Thursday, May 26

Making Up

Making up with your girlfriend can be a dull business. Some people love all that. The making up, the hugging, the make up sex. Not me. Personally I think the whole making up aspect of relationships needs to be shaken up a bit. It's too staid, too predictable.
"You mad at me?"
Of course she is.
"Did I upset you?"
You bet your arse you did. You could have slept with her mother and still not upset her more than you did.
"Did I overstep the mark?"
And then some pal.
"Do you hate me?"
With a vengeance.

Forget all that nonsense. Here's what I'm proposing. You've had a bust up with the missus. Three hours later, after finishing gluing the legs back to the kitchen chairs and putting the TV back on its stand, you go up to her, run your fingers through her hair, stare lovingly into her eyes and whisper: "I'm ready to forgive you, even though you were completely in the wrong earlier."

I want all the guys reading this to give that approach a try. Let's see what happens. We are at the forefront of an exciting new time in relationships. We are pioneers. Pioneers.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Tuesday, May 24

Nose Matters

Finally, some four years after breaking my nose for the third time, I will at last be getting my conk fixed. The operation is now set for early July. I just got back from the hospital. It was quite a wait and I hadn't taken any reading material. Despite the boredom, I managed not to give in to the temptation to read through the magazines they had there. I just couldn't do that. I mean, how many of those mags have been thumbed by the now dead, though thinking of it, unlikely to be that many patients snuffing it in ENT.

I'm going to be stuffing the flat with so much food prior to the operation that you'd think I was preparing for the advent of war. The nose is going to be in plaster for a couple of weeks and I don't plan on going out during that time looking like a c***.

I do worry about going under though. I remember back in the mid-80s, Don Johnson, at the height of his Miami Vice period was having an op and it turned out the doctor was lifting up his gown and allowing the nurses to get a good look at his meat and two veg. Hopefully I'll avoid the same fate, though just in case, I may write some puzzling Latin phrases on my shaft to startle them in case they try anything funny.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Sunday, May 22

A Pattern Emerges

Been having a bit of a nostalgia trip. Nostalgia is always a dangerous thing. Things were never as good as you recall them being. Your mind tends to do away with the bad things from whatever time you're harking back to. Anyway, was trying to think back over all my girlfriends - and without wishing to brag, they have been numerous - and see whether I was always as annoyed by women as I am now. Was the finger jabbing and swearing at anything in a skirt just a recent development?

Finding an answer proved beyond me, but what I did discover was that every relationship I've had has coincided with more drinking and a reliance on Bach's Rescue Remedy.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Saturday, May 21

What kind of man...

There I am, immersed in the Cup Final. There are ten minutes of normal time to go when on a quick glance out the window I spot a man getting out of a car with two, admittedly foxy, young ladies. But here's my question: what kind of man doesn't watch the Cup Final?

"Never trust a man who doesn't like football," Dad used to say.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Thursday, May 19

The Fight

I haven't had a fight since school. And even then, in five years at secondary, I think I only had a handful of punch ups, all usually preceeded by me being called a spic. The problem is the last one happened to be against a guy now doing life for sticking a knife into his social worker 53 times. And I came off worse. In this instance though, I don't think I'd have felt much better had I been the victor.

That fight has haunted me ever since. It was wierd, not having seen this guy since leaving school in the late eighties, to see him as a charcoal drawing on the front pages of all the nationals a few years back. His dad claimed that his son had always been a nice person and that drugs had destroyed him. The drugs may have destroyed him, but saying his son was a nice person was a lie, albeit one that could be forgiven. But his son had never, many of his former classmates agreed, been a nice person.

I do wish that that fight could have been against anyone else, even the hardest guy in the school, something I could forget. But to have rucked with someone now infamous, well that stays with you. I wonder if there are people out there who went to school with say, Peter Sutcliffe, and had a tear up with him? How do they feel?

Either way, why did this have to happen to me?

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Monday, May 16

The Bump

The girlfriend had been hogging the bathroom mirror for a good hour now.
"I've got this bump on my chin and I don't know what it is," she said.
"I've had them before."
"What do you mean by bump?" I asked.
"Kind of like a spot, but doesn't disappear as easily as a spot."
"Well go to the doctor's."
"I'm not going to the doctor's for a spot."
"You just said it wasn't a spot."
"You know what I mean," she said.
"No, I don't." I was now standing behind her, looking at her chin. "That looks quite raised."
"It'll pass."
"This isn't just about you. This is about us. It affects me as well. What if it's a deformity?" I asked.
"Stop talking nonsense, Dis."
"You know I don't like to stand out. I don't want to be holding hands with you in public if you've got some wierd facial deformity. I'm not the type of boyfriend who can handle shit like that."
"You're so out of order sometimes, you know that."
"Look at it from my point of view," I continued. "You know I walk in the shadows."
"Fucking shadows," she muttered under her breath mockingly.
"Yes, I walk in the shadows. You going round with a tumour on your chin doesn't quite fit in with that. Suddenly you're a curiosity."
"You're a real prick sometimes, " she said, jabbing her finger in my chest.
"Shall I ring the doctor's for you?"
"Tell you what, call your looney doctor, tell him you need to see him urgently 'cos your girlfriend's going to leave you."
"Would you have any objection to me telling him about your chin."
"Tell him what you like. I don't care any more."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Saturday, May 14

The Dumb Waiter

"I'll have a latte and an almond croissant please," I said, taking my laptop out of the bag.
"A chocolate croissant?" Asked the Portuguese waiter.
"You don't want the chocolate one?"
"No." I punched in my password.
He paused, glancing back at the counter. "We have chocolate."
"Forget the croissant. I'll have a cheese and ham toasted sandwich."
"Cheese and ham," I said through gritted teeth.
"With chicken?"
"Okay, look, just get me what you think I should have."
"No, you order. You are the customer."
"But every time I tell you what I want, you're coming up with something else."
"You tell me what you want," he said, "I am listening."
"I'll have a cheese and ham toasted sandwich please."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Thursday, May 12


Today is the sixteenth anniversary of losing my virginity. She was a bit of slapper, but then I think these girls serve a useful purpose. It's like athletics. When a runner is looking to break a world record at a meeting he'll bring over a pace maker who'll set a fast time for a couple of laps before dropping out, and I think this particular girl used to break young guys like me in.

I remember going home that night after my first shag, quite deflated. The drink was wearing off and it was hitting me that I'd just banged the shop tart. To cap the night, I was sharing a double bed bed with my dad at the time. How many people can say they shared a bed with their dad the same night they popped their cherry? Come to think of it, how many people can say they shared a bed with their dad?

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.


Why did she always have to be so hostile? Why couldn't she just nod and go along with what I was saying?
"I'm saying, thanks for the oranges, but next time, instead of opting for the 3-pack which are tasteless, don't be lazy; take the time to size up loose oranges and get me a load of those."
"How much time do you think I have?" The girlfriend was getting all defensive.
"It'll only take you a fraction longer than buying this rubbish you expect me to eat."
"Oh, I know," she said. "I'll give up my job and become your full time fruit buyer shall I? In fact, put your pc on for me, I'm going to type up my letter of resignation right now."
"Just try one. I want you to see what I'm saying," I said, holding a piece of orange up for her.
She smacked the orange out of my hand, knocking it to the floor and stormed off upstairs.
I called out after her. "So do you want me to switch the pc on?"

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Wednesday, May 11

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Monday, May 9

Arm Cover

Almost a decade ago, an accident in a radio studio left me with a severely injured right ear drum. While in time my hearing recovered, a legacy of the injury was ongoing problems with my balance and blackouts in bed. Often these would happen when I slept on my back, so I was told by doctors to get round this by simply avoiding sleeping on my back. Problem was I liked sleeping on my back.

Over the years I developed a strategy where I would tuck an arm under my head, as if I was holding the back of my skull, and I found that if I did that, dead arm aside, I rarely suffered blackouts. My biggest problem was and continues to be that I can't wear pyjamas, or tops in bed, and that I need to be covered as much as possible by a duvet. Having a bare arm exposed in the dark unsettles me.

So I'm thinking of designing a gladiator-type sleeve just for my left arm, the one I usually use to support my head. Not sure on the material yet. Either stocking or mesh. Most important thing has to be comfort.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Sunday, May 8


Don't you just love Cognitive Psycho-Therapists? They have grand job titles and they strive to solve your problems with charts like these. I left with it in my pocket, wondering if this meant I'd been cured.

I wouldn't mind training to be a therapist, though I would worry that working in such a quiet atmosphere may leave me open to the type of stomach rumble that rocked me during my English A Level mock exam at the tail end of the eighties. I had no rivals as the top dog in my class up to that point, but everyone heard that rumble. Even the college caretaker got to hear of it, and my standing was never the same afterwards.

Still, I'd have some fun creating charts. I'd draw a big circle and write in it, "You are a cunt, yes you are," and in the next circle, "You will always be a cunt". In the circle, "Things to Avoid", I'd put, "Women, Clapham, cigarettes, top floor flats - flat roofs are a potential problem, Polish-Jewish landlords, women [again], women with moustaches, women with flat chests, and business meetings with men who wear cinos".

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.


"Never be poor son," Dad used to say to me. "When you're poor, people will do with you what they want."
"But we're poor 'cos you don't work Dad."
"Don't be cheeky son."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Saturday, May 7

The Stairs Issue

I hadn't seen my friend for a long time. I was initially struck by how haggard he looked. He was one of these fat people who had suddenly lost so much weight and you couldn't tell him that actually, he looked better when he was overweight. He reminded me of the former chancellor Nigel Lawson. That guy has looked ill ever since the weight came tumbling off him.

Anyway, there he was with his shirt tucked into his trousers. That's something guys always do when they lose weight. Tucking your shirt in is cheesy regardless of whether you're fat or thin.

After an hour of talking about his diet, and half expecting him to pull out a picture of his new thin self holding up a pair of his old gigantic trousers, we finally got onto the interesting stuff. He started to tell me about his new partner. A real looker, great body, great in the sack.

"There is only one problem Disappointed. She is fucking crazy."
"How so my friend?" I asked, ordering myself a soda at the bar. It felt like a soda moment.
"Everytime she's angry, she keeps hurling herself down the stairs in an attempt to kill herself, like Diana used to do."
"I think Linda Evans tried the same thing in Dynasty," I said.
"Did it work?"
"No, course it didn't. She was one of the stars. I'm guessing her contract was up for renewal and the producers were letting her know if she didn't lower her salary demands, she was on her way out."
"I don't know how much more I can take," he continued,shaking his head. "We've got a huge staircase. It takes her nearly five minutes to get to the bottom when she throws herself. I've been late for work four times this last week alone."
"She's covered in so many cuts and bruises people must be thinking I smack her about."
"You're sure you don't want to finish with her?"
"Oh no, no, no. She's amazing in bed. She does this thing where she puts a banana in her mouth and," he suddenly put his hands on his hips and made a pelvic thrusting gesture."
"All right, all right, I don't need to know all that."

The people at the next table were now looking at us. I took a first sip of my soda, relieved it bore no resemblance to the ghastly vanilla flavoured mutation I'd bought in Tesco's last summer.

"You got two options," I said, putting a serious face on.
He leaned forward.
"You either dump her..."
"Oh no, no, no...she does this thing where she puts a banana in her..."
"Yeah, I know about the banana." I let out a deep breath. "Right, so dumping her is not an option. Then you need to eliminate the problem."
"How do I do that?"
"Lose the stairs. Get yourself a bungalow."
"Bungalows are for old people."
"That may be so, but how many times have you heard of old birds hurling themselves down the stairs?"
"You have a point there Disappointed. I'll go and see the estate agents in the morning."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Thursday, May 5


I don't think people with big jaws should chew gum. They're just accentuating their large jaws. It's no different I suppose to that dwarf I saw the other week who'd dyed their hair bright red.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Pump and Hump!


Just pump and hump your rubber doll, then retire to your quarters to watch the football without having to explain the offside rule.

28-year-old Steve Symons from Surrey says: "It's fucking great man. You don't even need to call her a cab home."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Wednesday, May 4

Is there a girl out there who?

Is there a girl out there who doesn't require regular cuddles and displays of affection? Is there a girl out there who has no objection to hearing a "yes" when the question "Does my bum look big in this?" is asked? Is there a girl out there who is happy to let a man enjoy his own company, a girl who has no objection to a man reading, surfing, watching football?

Well, aparently so. Rumour has it there is such a girl in eastern Poland.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Tuesday, May 3

Worse than '77?

Woken up at 5.40am by the worst dream I've had in a while. A big fat Indian lady, dressed in indian clothes [nothing unusual there] and if I remember correctly, bearded, was hovering cross-legged outside my old kitchen window on the second floor, trying to slip sweets through a gap in the window. Some might say, with some justification perhaps, that passing sweets through a second floor window whilst hanging in mid-air was a friendly and remarkable gesture, but her approach was all wrong. Why couldn't she use the door?

Possibly on a par with the long armed lady that snatched me from my ice-skating session with Laurel and Hardy on New year's Eve 1977.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

An Ugly Spectacle

I hate it when bands ask you to clap along or sing the last line of the chorus. I find this an ugly spectacle. It's like going for a buffet meal where you find yourself having to serve yourself. I wanted to say, "Hang on guys, you're the fucking singers, you've got the mansions in LA, you finish singing your own songs you lazy bastards".

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Sunday, May 1

The Watcher

Watching an impressive episode of the new Doctor Who last night, I cast my mind back to perhaps one of my favourite ever episodes as a kid, Logopolis. Tom Baker's reign as the Timelord was coming to an end. He arrived in Logopolis, home to a planet of mathematicians whose help he wanted in reconfiguring the outer shell of the Tardis. I also remember the Doctor being followed around by this wraith-like figure, possibly called The Watcher. I'm sure the Doctor Who nerds out there will correct me if I'm wrong. The Watcher was warning of impending danger. The Doctor's time was up and a regeneration was imminent.

I remember a similar situation with myself in the summer of 2000. While the Doctor was trying to sort out the Tardis, I was attemptng to have one final go at fixing my flat roof, and I didn't need a wraith to warn me that being out on the roof was dangerous.

Around this time I kept seeing a couple of guys in a car parked outside my house every morning. It was shortly after mum had passed away and I was doing a few naughty things trying to stay afloat. I sussed out pretty quickly that the guys had an obvious interest in me and for a while I wondered too if my time was up. Who would come in my place? Indeeed, who would want to be in my place? The Tardis had better facilities for a start, and soon word reached me that I would have to soldier on in the role of Disappointed as nobody wanted to be me. Maybe it was because I wore cinos around that time.

When the mystery men in the car turned up at my job one morning,I finally learnt they were investigators looking, quite rightly, to find out why I was working as well as signing on.

Now there was a cliffhanger to match anything the classic old episodes of Doctor Who could muster.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.