So, my first post in a while. What’s new? Got a brand new job, back in acting classes (with Shylock currently kicking my ass) and actually having fun with my life for once. Well, besides the joy of a custody battle looming.

It’s Friday night and, as has become the norm, I started the day at work, went home to catch some Z’s and eat (although I missed my AA meeting – two and a half months sober now) before heading out clubbing with my boy Justin. Clubbing sober is a weird yet enlightening experience; it turns out that the alcohol-induced illusion that I’m funny, charming and can dance is bought into by the drunk folk around me when I’m sober. Go figure!

So the plan for the night goes as follows: meet Justin, hit Plush and play wingman while he plays with the boys. If I’m lucky, I’ll meet the girl of my dreams and all will end well. However, I remember Burns saying something about the best laid plans o’ mice and men…

We met at 1:15, with Justin having already encountered his kryptonite: white. Yes, he was unusually drunk but a walk in the fresh air, some water, diet coke and nicotine finally brought him back to life and we were in the club by 1:45.

Let me set the scene at Plush for those who are unfamiliar… as the city’s only gay club it goes without saying that it’s a mixed bag; cheap drinks, great music and all kinds of folk – from the flamboyant to the shy, the single to the taken, the desperate to the needy. Some are there to drink, most are there to fuck, random straight best friends seek each other’s company as their friends pair off. Tonight I joined their ranks.

This is an unusual situation for me to find myself in at Plush. On an ordinary night one of the following three scenarios occurs: 1. We arrive in a group, so Justin does his thing and the rest of us party on. 2. Justin and I pair up as wingmen; if I see a girl I like, he distracts her friends and vice-versa and one (if not both) of us go(es) home happy. 3. We party, dance and smoke while chatting.

Tonight was different; Justin made a beeline for a guy we’d met the previous week, leaving me to fend for myself as I became the object of the affections of a surly-looking middle-aged Italian man whose shirt didn’t fit properly. Soldiering bravely on, I was saved by an invitation to dance with another of those lonely abandoned friends – no exaggeration, the hottest girl in the room – only to find out, unsurprisingly, that she was a lesbian.

Deciding to leave at that point, I reflected on the whole experience. Dancing? Check. Funny? Check. Charming? Not enough to turn a lesbian. Sober? Thankfully.

And Justin? Let’s just say his boytoy may be fifty shades of purple in the morning!

Time for me to go to bed… just another Friday night in the Spires.

This might be the most important blog post of them all, the one all of my friends and family should read if they ever read any of them at all.

After years of suspecting it – and not being the only one, I know my mother had her suspicions – and failing to get a psychiatrist to diagnose it, I took my plight to the internet, found all the tests I needed to take and took them. It’s ‘official’ – I’m autistic. Obviously, it’s not officially official, but then that would require my therapist to actually call me back. His desk must be cluttered as hell with memos to call me by now. Your NHS in action.

Oddly, I’ve been aware that I’ve always seemed a little off both to myself and the people around me for a while and I actually suspected I might be autistic for the first time a while ago. Now that it’s official I feel like it’s okay for me to start to tell people about it. So let’s talk, for the first time, about what being me is really like. Or, as it’ll probably be known, ‘ah, that’s why he does that.’

We’ll put it in list form first and then I’ll explain further. Some things that annoy me:

  • Being touched. Not always, obviously, but being touched without my permission really, really pisses me off. Don’t poke me, don’t prod at me and don’t randomly lean on me. There are literally three people in the world who can get away with randomly leaning on me with me wanting to punch them in the face. Chances are, you aren’t one of them.
  • The phone. I hate the phone. I own one purely so people I like can get in touch with me and I, if I really need to, can get in touch with them. But, if I don’t recognize your number, I won’t answer. I have enough trouble holding a conversation with people I do like. If you think I care about your new brand of double glazing, insurance, or ‘debt-buster’ loans (Can you say ‘oxymoron’?’ then you’re sadly mistaken. But if you’re calling me and you are one of the people I like, I probably just don’t have your number stored. Text me, tell me who you are, and I’ll add you.
  • Conversations. Not all conversations, that’d be quite random. I hate conversations with random strangers. If you’re sat next to me on the bus, I probably don’t know or care about you enough to want to hear all about your charity work. Save it for the grandchildren. At least if they kill you they can claim they were under duress. Also, phone conversations. Ever notice that I sometimes just drift off when you’re talking to me on the phone? You know why I do that? Because you’re either talking to fast for me to follow or my hearing has shut down on me. I’ll explain that in a minute.
  • Being talked at like I’m an idiot. I know that there are times when I don’t seem like the brightest star in the sky. Here’s the deal: I have an IQ of 186. I can follow almost any damn conversation you’re having, I can probably follow it better than you can, and I often resist the urge to correct you. If I’m not joining in, it doesn’t mean that I can’t, it means I’m not interested. I like to give the impression of being of average intelligence. You know why I do that? People take the piss out of smart kids. They don’t respect us, they don’t like us, they don’t want to like us. If I have to restrict my conversations to music, football and women to avoid that, I’ll do it. And it’s only great restraint that stops me from turning around and making you look like an idiot when you talk at me like I am one. So stop it, okay?
  • People moving my shit without telling me. If you move something that belongs to me and don’t tell me you’ve done it, then it largely ceases to exist in my mind. I have to go hunting for it, and that annoys me, because in my mind things are exactly where I left them until I move them or I’m told otherwise. My brain doesn’t totally comprehend the fact that other people move stuff without telling me or asking me. Honest to God, if I leave something somewhere it’s because it’s in the most logical place for me to find it again when I need it. This is particularly annoying when it applies to my coat and shoes. I’m usually trying to leave the house in a hurry. I don’t have ten minutes to piss away looking for things that aren’t where I left them.
  • Being drunk. Yes, this sounds weird, as I drink quite a lot. I really hate it. I enjoy drink, I enjoy most of the social aspects of drinking. I hate being drunk, not being in control. In fact, I know the only reason I drink is because people treat me like I’m weird when I say I just want to drink coke or juice all night. It’s not weird. I just want to control my damn thoughts.
  • Being referred to as ‘weird.’ Here’s the thing, yes, I’m weird. I’m autistic, and that’s definitely not normal. Ergo, I’m weird. Yes, I have a ‘freaky’ ability to memorize facts and figures and I know more trivia than any human being ever should. You’ll find most autistic people are the same. Try me at a pub quiz: I’ll slap you around like a two-dollar whore if I have to. It’s oddly useful for things like that.
  • Being referred to as shy. Okay, this is the last and least annoying thing I can think of at the moment. Yes, I’m shy. Autism, it’s kind of conducive to that. I’ll explain why in a second.
So, what does me being autistic mean to you as one of my friends or relatives? It means that now I’ve told you, you’ll notice the following behaviours probably a damn sight more than you already did:
  • When I’m not engaged in conversation and there’s music playing, I’ll drum along with my fingers. I used to think this was ADD. It isn’t. It’s my brain keeping itself occupied. It’s probably annoying, but that’s the way it goes.
  • I get obsessive about things. I know people notice this. I can get really obsessive about a band, a song, music in general, a film, a TV show, a book or any one of about four sports. Think about it, you must have noticed.
  • I make lots of lists. Reams and reams of lists. Lists about things, lists about nothing. Lists of lists. To-do lists. I like lists. They organize some chaos. Even if I may seem disorganized.
  • I have a really short temper. I know people who know me are aware that I’m a nice guy. I’m kind, I’m caring, I’m the kind of guy people are supposed to be. Or so I hear. Be aware, though, that making me angry really can lead very quickly to be snapping. I can control it to the point where I just go quiet and seethe for a while. If you continue annoying me, I can get violent. And I can’t control myself so well when I do. I’m also pretty strong. That’s not a good combination.
  • I don’t do eye contact. Think about it. Have I ever looked you square in the eye and held your gaze the way regular people do? I’ll bet I haven’t. You know why? I hate doing it so much that it actually makes me cry. I’ve forced myself before and it’s honestly the most uncomfortable thing imaginable. It’s torture. If I don’t look you in the eye when I’m talking to you, it’s not because I’m being disingenuous. It’s because doing it makes me crazy.
  • I’m shy. This tags on to the above. I can’t talk to people I don’t know. Or, I can. I can force myself to if I really, really have to. I can do it to be polite. I’m not comfortable doing it.
  • I get really uncomfortable around women (until I know them.) Ever notice that I’ve been single for four years? Ever wonder why that is? Okay, it’s probably partially because I’m overweight and hideously ugly. But here’s the thing: Women – I don’t understand you. You’re complex. I can’t get a generic read on you the way I can on a guy. You’ll notice that sometimes I’ll treat women I have to see regularly (new colleagues, for example) like they’re guys. And I know that’s kind of a dick move. It’s the only way I can process you, so please don’t be offended. See, guys are easy: You drink beer, talk sports or movies and take the piss out of each other. That’s literally all it takes for two guys to become friends. With girls, there’s this whole body language thing, potential flirting, depth of intelligence. Feelings.
  • I have trust issues. I can count the people I trust one hand. And it’s probably a lot fewer people than I should trust. I work from the stuff I learn, from past information, and I hold on to that. If someone breaks my trust, they can’t regain it very easily. If someone repeatedly breaks my trust, they won’t regain it ever. Sounds normal, right. Let’s go beyond that: If I can’t trust you, I can’t trust people I mentally associate with you. And that causes problems. Case in point, Mel, my ex, destroyed my trust in all women completely. Especially northern girls. I genuinely make an effort to keep them at arm’s length, because I associate them with Mel.
  • I can’t read you. Ever notice that sometimes I can push a joke so far that it upsets people? Maybe I don’t notice that you’re upset or angry and make things worse or don’t make the effort to make things better. That’s because I can’t read people. If I upset you, you have to tell me that I’m upsetting you. I really can’t figure that out for myself.
  • I organize the small stuff. Two things I hate: Spontaneity and little, easily fixed things being out-of-order. Ever notice that before I hand over change down the pub I’ll organize it into a pile according to size? I can’t do a handful of change. It annoys me. And spontaneity is just the bane of my life. Why can’t you people plan shit in advance like regular folk? Random nights out can be really scary for me. Especially if I end up in an environment I don’t know.
  • I sometimes don’t recognize people. If I haven’t seen you in a while, there’s a very big chance I’m not going to recognize you when I pass you on the street. I’m not ‘blanking’ you. I’m bad at remembering faces I don’t see regularly. Honestly, there are people on my Facebook that I see around from time to time that I can’t remember the name of when they’re in front of me. It’s really not personal. There are people who play my quiz every week who I don’t know by name, and I’ve been introduced to most of them by now.
  • Sometimes I self-harm. Not, like, cutting myself. I tend to avoid that. It’s not very sanitary and I have enough ugly scars. But if I do something to disappoint myself, I will hit myself for it. Actually, Mel was the last person to witness this. She used to routinely and deliberately make me feel like a piece of shit, and I’d literally beat myself up about it. By which I mean get really violent towards myself. I’ve punched myself in the head more times than other people have. Fact.
  • I don’t communicate very well. Sometimes I cannot articulate the everyday thoughts in my head. Other times, I have the most ridiculously expansive vocabulary imaginable. I find it easier to communicate my thoughts in writing, where I can think about them, than I ever will when speaking. And yes, sometimes I say horribly insensitive things or tread on a conversation. Sometimes I repeat myself. Sometimes I just cannot talk coherently. I cannot help this. I’d love it if I could. Just bear with me, alright?
  • My behaviour is repetitive. The things I eat when I’m not at home (or at home, if I make them myself) tend to contain at least one of the following ingredients: chicken, bacon, cheese, mushrooms, potatoes, rice or pasta. Eating a burger or steak for me is actually like leaving the reservation entirely. Eating things that exclude all of those ingredients upsets me. It’s entirely alien. Yes, it might sound like a limited diet. I really don’t care. These are the things I eat. Love it or leave it.
  • I can’t process time. I genuinely have very little concept of time. You’ll notice I’m regularly late for things. This isn’t helped by problems with my perception. When I arrive at a bus stop, I expect there to be a bus there. There often isn’t. This is frustrating for me.
  • I’m emotionally underdeveloped. Seriously. I know I give the impression of being mature, and seem normal enough. It’s a rouse. It’s really, really easy to upset me. I genuinely can’t tell the difference at times between people being nice to me, people being horrible to me and banter. I’m actually not sure who among my friends likes me and who doesn’t. Sounds weird, right? Not to me. I can take a lot of being upset and hide it until I get home, but I do regularly cry when you can’t see me. If it gets too much and I’m in public, it’s not uncommon for me to hit the gents and weep a bit of it out. I don’t care how masculine that is. It’s how I function. Get over it.

I also have some sensitivity problems. They’re complex, so try to keep up:

Sound: I hear things that some people wouldn’t and can identify differences in similar sounds better than most. I can tell you, just by listening, whose car just drove down my street if they live there. I can tell you when my granddad is home when he pulls up at the garage because I can hear his car. Some noises are physically painful to me. Anything sharp is like a knife in my face. White noise feels like sawing, which is why I always have the TV or music on, even when I’m going to sleep. On the reverse, I can easily lose the ability to hear people talking. By which I mean I can be having a conversation with you in, say, a cafe and be able to hear every other noise that’s going on except you talking. I’m not ignoring you. It’s just how it works. Luckily, I know when it’s happening and can lip read. Which is why I’m easier to talk to in person than on the phone. I can’t lip read over the phone. Also, sometimes I’ll have the TV louder than I should. It just sounds quiet to me. I’m sorry.

Vision: I’m really under-sensitive to light. Rooms seem darker to me than they are. I hate winter for this reason; there’s not enough light for me to see what I’m doing, which means I must have lights on. That probably annoys people. I don’t like not being able to see anymore than you don’t like me having the light on so I can. We can’t both win here.

Touch: When I’m touched without permission, it scares the crap out of me and feels like I’m under attack. People like to poke at me. This feels like I’m being stabbed. Please don’t do that. I hate fluffy things. They’re ticklish as hell. I hate being hot. In fact, I hate being warm. I keep my bedroom as cold as I can for exactly this reason.

So, with that in mind, hopefully I’ll now be easier for you to deal with. If there’s anything I’ve missed, ask me about it. And yes, you may not have noticed some of these things. I’ve worked really, really hard at learning to hide them. The one benefit I gained from those kids who liked to take the piss out of me at school.

I’m still learning to be human and, one day, I hope I can be like the rest of you. If I fail, just try to bear with me. Or, y’know, try to help. Either one is cool.

This ends my confession. Thanks for giving it a look. And, maybe, understanding.

Here’s a hypothetical/philosophical question: If you’re crying out for help and nobody gives a fuck, do you really need help?

Yes, you’ll have noticed I didn’t start this post with a picture, which is usually a sign that I’ve no intention of this being a happy, fuzzy blog post. This isn’t the ‘Angry Comedian’ that you’ll usually find upon visiting my page. There’s no political commentary here, no social satire. It’s time for me to get real. Very real. Read on at your peril.

Around two weeks ago my eternal depression once again overcame my enduring sadomasochistic love of being tortured by life and I decided to kill myself. In fact, not that anyone noticed or cared enough to try to stop me, I actually attempted it. To explain why I got that far down, it’s time for me to reach deep down inside my soul, to seek catharsis and, since the powers that be apparently don’t believe I need psychiatric help, I thought I’d take advantage of having a blog to pour my darkest, innermost feelings onto the internet.

Why? In theory, it’s a permanent record of exactly what’s been going on inside my head for the past twenty-six years, one month and twenty-nine days. A permanent record so that, just in case I do eventually just think ‘fuck it’ and dive in front of a train, my friends, family and anyone curious can find out exactly what took me to that decision. So let’s go back to the beginning…

When I was a child, I was equally cursed and blessed. I had a clear idea of what I wanted to do with my life; I knew that I wanted to grow up, get married and raise a family. If you’d asked me what I wanted to do for a living when I was a child, I’d probably have told you that I wanted to play football or entertain people and I was lucky enough that I had some semblance of talent in both fields. Yes, I could play football, but I was also a talented writer, a decent actor and (as you might expect) the class clown.

However, it was in these formative years that perhaps the most telling sequence of events in my life occurred.; when I was two, I burned my arm, permanently scarring it. At four or five, I cracked my head open, leaving my head permanently scarred, too. When I was six, I killed my brother.

Okay, I understand that some will read that and immediately think ‘what the fuck?’ so let me explain: I came home from school late one day to find my mother, pregnant with my brother, doubled over in pain. She had septicemia. I panicked, I wasted time, I didn’t know what to do. Eventually I managed to get help, but it was too late – he was gone. Some may say it’s irrational, but they’re wrong: I’m entirely to blame. If I’d not been so late home, if I’d not panicked, I could’ve done something about it. I could’ve saved him. And I didn’t, which will haunt me forever. I can never forgive myself for that.

For a few years in my tweens, I managed to be ‘normal’ for a while. I was never ‘unhappy’ at that point; I had a ‘girlfriend’ that I’d have sworn blind that I loved and a large group of friends. By the time I hit secondary school, however, my life had completely disintegrated. Within weeks of starting, I was knocked off my bike whilst cycling home from school. The accident left me with yet more permanent facial scarring and by missing so much school whilst I recovered, I became almost entirely ostracized from my peers. I was, at best, a social leper.

As I slowly rifted to the fringes of the social circles at school, I began to become more and more depressed. It was the first time I’d battled the disease and it hit me like a juggernaut. When I was fourteen years old, I made the first of many suicide attempts as I tried to strangle myself with my school tie. I can;t even remember for sure what triggered it; life, as usual, had just piled on top of me. It was this event that finally persuaded someone that I needed help, ad I was taken to see my first psychiatrist.

The psychiatrist whilst nice enough, apparently had just fallen off the back of a turnip truck. Having asked such probing questions as ‘would you like to draw something?’ she decided that I wasn’t depressed, I just had learning difficulties. ADHD, apparently, is a common cause of suicidal urges. Yes, that’s sarcasm. Over the years since, I’ve been diagnosed with a litany of other problems: dyslexia, autism and borderline personality disorder are just a few. But I was about sixteen before anyone ever mentioned ‘depression’ as being something with which I was struggling.

Incidentally, it was when I was sixteen that i made yet another mistake I’ve always struggled to forgive myself for. A group of friends and I had picked up a ‘hobby’ of stealing from the local shops for ‘fun.’ I have no idea what possessed us, or why we thought this might be a good idea, but it became something I was quite good at. Until I got caught. Whilst working in the local newsagent, I thought that maybe I could get away with stealing cigarettes. I’d been smoking for some time by then, but it was hard to afford such a habit when you only earned £3.04 an hour. So I stole some. To this very day, I can’t justify it. I’ll always carry the guilt of having done it. I was recently – twice in the space of a week, actually – accused of stealing from both of my places of employment and it was probably the most upsetting accusation I’ve ever been faced with. Apart from one. We’ll get to that shortly.

After I finished school at sixteen, I decided to stay on for Sixth Form. The dream was that I might become the first person in my family ever to go to university. Instead, what I became was the first person in my family to piss away an opportunity because I really enjoyed messing around and smoking weed all day. I failed my first year of Sixth Form when I should’ve picked up straight As in my A-Levels. And this came after I’d already messed up my GCSEs for the same reason.

So I went to college; sure, having been knocked back one I redoubled my efforts, determined to make something of myself. And, eventually, I made it out alive. With an AS Level in English and Two Es at A2 in Media and Film. Yes, all that redoubling of effort for two poxy Es. My mistake that time? Too much time focusing on other things; I served on the college Student Union, working my way up from Secretary to President in the space of a year. I worked three jobs, too: One in a TV studio, to behind bars. But you know what the worst thing was? That pesky Mary-Jane following me around. Still, I made it to university. Just.

I arrived in Middlesbrough in September 2004 and immediately regretted it. It was 300 miles from home, every talked funny and it was cold as hell. Not only had I turned down offers from the University of East Anglia in Cambridge and Kingston University in London, both closer to home, but I’d also failed to pursue provisional offers from several universities I’d applied to in the US on the grounds that I could never have afforded to go. In a rare moment of lucidity, I’d taken the SAT exam online and scored a 1560 – good enough for just about any university you can imagine. Ironically, I’d later become so depressed in Middlesbrough that I applied to several more US universities and was offered a scholarship to Emory.  Again, I managed to reason myself out of it.

Backtracking a little here; the summer between college and university I’d moved to Trowbridge in Wiltshire to pursue the possibility of making a living as a professional wrestler. I worked in a bed factory, loading mattresses into trucks at night and trained on the weekends. It was whilst there that I made the biggest (and longest-running) mistake of my life. In a movie, they’d call this part “enter ‘the girl.’”

Mel and I were always destined to be trouble for ourselves and each other. Two people in unfamiliar surroundings, lonely despite being surrounded by people and, it could be argued, mentally unstable. We both had a need to be cared for and, as time progressed, we ended up caring for each other. Then we ended up sleeping together, she got pregnant, I dropped out of university and we got engaged and moved in together. Our daughter, Chloe, was born nine months later. January 19th 2006.

In the short time we’d been together, Mel had already cheated n me half a dozen times but, out of some sense of old-fashioned loyalty, I’d stuck with her for Chloe’s sake. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t destroyed me inside. My spirit was crushed, my soul destroyed, any dreams I might have had of happiness became a distant memory. But I stuck with it, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Four months later, Mel became pregnant again with our son, Taz. Again, she’d cheated on me during the pregnancy, her moods became erratic and, it’s safe to say, there were days when we hated each other.

Taz was born on February 13th 2007. It should’ve been the greatest day of my life: I had – on paper – everything I’d ever wanted: Two kids and a partner – a family. In reality, what I had was a nightmare. I was twenty-two years old, engaged to a woman who didn’t want anything to do with me, a father-of-two with no stable income and no self-respect. To make matters worse, I was basically enslaved; I’d become the figurehead of a company that Mel had set-up, run badly and been too afraid to take responsibility for her mistakes. Her own personal, convenient scapegoat. A role she still makes me play to this day by trying desperately to distance her company from me.

Her final betrayal came on August 21st 2007. Yes, I remember the exact date. We’d argued, I’d gone to take a bath and calm down. Whilst I was in there, she called the police and told them I’d hit her. She actually lied and told them that I’d hit her. Within minutes, I was ripped away from my life, from my family, my belongings and thrown into a cell at Blackpool Police Station, falsely accused, unable to defend myself and treated like shit. I’d been assaulted by one of the officers that processed the arrest in the process and never saw justice for that; the resulting shoulder injury hasn’t healed to this day.

The following morning I woke up to a cold cup of tea to face a magistrates court, accused of domestic violence. In my entire life, I have never domestically abused anyone.  I openly admit that I got physically aggressive with Mel once, an act in which I was completely justified because she was trying to kill me at the time. I was tried by the magistrate on the basis of a prosecution statement entirely fabricated at some point over night and given a choice that was put t me as follows: I could plead ‘not guilty,’ be banned from going home and have to return for a trial… or I could take a ‘guilty’ plea, go home and be with my kids. So I did what I was asked; I took the hit of a criminal charge for a crime I didn’t commit for my family. But Mel wasn’t done kicking me in the balls quite yet. Why?

Enter Jim: The boy Mel had been seeing behind my back, who had mysteriously appeared and moved in with my kids, my family overnight and is still with them to this day. In just over ten hours, he’d gone from being some friend I was vaguely aware of to stealing my entire life from me, to essentially kidnapping my children. To destroying my life. The two of them, who I can honestly say I will always hate more than words can ever describe, had colluded to take everything I had in the world, set it alight and throw it in my face. n the (nearly) four years since that happened, I’ve been allowed to spend exactly nine days with my children. I miss them every day, and being apart from them is the most painful thing you can possibly imagine.

So there I was: homeless, jobless, penniless and stranded. Once again the dark mists descended on me – the police took me into custody yet again to stop me harming myself, to stop me throwing myself off the end of the pier, never to be seen again. At some stage I got in touch with my family, managed to persuade them to come and rescue me from the nightmare. Little did I know that it was only the start.

Ever since that day, I’ve been back in Oxford. My physical condition degenerating by the day. I struggle to find work, debts mount up, usually unpaid, from my student days and I spend every day hiding from life in my room at my grandparents house, afraid to go out for too long to face the world, knowing that I can never again trust anybody that I meet. I have friends and family that I can’t trust because my brain won’t let me, because I don’t know who the next person to stab me in the back will be. I’m terrified of answering the phone and opening my mail because I know it’s a demand for money I don’t have, and probably never will.

I live my life in a dark world, a terrifying, lonely world that I’ll never be able to escape from, never be able to change. Every day, the dark clouds over my head descend closer, waiting to swallow me whole. Every night I cry myself to sleep and every morning I wake up wishing I hadn’t. I wake up living in fear of facing the day. And when I dream, I dream only of the sweet release of death.

I can only hope that release comes sooner, rather than later. Because when everything in my life has already gone so horribly wrong, why should I carry on? This blinking cursor on my computer screen is, at times, my most loyal friend. The only conduit through which I can express myself and those thoughts inside my head.

Even though you could argue that I desperately need for someone to read, to understand, to empathise and maybe to provide comfort, I know it’ll never come. I know that nobody is listening, that nobody cares, and that nobody ever will.

If you’re reading this, please pray that I die tonight, It’s the only act of mercy I have left to ask for.

Kx

Even though, oddly, I’ve come to love blogging it always seems that this blog of my random thoughts goes by the wayside in favour of other pursuits. What other pursuits? Well, with the downswing in real work of late, those have mainly involved focusing on my writing of everything but my blog. I’ve started to write reviews for a local music magazine, OMS, and I’ve been putting a lot of energy into my screenwriting, though it’s currently getting me nowhere.

I guess I should do my usual thing of looking back on events since my last post. Let’s see…

Oh, right. Bin Laden. Yeah, apparently the Americans got him. I mean, they haven’t got a body to produce, nor pictures of him (the one above is fake) either before or after they allegedly shot him. Oh, and it came at a startlingly convenient time, just as Trump was starting to mount his campaign against Obama. But it’s okay, because Bin Laden is dead. Really. *wink, wink*

I’m not saying I’m not happy about it if Bin Laden really is dead – the guy is/was a monster – I’m just saying show us some proof. The public can handle pictures of him shot to pieces. Really. I mean, we’re talking about people who enjoy Keeping Up With The Kardashians, so it’s about time we showed them that something – anything – in life isn’t fake.

There was a Royal Wedding, too. Wills and Kate finally got married. Yay for our (maybe) future king. Here’s the deal: I like Wills. I’m not a royalist by any means, but the guy seems like a solid, down to Earth guy. With a shitload of money. Yes, I’m a little pissed off that I had to pay for the multi-millionaire’s multi-million pound wedding but, you know what? I’ll let him off. Why? Two reasons:

1. Kate Middleton. Or Princess Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge as we’re now supposed to call her, is a stone fox. With just two words – “I will” – she immediately took Zara’s place as the fittest member of the Royal family ever. The second reason?

Pippa Middleton’s arse. Seriously, though Kate is a beautiful lady in her own right, it was Pippa who stole the show on the day. And not just because of her tremendous, perfectly-formed arse in that tight-fitting dress. but because she’s arguably the best looking of the two sisters. But if Harry taps that before I do, I’m officially a republican.

Oh, the other thing grinding my gears?

Gerry and Kate McCann. These two shameless media whores have been polluting the daily papers every day for the last week, and on a regular basis since they killed their daughter Madeline five years ago. Yes, you read that right. You see, they refuse to admit it, but there seems to be a lot of evidence to support it. Her blood was found in the boot of their car, for fuck’s sake. You’re telling me she skinned her knee so they loaded her up in the boot? Bullshit.

Kate, Gerry… Just confess. Then get the fuck out of my daily newspapers. And even if you didn’t do it, the shit you do admit to amounts to child abandonment you evil, evil twats.

Yeah, I’m going to stop there. A short one at just over six-hundred words. Grab your copy of OMS this month to read my reviews of The Original Rabbit Foot Spasm Band and Katy B. Oh, and if screenwriting is something that interests you, haul your arse over to my new blog, Failing Writer, and bookmark that bad boy. Or subscribe in the same way you should’ve done to this one.

Until next time,

Peace x

It just occurred to me that I haven’t updated my blog since Christmas, despite my intention for this to be my regular way of venting my angriest thoughts and feelings and generally offering my commentary on world events. And holy shit, what a few months it’s been. Last time I wrote, I was merely looking forward to a decent Christmas with the family and hoping that 2011 would suck much, much less than 2010 did. And it has… for me.

DO NOT piss her off.

Is it just me, or has the world gone MENTAL? Mother Nature appears to be PMSing over something; that or she’s just REALLY pissed off with the Pacific region right now. I mean, first she destroys a massive chunk of New Zealand then this tsunami has killed thousands in Japan. What the hell did you guys do, forget her birthday? Sleep with her sister? God damn.

On a serious note, both disasters are massive tragedies and I ask that all reading keep those guys in their prayers. And, if you’re feeling generous enough to help, click the logo below to find out how you can donate.

British Red Cross

Follow the links to donate, every penny helps.

The entire Middle East appears to have imploded on us, too. Egypt, Jordan, Libya… Wow, Libya. Khaddafi has gone batshit, hasn’t he? Jeez. He’s like Chemical Ali’s very own Denis Leary right now. “We are not under attack.” Well, shit, I’m looking at CNN right now and either you’re celebrating the 4th of July early this year or some motherfucker is trying to kill you. Hell, I’ve seen four world leaders on the TV telling me that they’re trying to kill you, dude. I’d take the hint and get the fuck outta Dodge. Hell, you’ll probably get a council house and benefits if you can sneak into the UK in the back of a truck unnoticed. I know it’s not the billions of dollars you’ve been saving up for your retirement, but it’s probably better than, y’know, dead.

Col. Khaddafi

God damn, Khaddafi is nutty as shit. Look out for Khaddafi: The Movie (starring Mickey Rourke) at a theatre near you. Soon.

Actually, as much as I’m against paying for a genocidal maniac to live forever on my tab, it’d be funny as hell to watch our Fuhrer David Cameron giving the budget speech only for Khaddafi  to sneak on up behind him and tap him on the shoulder.

All joking aside, I’m glad Cameron has grown a pair and it’s us leading the charge to get rid of this lunatic – he didn’t even wait for Team America to decide if there was enough oil to make it worth them going in before we had Tornadoes all up in Tripoli’s bidness.

I suppose I should stop talking about the shit you see on the news all day and actually write something original and a little bit personal on this thing, otherwise it’s no more interesting than watching a Traci Lords film where she doesn’t get her tits out. God, she’s a shitty actress.

Yes, the Traci Lords reference was little more than an excuse to post a picture of her. Done.

Actually, before I get onto the personal stuff, I have two words that’ll probably become an expansive gush: Charlie fucking Sheen. Charlie “Motherfucking” Sheen. I love that man. He’s gone crazy as a tree rapist and it’s the most entertaining thing any celebrity has ever done. He truly is winning, and if tiger blood is what he’s on, someone sign me up. Where do I get that shit from?

The Sheen

Charlie "Motherfucking" Sheen. What a hero.

This is a fly-on-the-wall documentary that desperately need to happen. He’s making The Hoff look like a beacon of sanity.

Anyway, what have I been up to in the last few months? Nothing much, I suppose: Work, sleep, eat, shit. I mean, there’s other stuff in there, like drinking and showering, but that’s how nondescript my life has become of late. I finally heard back on the Holland Park script from the BBC – probably the most glowing rejection of all time. Apparently I’m ‘brilliant’ and ‘skillful’ but they don’t want to develop me further. What the cock is that shit? And yes, I did just quote Sarah Silverman. It’s because she’s both funny and hot. And gives me a reason to post a gratuitous photo of her.

Sarah Silverman

Kimmel, you bastard.

So, onwards and upwards and I’m trying again to put my scripts out to the masses. I currently have a few works in progress; an as-yet-untitled coming of age movie about three trailer park kids set against the backdrop of the early 70s music scene. My cinematic versions of The Ramones, Ray Charles and Berry Gordy Jr. all feature along the way, as well as a wonderful scene I’m working on set at the world famous CBGB’s club in New York.

The Ramones fucking rock.

Also on my slate, my first run at writing horror sees me working on The Surgeon. Yes, it’s a teens in trouble story set in some woods and an old hospital. Not the most original premise, but hopefully I’ll be able to do something interesting with it.

The next – and most likely – production on my slate is a web series, Housemates (Working title), which I’m hopefully going to be working on with one of my favourite people in the world, Bayram. We only discussed the project for the first time the other night, but she’s in so far. If I can get the other three people I want to sign up, the show’ll be one to watch. The premise? Five strangers are forced to live together by their Social Anthropology professor. Living together for three years is the only way to pass the course, but how will they cope with their circumstances?

If it comes together as fast as I hope, we might be on YouTube in a matter of weeks. I’ll keep you posted.

Fuckin' A, that's K-Smith

Fuckin' A - click this bad boy.

Finally, a bit of pimping for another blog – One of my favourite screenwriters and directors of all time, Kevin Smith, just posted a sneak peek at the script for his upcoming flick, Hit Somebody, over at Silent Bob Speaks. I know he cops a lot of shit for being a purveyor of dick jokes, but this is actually some of the most beautiful writing I’ve seen in some time. And it’s written for John Goodman.

And, as we all know, John Goodman is the fucking man.

Yes, this is John Goodman. If you don't hit a big "we're not worthy" right now, you fail at life.

Until next time, I’ve been your Angry Comedian.

Christmas Tree

Different people have different benchmarks for what makes Christmas ‘begin’ for them. For some, it’s the decorating of the tree, for others it’s the first Christmas card. When I was a kid (and even now) it was only officially Christmas when I first saw the Coca-Cola ad on TV, which just goes to demonstrate what a corporate whore I really am. Except, this year, that all changed because I saw the damn advert in OCTOBER. Damn youse Coca-Cola. Damn youse all to hell.

Santa + Coke = Child molestation. Fact.

As a result of this, I needed a new benchmark for the beginning of Christmas because I absolutely refuse to believe it begins in October. Yesterday I had the misfortune of visiting the Vodafone store in Oxford to witness the arrival of my very first slice of Christmas crazy: A member of the tinfoil hat brigade was in there complaining that his phone was ‘echoing.’ Despite being told that it was just his phone feeding back on itself, he proceeded to weave this elaborate story about how it was only on a few numbers and one of those guys had told him it meant his phone was being bugged by MI5. I shit you not.

It wasn't this guy. That'd be epic.

This, naturally, led to the standard nutbar meandering bullshit about how it was an infringement of his rights and that he wants to change his number so they can’t do it and ‘could they have bugged his phone?’

I couldn’t help wondering as Crazy McNutterface rambled on at the top of his voice… that, if you have nothing to hide, why the hell would you care? If David Cameron and his assembly of idiots want to know the exciting inner workings of this guy’s mind, he’s either up to some seriously illegal shit… or they’re too cheap to hire a DJ for the Christmas party, so this guy is unwittingly becoming the entertainment.

It’s safe to say, though, that the coup de grace was when he turned to everyone else in the line and said ‘they’re bugging my phone, they could be bugging yours too!’

You mean to say that, somewhere out there, there’s a government agency that wants to listen to my phone calls? Can I get their number? Maybe we can do a deal, because I don’t want to listen to most of my phone calls, so maybe they can just answer my phone and provide me with the highlights of my day:

“Well, you had a call from a debt collector, you owe them twenty quid.”

“Okay”

“Your mother called, asked if you’ve remembered your Nan’s birthday?”

“Right”

“Oh, and some girl… Gemma, was it? She called to ask about Friday.”

“Did she say what she was wearing?”

“No, but she left a phone number.”

“Great.”

See, that’s a government agency I’m behind. The ministry of call screening. They’d have special powers to raid and brutally torture cold callers who try to sell me shit I don’t need. It’d be a little rough on the PR front at first, but people would get used to it. And I’d stop getting calls on my mobile from morons trying to sell me mobiles.

“Hi, do you have a mobile phone?”

“No, please tell me more. But first, look at your screen. What number have you dialled?”

“077749… Oh.”

“Yeah. How’s about you check that next time you ask a stupid question?”

Okay, I’ve descended into crazy anarchistic ranting again. It’s the season. Christmas crazy: The new benchmark for the beginning of Christmas.

If I don’t get a chance to update before, have a good’un. Merry Christmukkah to one and all.

So… blogging. How 21st century of me. Let’s spread some hate. I actually kinda hate blogging already. It appears to be all ‘widgets’ and ‘themes’ and ‘templates’ and shit. Look, call me crazy, but I just want to write some shit on the internet, I don’t want to reprogram the international fucking space station. I‘m blogging because life is shit and I’m fairly sure the few remaining friends I have are sick of seeing status updates on Facebook like ‘Kriss wishes he could swallow a shotgun loaded with napalm, pull the trigger and swallow the lot like a tuppenny hooker.’ But apparently the ‘blogsphere’ embraces crazies like me like a crazy on ecstasy.

Here’s the deal with me folks, something you should all know: Despite being a comedian I struggle with depression. Let’s take a moment to embrace that irony: The man whose job it is to make people and happy and get them laughing has been neither happy or laughing in the last ten years or so. Tears of a clown? Don’t give me that bullshit, start quoting Motown-inspired platitudes in my general direction. Here’s the deal, kids, my mantra: Life is shit. Get over it.

Actually, blogging has a use. It means I can essentially do a gig every week without leaving the house, which means I don’t have to go near people. Be clear, folks, that I hate people. I’m not sure why I’m not the only one on this planet but, I guess, if I was I’d be fucked. Well, I wouldn’t be fucked (nothing new there) but I’d definitely be struggling. I have all the ability to farm and provide sustenance for myself as a retard with a glue addiction. I can pretty much manage the ‘walk into supermarket, buy shit, remove wrapper, eat’ process.

Still, I suppose somebody has to read this shit, otherwise it’s just like that time I had therapy, only I’m not distracted by thinking about how much I’d like to fuck my therapist. I wonder what Freud would say about that? Let’s talk about shit that’s pissing me off today…

The Sun and Th Daily Mail, two newspapers that are no doubt written in crayon and aimed at readerships who are barely literate enough to read a Harry Potter audio book, are still up in arms about this World Cup bullshit. Look, I’m as pissed off we didn’t get it as the next guy, okay? But it’s over, no need for an ‘investigation’ into bribery and corruption here. The irony that this ‘investigation’ is being led by a newspaper owned by News Corp. tickles me in ways you can’t even begin to understand. You’re owned by Faux fucking News. I know that nobody who works for The Sun is smart enough to grasp irony but Pot, meet Kettle.

Cameron. Facepalm.

I mean, fuck, let’s have an investigation, shall we? We wanted the World Cup. We had the best bid. I like that, those are facts. Now look at how we presented this: We sent David Beckham, the only man in Britain who’s almost universally liked, along with the following: Prince William, an over-pampered brat, part-time military deserter and waste of tax-payers’ money. Boris Johnson, a guy so far up his own arse that he can tell you what stomach acid tastes like and David Cameron, a man that nobody I’ve met actually voted for, that everybody hates because he’s a lying fascist and has all the charisma of a rotting hyena carcass.

Yeah, that was going to get us votes. Why didn’t we just go all out with this, really try harder? “Mr. Blatter, meet England’s bid representatives; this is David Beckham, Peter Sutcliffe, Rose West and Margaret Thatcher. Can we have the tournament now?”

That said, there were many ways in which our bid was the strongest. Our bid would’ve helped more people by sending money to Africa. Largely because all the jobs it created would likely be filled by illegal immigrants from said continent. It’d also be the best for the environment because most of the players and fans of all the likely qualifying nations already live here, so no need to fly that many people in.

You want an investigation? How about we investigate the idiots who led our bid?

Idiot

Something that’s been gnawing at me for a couple of weeks is the Bush memoir. George Bush, the single most evil man in human history, believes that the lowest point of his presidency was being called a ‘racist’ by Kanye West. Well, if the shoe fits…

Bush Nazi

Anyway, Bush, a proven sociopath with no interest in any human life but his own, a man who lied about WMDs and any other bullshit he could to have an excuse to finish his father’s dirty work and finish an old vendetta at the expense of millions of lives, most of them civilian, making him the biggest purveyor of mass-genocide since Adolf Hitler. You think being called a ‘racist’ hurt, George? I just called you a Nazi and loosely compared you to Genghis Khan. I’m sure if you go wave your imaginary degree from Yale around on campus for a while you’ll find someone who can explain who that is to you. You fucking developmentally-challenged moron.

The Hairy Bikers. I love these guys, really.

I have a working theory that Cheryl Cole is one of the Hairy Bikers, by the way. I have no memory of how I came up with this but it’s based on a strong theory; at no time in human history have there been more than four famous Geordies (who aren’t footballers) because nobody understands what the fuck they’re talking about. Well, we have Cheryl, Ant & Dec and the Bikers. Five into four doesn’t go. Either we have one too many and they need to be eradicated. How do you choose between Cheryl, Ant or Dec? I suppose it’d have to be Cheryl because it seems a shame to break up a set. And she’s a waste of oxygen. My point is, either she’s a Hairy Biker in a really convincing mask and wig and a really tight corset or else we’re living in uncertain times and I don’t like it.

Know your racist enemy.

Actually, let me court a little hatred here. I really hate Cheryl Cole. I don’t care if she’s “hot” or not. She represents everything that’s wrong with society. A talentless ‘musician’ who didn’t earn her fame that’s been elevated to the position of judging and mentoring other ‘talents’ on television and elevated to the status of overpaid role-model despite a history of racially-motivated assault. Sorry, Simon, we’re supposed to casually forget that, right? Especially now you’re taking her to the US for X Factor USA.

Well, I know there are probably going to be Americans reading this, so let me fill you in on this newest ‘role-model’ we’re throwing your way: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2650415.stm

Feel free to ‘investigate’ that one, my Yankee friends. Know your enemy.

Let’s see, who else can I hate on? If I don’t hit 2,000 words, this venting session has failed. Ah.

Justin Fucking Bieber

Baby, baby, baby… NO. My God, what’s the deal with these fucking idiots who signed/produced/like this fucking moron? A squeaky-voiced fucking chipmunk with less musical talent than Helen Keller. My God, this fuckhead is so manufactured that he should have to wear a fucking Kraft logo on all his clothing and have it tattooed on his forehead. As I write this, having Googled ‘Justin Bieber’ to get the picture, the top news story on Google is ‘Bieber appearance on German TV cancelled after tragic accident.’ I read on hopefully but, alas, no joy. His balls still haven’t dropped.

Eight-hundred hate-filled words to target. Michael McIntyre should be my next victim.

Floppy-haired sucker of satan's cock

This talentless floppy-haired sucker of Satan’s cock seems to be polluting my TV a lot of late. What the fuck is it with this guy? Why is he popular? He’s like the British Dane Cook – a talentless fucking nobody who slept his way to the top whilst stealing everyone’s jokes, stopping only to make them shit along the way.

I know it’s the trendy thing in British comedy to hate on guys as soon as they get on TV and some dickhead is bound to say I’m doing this out of ‘jealousy’ or some similar bullshit. Here’s the deal: McIntyre. Isn’t. Funny. Those are the reasons I hate him. No ulterior motive, no between the lines, deep-rooted psychological bullshit reason. The guy isn’t funny. He’s a ‘comedian’ who isn’t funny. See the fail? Good. Just wanted you to know where I stand.

Moron

Since I’m on the subject, let’s kill two birds with the same stone and talk about this talentless shit-for-brains Scottish dickhead, too. Hi, the angry-at-the-world attempts at political humour have been done. Only fifteen years ago, funnier and much better informed by a guy named Bill Hicks.

God

Remember Bill Hicks? American guy, funny, hated everybody. Had actually read a book or two before unleashing his opinions on the world. Not like Boyle, a man who – at best – is just another media puppet (who, unsurprisingly, writes for The Sun) trying to do a modern-day impression of the great man. Just a hint, Frankie, but if Bill were still alive he’d probably treat you with the same disdain that he reserved for Denis Leary. Just another dickhead trying to make a living off of his back by stealing his material.

Five hundred words to go and I seem to be running out of hate for the day.

Fuck it, let’s talk about two-faced people. I can rant on that all day. Let’s discuss bosses who lie to you consistently over extended periods. Let’s talk about ‘friends’ who seem intent on just fucking with you. I got enough of both. Since I’m going to post a link to this on Facebook, I know this’ll be seen. Frankly, though, if guns were legal here I’d have one n my mouth right now, so let’s go balls-out.

I’ve worked for my boss for three years, or near-enough. I’ve been the model of a loyal employee and, since I’ve been there, somewhere in the region of thirty other members of staff have come and gone. Some lasted a year, some a few weeks, all of whom were of varying degrees of ability. Every single one of whom had been promoted above me within a fortnight of arriving, yet another snub to the only guy who gives enough of a shit to stick around for all this time, never complaining about the workload, however heavy, never causing a stir by moaning about some of the abject fucking morons I’ve had to work with, never complaining when decisions are made that seem completely fucking retarded. Here’s a lesson, kids, that you should all remember: Loyalty is like a pussy. If you show any of it, you’re going to get FUCKED.

Friends are the same. I recently became fairly sure that all of my friends hate me. I’ve known for quite some time that my entire family hates me, so it was nice to nip that shit in the bud. I have friends who consistently cockblock me as I attempt to move on from the previous girlfriend who, to this day, seems to delight in fucking me in every which way but the good one. Sure, we tried to stay ‘friends’ for the kids’ sake, but I’m not sure we were ever friends to begin with. I’m pretty sure we were just two people who really enjoyed fucking, then we became a guy who misguided fell in love with a girl who really enjoyed fucking everyone but him.

Since then, nothing, nada, jack shit. I currently couldn’t get a hooker to fuck me. Shit, knowing my luck, my mates would manage to cockblock that, too. Just for shits and giggles.

Look, forty words left. Time to wrap this up.

In summary, kids, I give up. I have friends that hate me, a boss who treats me like shit, zero long-term prospects and I live in a world that’s gone to shit. Someone feel free to explain the fucking point to me, okay?

Until next time, I’ll be the ‘Angry Comedian’ – leave comments if you want to pretend to give a fuck like most of my ‘friends’ and family do.