I only ever cry after sex'.

I pressed [ENTER].

Even before I’d written the first word of my reply I had started to giggle. It was that feeling, you see, when you can sense the one-liner coming from somewhere in your brain. I had known before I’d put finger to keyboard there would be 'crying' and self-loathing at its core and two seconds later, my minimum opus was complete. To me – the guy who had written the thing and the person who was now laughing out loud – it was a work of art. It was a DaVinci. A Zinedine Zidane. A Black Forest Gateau of a line.

Good old Facebook. I sat back in my chair, still guffawing and waited for the 'likes' to come flooding in.

I gave myself time to imagine what the next few minutes would hold for me. It was a montage in my mind, like those you get in films; you see the passing of time, the smiles and the laughter, you see the numbers adding up like the spinning wheels of a one-armed bandit.

100s ----

1000s ----

10s of 1000s of 'likes' would be rolling in.

As my laughter settled down I cleared my throat of the mucus that had been dislodged from my airways and smiled broadly. But the smile too started to falter. I realised that the replies of 'lol', 'lmfao', and 'roflmfao' were not coming through. Maybe my computer had had problems sending it. You get that sometimes. You just have to wait. Just wait for a moment or a minute for the, er, for the reply, for the other person/people to, er, to see what- maybe she'd left her keyboard momentarily. Or maybe she’d left it for more than a momentarily to go and make a cup of tea.

But none of her friends were ‘liking’, ‘rofling’ or splitting their hyperbolics either. They must be off-line too. It was the only explanation. No one was responding...

... and then a comment appeared! I eagerly read it expecting some kind of acknowledgment of my comedic genius.

'Dude you're so funny. Can I friend you?' Sure you can friend me.

Of course I'd feel a little awkward if this was the next comment, and I'd probably only 'friend' him temporarily until I got bored of seeing-

But no, they didn't acknowledge my genius, or ask to be my friend. I was shocked. It was some inane nonsense from some 'blah-person' saying about how she was 'sure my friend would do great in her presentation' and 'don't worry yourself, babes'.

For god's- I mean okay, that's fair enough, she probably saw my friend's status and thought she should reassure her. After all, that's what friends do, right...? But 'don't worry yourself, babes'... It was sickening.

No, all I needed to do was to wait. There were plenty of other comments she had to read on the thread before she reached my Rembrandt. She would then chortle heartily, hit 'like', say she wants to go out with me for a few drinks to be wined and dined and then further wined, and that would be that. We can all get on with our lives...

But she didn't. She didn't do any of that stuff. She was silent. It was like she'd just walked away. She'd typed in her reassuring crap and just left me... I mean, I'd given her a minute or two to read the comments above my joke – to read my joke – take a minute or two to control the laughter, compose herself, study my profile to see if I was marriage material and then write me my reply – a reply my wit deserved, by the way – but no… she'd just skedoodled.

But hold on, there was another comment... which completely ignored my joke. 

Followed by a reply to that comment – by my friend!

By my friend.

Ignoring my joke…

Maybe she'd just not seen it. Maybe she'd missed my impish revelry due to her distraction; making a cup of tea or crying or whatever. So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And- I was confused. Why were there no responses or likes to my- and then it hit me - like a bus load of slaps to the face it hit me. I'm 42. My friend is 19. My comment contained the word 'sex'. 'If I get too stressed out during my presentation' she said, 'I'll just start crying', she said. 'Oh, that's not possible for me', I wrote, 'I only ever cry after sex'. What a fucking idiot! They'll all think I'm a fucking paedophile. I'm fucked. I then had the vision; it was her in a classroom in secondary school; the teacher is telling the children how sex predators work. About how they lure the children in and make jokes using the word 'sex' as a punchline to acclimatise the child to the vernacular.

I could see my friend showing her parents the evidence – my joke – and then telling them my age.

I saw her on the phone to the police, her parents in the background with their arms around each other – the mother crying and the father looking like he could murder.

And then I saw myself... as I was at that very moment. A look of trepidation and perturbation and ominous acceptance on my face. That's it. I'm going to jail. I'm not only out of university, but I'm going to jail. On to the register for you mi-laddo. Why were you so stupid?! She's a child. You're 42. The word 'sex' was in the thing you wrote. You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot!

I would go to bed that night knowing it was over. There was going to be a knock at the door in the wee small hours and I would be escorted off my own premises. This was my last night of freedom. My last night in a comfortable bed with my iPad by my bedside and a cool breeze blowing in through the window. I was going to be abused, beaten, belittled and sodomised. The only cool breeze I would feel from now on would be as it whistled up my painfully expanded rectum after conjugal shower time. I would never be able to vote again. I wouldn't be able to enter these United States of America. I would be unhireable for any kind of job above the status of dishwasher, roadsweeper, or bushwhacker. There was no future in my future. It was all going to end tonight. In misunderstanding. In disgrace. Indubitably. I was desolate and disconsolate.

This was the end.

My only friend- the end.

I reached for the mouse to turn off my computer; to shut it down just as I too was to be shut down. My friend's status sat there. Silently. Judging me. Mocking me. Laughing at my downfall. And what was worse, worse than knowing that nothing would ever have meaning for me anymore, that I was now living the life of a soon-to-be penis-receptacle, my joke, my perfect, beautiful joke, it didn't have one fucking 'like'.

Deathbed

I can't wait for my deathbed. Imagine being able to say and do anything you want and know there'll be no consequences for you. The sad thing being that I'll be saying and doing things in an empty room that's been doused with kerosene surrounded by dead people.

Also, there'll be no bed.

14 Months Later

Taking a Risk

Yeah, I'm taking a risk with this post. I don't think it will be seen, but it may be. I don't know yet what I'm going to write, but I know I'm going to try to explain the confusion, pain, shock, complete confusion! and everything else that's going on because of last Tuesday. Frustration is a big part.

Okay, so I was expecting a message from Olivia, one of the girls on my course at University. She was asking advice and help with the first assignment. I helped. We exchanged messages... and then I saw something unexpected. I initially thought it was spam. There was a message in my 'other' box on Facebook. I seemed to remember I'd previously received an e-mail from a woman I didn't know, whom I believe to be trying to scam me. This new message was from a female, two lovely looking women in the profile picture and a name I didn't recognise. Fully. 'Sarah Louise', but the surname was different. I had been in love with a girl named Sarah Louise Renshaw. The only girl I had ever loved. But now, 8 years after she broke up with me to go back to her monster of an ex-husband, she now has a different surname.

I felt immediate pain. She had finished with the man she left me for, then got with another man, married him, then rubbed it in my face by sending me a message.

She told me the baby on my profile picture was adorable and she hoped I was happy.

My reply was both heart felt, but humorless. I didn't want to hear from her again. A new surname. Why hadn't she got back in touch with me when she finished with her husband? This new guy was also from Leigh. My own home town. She had been close to my home, maybe passed by me on numerous occasions to see him.

Even more pain.

But she seemed interested to talk with me. Get to know me better. Find out how I was.

To tell me she was separated. (Single?)

She told me she was a different woman now than when she was with me.

I've heard this before from another woman, whom I'd tried again with. This ended badly.

We chatted a long time and exchanged messages the next day (me starting the exchange... and the next day).

Then she stopped. There was no flow. It wasn't like I messaged her and then there was a chain of replies. A single reply. No questions in it. Not interested. It took two days to reach this point.

That was Thursday. I commented on a status of hers. she didn't 'like' it, or comment on my comment.

Today is Sunday. She's 'liked' a couple of my statuses over the past couple of days. No comments though.

This next comment of mine is going to seem unbelievably stupid, but I just want to give you an idea of the place I'm in with this particular situation. A guy commented on her status. The replies were friendly and a little flirtatious (not overly). He asked to go to Christmas dinner with her (in the context of banter). It could just be banter. She invited him over (though there was an 'lol' in her reply, so she may be playing along with him, or maybe she didn't want to seem too desperate). The guy is about 10 (maybe more) times better looking than me. Looks like he has more money. I have no clue if that's what she wants. Maybe. Maybe not. Many women do.

I replied next. Previous to this, the conversation with others had been lively. But with me, there was no 'like', No comment. Blank.

She finally replied. It was only an hour, but the way I'm thinking about her is making me impatient. Honestly, I feel like shit right now. I had sort of got inured to my life. Then university had given me hope (still has). Then contact with Sarah and I think, 'what's going on? Am I still in love? Do I still want her? Yes! I do... I think. She's beautiful. To me she's beautiful. She's 42 next week. That smile. I loved her and hope I could again.'

But now... well, So, we're going to meet up a week on Thursday. Let's see. Ugh... why is it always so hard? Thank God these moments are only a temporary imposition. I need to just calm the hell down. I know where I am in life.

[I’m writing this 14 months later…]

On the Tuesday (two days before we were to meet up) she sent me a text saying she had started seeing someone else.

Passed Away

Alan Rickman died today. A couple of days ago David Bowie died. Bowie was someone I liked, but wasn't a massive fan of. Alan Rickman's passing has had a big affect on me. Saddened greatly. Philip Seymour Hoffman was a loss. Rik Mayall dying of a heart attack, then Robin Williams committing suicide I felt on an almost personal level as though they were good friends or even family. So much is passing me by. I want to meet these people and work with them. I want to say that they were my friend. I want to hear them say my name and tell me a story. I want to make them laugh and I want to have a drink with them and hear what's troubling them... I want to help them.

Alan Rickman died today, and I wasn't ready for it. It was too soon.

Wave this Way

When my life ended, I found it difficult to live with the pain I was feeling. I went to the doctor very early in my malaise and asked them for help. I would go back very regularly - maybe every month or two - and ask if there was anything they could do. I was desperate. I didn't care that I may be seen as a nuisance, I just wanted a magic drug and even a magic word that would make something click for me so I could carry on without the burden of 'grief without end'. But they could never help me. The tablets they prescribed were no good for me because my problem was not a chemical imbalance, but was something caused by the physical world. It was the immense overload of negative emotions which I could not overcome. It's ten years, later this year, that my life ended and I still need that magic wand to be waved in my direction.

Terminal

Got another appointment with the Breathlessness Department to see what it is that's causing my respiratory ailment. Last month they said I'd be receiving an appointment from the hospital for an chest examination which I still haven't received. I just hope when it's all done I find out I've got terminal cancer so all this fucking pain can be over. I've had enough.

Skin

Just because I'm opinionated, doesn't mean it's okay to call me a cunt.
Just because I speak out against your favourite ideology, doesn't mean I like being called a cunt.
Just because I'm a 40+ white male, doesn't mean I'm okay with being made to feel like a cunt.

Complain about the things I believe in and I'm fine with it.
Make fun of the things I believe in and it'll probably irritate me if I can't speak with you and have the chance of educating you.
Lie about the things I believe in to make your beliefs sound more plausible and it'll piss me off.
Tell other people that I'm something I'm not and I'll find it really difficult to get over it.
Overreact to a lighthearted comment and it'll just confirm to me that things are never going to change for me.

It used to be thick, but now my skin is thin.

Another One

I don't know what it is about what I say, or the way I say things that people so regularly choose to take what I say (or more likely - write) in a bad way. Friends have fun with each other. They tease each other. Not in a nasty way, but in an affectionate way. So why, when I feel I have a friend and I say something playful to them, do they choose to hear what I say as mean?

for god's sake