Friday, April 28

Saving a Man from the Future

I was walking through Wardour Street last night, on my way to a comedy gig, when I happened upon a man standing outside the Ship wearing outsized white framed sunglasses, the type Elton John was prone to wearing in the seventies. The man was obviously making an ass of himself, more so given the sun wasn't out. I needed to have a word with him, so I crossed the road and fixed him with the most contemptuous look imaginable.

"I don't see a sun," I said.
He looked me up and down, and took a drag of his poncy cafe creme.
"Are you a migraine sufferer?"
"Who are you?" He sneered, straightening the shoulders of his white linen suit.
"I am what stands between you and a conversation in thirty years time where you have to confess to your grandchildren that you were once a pretentious cunt."

I pulled out my map which showed the location of all eight pretentious garments amnesty drop off points.

"You will finish your drink now, and you will walk around the corner where you will get a number 24 bus all the way down to Warren Street Station. From there, you will turn left and walk to the end of Warren Street, at which point you will turn left again, this time into Great Portland Street. You will walk some thirty yards before swinging another left at Fitzroy Mews, where you will proceed to dump these glasses and your linen jacket at that drop off point.

"A small man, slightly fey, with a wonky shoulder, will meet you after you have deposited your ridiculous garments. He will present you with a bodywarmer from The Officers Club, to ensure you remain warm during your journey home. You will go now."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Thursday, April 27

A Warning

Kigaloo and I sat by the camp fire, desperately trying to stay warm high up in the Himalayas.

“Disappointed,” said Kigaloo, “I’m going to tell you a story, because I like you. It’s a story about what women can do to men.

“A soppy man had fallen in love with a peasant girl. He began to write her love poems and would open doors for her and all that kind of nonsense.

“Me and some men from the village kidnapped him for his own good. We beat the soles of his feet with bamboo sticks and urinated on a still to be completed poem to the peasant girl. We then showed him a Powerpoint presentation highlighting just what mental damage women can do to men, before returning him to his village.”

“Kigaloo, what happened to the man?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I did take the peasant woman as my fourth wife. She isn’t the best in the bedroom, but she is a good cook, and she is cleaner than my second and third wives. She will keep you warm tonight, Disappointed.”

With that, he got up and went into his tent.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Wednesday, April 26

Woman, who are you?

"She told me where to touch her. I said, "Woman, who are you to tell me where to touch you? I shall touch you where I wish to touch you and you shall be pleased. And when your parents ask you if you are happy, you will answer in the affirmative."

- Kigaloo, 27th November 2005

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Kigaloo the philosopher

"A woman that spits is a woman that cannot be trusted. A woman that tells you where to place your hands when you are giving her a baby is a woman that cannot be trusted. Where has she been before she met you?

"But the woman that swallows shall be the mother of your first, third and seventh child."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Tuesday, April 25

I'm Not

Hello reader,
Are you okay?
I'm not.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Sunday, April 23

More From The Tibetan Master

Shortly before I left Tibet to make my journey back to Stockwell, Kigaloo came to me with a warning.

"Always remember," he said, in that throaty voice of his; "The woman that believes the female orgasm is a possibility, is the same woman that will leave you to pursue this myth, and when she has left you, what will become of the dishes?"

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Saturday, April 22

The Wax Free Way

My Tibetan guide, Kigaloo, is a man I came to admire greatly during my seven months in the wretched east. He was a man who didn't favour any of his five hirsute wives over the other and treated all of them equally badly.

"You do not need to see the face of a woman when you are giving her a baby," he once told me. "But be sure she makes the bed afterwards."

He knew all the mountain roads and we enjoyed many a late night discussing the merits of the great Liverpool sides of the late seventies and eighties. Kigaloo is a great man. But his greatest achievement is that he lives his life without hair wax. An inspiring character. If only I were as brave as him.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Leading by Example

Upon my return from the east a couple of days ago, I implored those readers of a pretentious bent to rid themselves of any poncy garments they might have procured over the years in an effort to be 'cool'. 'Cool' by the way is my least favourite word in the English language. I despise it. For me, it's up there with the mwah-mwah kiss on either cheek nonsense, which of course isn't a word. That's just an unecessary sickly action.

Anyway, one reader, a Mr Dennis Fortescue of Battersea, South London, has decided to send in his white belt, writing:

Dear Disappointed,

Your blog the other day forced me to take a long hard look at myself. I realised that I was one of these cunts [See 'Back']you speak of. My girlfriend is seven months pregnant [the child is not mine but I shall stand by her and the bastard] and I thought, "Isn't it about time I stopped being a fashion victim? Where has it got me?" It is with this realisation that I hereby send you my white belt, which makes one look awfully gay, though I'm not gay at all, and haven't been since a brief attraction to Paul Davies in 4TU.

Kind regards,

Dennis Fortescue

It takes a big man to admit he has been wrong Dennis, and you are to be applauded for your actions. I hope others will be inspired by the route you have taken. Might I just take this opportunity to add that there is no way on this earth that I would ever bring up another man's child.

Now I don't want you all sending me your pretentious garments, so what I have done is set up a series of pretentious amnesty drop off points where you can go and bin those tan-coloured shoes you thought looked good with your French Connection jeans, or that cropped top that shows off that tattoo just above your crack.

Together we can make the world pretentious free. Together we can do it.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Dead Arms Again

Matt held my arms up so the blood and feeling would rush back into them.
"Oh man, I can't believe I'm doing this."
"Quit bitching," I told him.
"What did I tell you?" Said Matt, getting increasingly flustered. "If you want to stay here, you wear some pants in bed. I mean, I can see your arse."
"Pull the duvet up then."
Matt pulled the duvet up gingerly, bringing it halfway up my back.
"That's too much," I yelled. "I get hot."
Reluctantly, he pulled the duvet back down a little, so it was just above my waist.
"That's better," I said.
"Are your arms getting any feeling?"
"Pins and needles. You know Matt, you really need to hoover around the corners a bit better. There's so much dust around in this room..."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Dead Arms Since '95

Ever since the summer of ’95, I’ve been in the habit of sleeping on my front with my arms under my pillow. The consequence of this has been many a night where my arms go completely dead, and these days my elbows are prone to clicking.

The whole dead arms thing came about because around that time I started suffering black outs, usually in bed. The room would spin, I’d black out and be left with this ridiculous feeling of nausea for the rest of the day, and in one case, a fortnight.

The black outs are under control now thankfully, but I never sleep on my back, and the arms remain tucked under the pillow. It’s as if I’m holding on for dear life.

There have been too many nights now where I’ve woken up unable to move, all feeling from my shoulders down to my hands lost.

I’m currently staying at my mate’s in South East London and concerned by the latest dead arm incident, I set up my voice active settings on the mobile and decided I would leave it switched on during the nights from now on. Boy am I glad I did.

The time on my radio alarm clock said 4.32am. I couldn’t feel my arms. There was no way I could make even the slightest movement. I turned my head to the side, and facing my mobile, said “Matt – mobile.”

The call wasn’t accepted. My host obviously had his mobile off. Time for plan b.

“Matt – landline.”

I heard the landline ringing. Moments later, I heard Matt struggling out of bed. He took the call but I couldn’t answer it. I heard him hanging up in the next room and I knew he’d be doing a 1471.

Moments later, he rushed into my room and switched the light on.
“Disappointed, what’s up?”

He stopped. I’d never told him I slept in the buff.

“Jesus, fuck. Oh man. That’s disgusting.”
”Help me Matt. I – I can’t feel my arms.”
“My arms are dead.”
“Can’t you put some boxers on?”
”How? With my feet? Come on, help me get my arms out from under the pillow.”

Things were understandably awkward in the kitchen at breakfast time. Not for me. I don’t mind being naked, but I could tell it was a problem for Matt. And given that I am staying at his place, it’s a problem for me.

Matt wasn’t getting very far with his bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes.

“Look Dis…” he started. “I need…I need some sort of guarantee this isn’t going to happen again.”

I tried to explain I couldn’t sleep with anything on.

”You’re just going to have to try mate,” he said.
He couldn’t eat any more and pushed his bowl of cereal to one side. “I mean, you just looked so fucking gay when I found you.”
I tried to reassure him. ”I’m not gay.”
“I know. I’m just saying you looked really gay.”
”Hey, you’re the one who’s never had a girlfriend,” I said.
There was a long pause.
”What are you saying?”
“Let’s not argue Matt.”
“I’m not gay.”
”I can show you my internet history if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“What I need from you,” he said rising from the table, “is an assurance that whilst you’re here, under my roof, you’ll respect my wishes and not sleep naked.”
“What’s with sticking your arms under your pillow anyway?”
“That pillow you gave me is so flat. I feel dizzy if I don’t have my arms under there.”
”I’ll give you another one.”
“I can’t sleep with two. Hurts my neck.”
“Well look, just know from now on I’m disconnecting the landline overnight, so you better work something out with your arms.”

He made to leave the kitchen, only to stop in the doorway and turn around.

“You’re sure you don’t want to see my internet history?”
“I’m sure.”

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Friday, April 21

Something of a Dishonest Day

Today was something of a dishonest day. I bunked my train fare, as I normally do, and then went into WHS in Waterloo Station and paid 40p for The Guardian into one of those big money collector bins they have for people who are in too much of a hurry to queue up. I was in no hurry to go anywhere. I never am. But I always use those bins. Normally I only pay 30p but today my conscience got the better of me and I gave them the extra 10p.

I posted a card later in the afternoon. To my dad’s cousin. I think I got the wrong card. The greeting inside indicated it was more for a partner. I only realised this after opening the card, but the newsagent refused to allow me to exchange it.

“I can’t give her this.”
”Buy another one.”
”Can’t I just exchange it?”
“It’s been opened.”
“Look, I can’t send this. The greeting inside is of a sexual nature.”
He took the card and read the greeting. “How is that of a sexual nature?”
“It’s there in the sub text,” I replied as he passed the card onto his wife for her to examine.
“You don’t see something developing at some point in the future between you too?” He asked.
”She’s twenty years older than me.”
”So,” said his wife, piping up; “Joan Collins’ new husband is a good forty five years younger than her.”
“Look,” I said. “She’s my dad’s cousin. A relationship is not on the cards. I’ve only just got back from the east. I’m nowhere near ready for a relationship.”
“The east?”
”Did you go out there to find out about yourself?”
”No, I went there to find out about other people,” adding I was the first westerner to go out there in ninety-five years not to wear sandals.
”And what did you learn,” asked the wife.
“I learnt that many people are c***s.”
“We cannot exchange the card,” said the newsagent, appalled by my language.

I reluctantly bought another card. I didn’t have much money left so it was one of those plain ones with no greeting on the inside.

I wrote my message on the left hand side of the card as I always do. It always makes me feel mysterious. No one’s ever commented on that though. But not many people do it. A friend of mine staples his scripts on the top right corner just to be contrary. I like that.

As I wrote the card, I couldn’t help thinking about my dad's cousin's varicose veins. It always happens when I think of her, which isn’t often. I suspect I don't think of her because of the veins. She always had the most terrible legs and I made sure I wrote the card as quickly as I could.

At some point in the last five years I stopped trusting my own saliva when it came to sealing envelopes. I usually travel with scissors and cellotape in my bag, just in case I need to send something off, but today I forgot them.

I sealed the card for my dad’s cousin with my saliva, licking it God knows how many times. By the time I’d sealed the envelope, it looked like a cat had pissed on it. I’m hoping it dries by the time she receives it tomorrow.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Thursday, April 20

Behind Schedule

Success should've come to me a good few years ago. I'm on the brink of it now, but it's a bitter sweet feeling. I knew I was good enough to be where I am now five or six years ago, and in fact, I was then where I am now. But then people started dying on me and I went a bit loopy. Slept with a lot of girls too. Maybe you're one of them. [If it was between 2002 and '03, apologies. I know I was crap in the sack but that was the anti depressants. And if you were among the crowd who saw me collapse outside that posh block in Camberwell - the only posh block in Camberwell - whilst urinating after unknowingly smoking some skunk at a party in May 2001, I apologise for that too. You were all rather good about it, claiming not to have seen my bits, but I know my bits were out at the time and I can live with that].

People say you handle success a whole lot better when you're older. How much older did I have to get? How many more crap jobs did I have to do? I wanted to be successful while I was young enough and happy enough to enjoy it. Since watching sucess first slip through my hands six years ago, I've broken my nose three times. I can't even smell food properly now. What good's that going to be when I'm ordering lobster and chips at the Ivy?

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.


Well it's been almost seven months since I've been away. In that time, I have embarked upon some deep soul searching in the East. It was like 'Batman Begins' when Christian Bale pisses off to the Himalayas for seven years to learn about himself, except I already knew about myself, and I didn't go in for any of that martial arts nonsense. And apparently I was the first Englishman out there in ninety-five years to get by without sandals.

Given then that I already knew about myself, I decided to learn about everyone else, and the conclusion I rapidly came to is that the world really is full of cliched cunts who really think they're the goods and like to stick stuff up their noses. Just in case you 're not aware they're cunts, some of them take to wearing silly hats.

I arrived at that conclusion in early October, so the subsequent six and a half months were spent trying to figure out how I could get back to London from Tibet. Not easy people. And I asked myself why am I so bothered about what other people are like? And I haven't really come up with an answer, other than pretentious people, of whom there are many, really make me want to cry, and I'm not one for crying. I haven't cried since catching my top lip in the yellow capsule of a Kinder Egg surprise back in April 1982. I think it was at that point dad realised his only son was a bit of a dandy.

If you're reading this and you're one of those pretentious people, I want you to take a good long hard look at yourself. If there is an item of clothing in your posession that you suspect is really pushing it, the Pete Docherty hat, a tie, that kind of thing, bin it. I want photos sent to me proving you have binned these items. And lose that wrap of coke. It's not cool. You're not big. You're just tribal. You can't think for yourself. Join me. Take my hand. Be a free-thinking individual.

Don't go to Tibet though. The women out there really smell.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.