Posts Tagged ‘suicide notes’

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.



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?


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:

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.


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.


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.