Disappointed of West Egg

I Dreamt About 1987 Last Night

2006-05-01T11:28:00.000+01:00

I dreamt about 1987 last night. What a year that was. Mum and dad had the second of their ‘trial marriages in February – March of that year. It works like a trial separation, only it involved them acting like a married couple rather than rowing all the time. It was painful to watch and like their previous effort of August to September 1981, it ended quickly and predictably. My sister and I were relieved once they started arguing again.

I bought two Five Star albums that year, the first on the day I began my seminal Saturday job at Woolworths in Clapham Junction [25th April 1987], a place I still have fond memories of. Mind you, getting stuck in a lift full of bedding plants for four hours on your first Saturday wasn’t the best way to start a job.

1987 also saw me suspended from school a couple of times and I was threatened with expulsion from the Spanish Consulate classes I attended three evenings a week after ‘normal’ school. In the event, my mum cut a deal with the Consulate that saw them merely hold me back a year. It was rather embarrassing to have to join up with my younger sister’s class, and I don’t think the guys there took to my pink coloured Avanti cardigan from C & A.

I also went to Spain in the summer for almost two months, winning my only fight in seventeen attempts against my older cousin [I think I head butted him]. That holiday was special. Not for the fight. It was to be the last time everyone was together. I never went to Spain again with my mum and never again visited my uncle’s house. My gran also died earlier that year. She was in pretty bad shape so it came as something of a relief that we didn’t have to visit her house. I did hate going there.

I had another uncle who lived next door to my other uncle [stay with me here] and he had some terminal illness. I am ashamed to admit I was probably more concerned that my Terence Trent D’Arby tape had been chewed up on the flight over than with my uncle’s predicament, but I do remember one incident vividly; a guy kept racing through the street on his moped with his girlfriend on the back, and my uncle was furious that his sick brother was unable to sleep because of this guy’s scooter.

My uncle rose from his siesta still in his tangas, stormed outside and standing in the middle of the road with a large stick, brought the scooter rider to a halt and proceeded to give him quite a hiding.

My time at my uncle’s was largely fraught. I think he suspected, rightly, that I was sneaking a tug here and there when he was having his siesta. [Realistically, you invite someone to your place for two months, you've got to accept they're going to be knocking one out here and there.] He was determined to put a stop to all this and demanded that all bedroom doors were left open. It was a real battle of wits and one which I think ended in a draw.

He also tired of my insomnia and banned me from putting any lights on at night, including those in the bathroom. One evening, he switched off all the lights whilst everyone was still awake, to demonstrate to us that it was possible to urinate into the bowl with the lights off. [He was very grouchy and I often wondered why he had guests over] One night, unable to sleep, I got up to go to the loo. Mum had by then brought me a little torch to help me get through the house at night. I held Junior in one hand and my torch in the other, only for the biggest moth I have ever seen in my life to land on Junior, at which point I pissed everywhere apart from the bowl. I had honestly thought this thing was going to carry me off somewhere and feed me to its young. I’ll never forget my uncle’s cursing in the morning, and I think the ban on the bathroom lights at night was rescinded.

Anyway, there was an air traffic strike at the start of September in Gibraltar, and so we were unable to get back. We were offered a hundred pounds a night cash to stay at the four star Gibraltar Rock Hotel until a flight back to Gatwick became available.

My cousin and I ended up staying quite a few nights, to the point where we discussed getting a brief case to carry our cash back. We also ran through the merits of one of us being handcuffed to the case. I argued I had sensitive skin and that he, with the hairier wrists, would be better suited to such a task.

Going back to school for the fifth and final year was something of an anti climax after all that. I did buy myself a £300 stereo from Dixons for Christmas that year with all the money I’d saved from my Saturday job [Buying a video recorder, the holy grail, was still two years away]. That was good. And I enjoyed the Little and Large Christmas Special on Christmas Eve.

1988 proved largely crap. I may talk about that some day.

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

Saving a Man from the Future

2006-04-28T14:06:00.000+01:00

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.

A Warning

2006-04-27T00:06:00.000+01:00

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.

Woman, who are you?

2006-04-26T23:51:00.000+01:00

"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

2006-04-26T23:48:00.000+01:00

"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.

I'm Not

2006-04-25T22:13:00.000+01:00

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

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

More From The Tibetan Master

2006-04-23T22:42:00.000+01:00

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.

The Wax Free Way

2006-04-22T14:45:00.000+01:00

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

2006-04-22T14:23:00.000+01:00

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

2006-04-22T10:18:00.001+01:00

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

2006-04-22T10:17:00.000+01:00

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.”
“What?”
“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.”
”Okay.”
”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.”
“Okay.”
“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.

Something of a Dishonest Day

2006-04-21T20:24:00.000+01:00

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?”
“Yeah.”
”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.

Behind Schedule

2006-04-20T17:45:00.000+01:00

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.

Back

2006-04-20T11:07:00.000+01:00

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.

High

2005-09-27T00:00:00.000+01:00

I don't know about you, but I've never seen a man wear a pair of shorts this high before.
What's going on?

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

The slipper quandry

2005-08-16T15:22:00.000+01:00

"Bring some slippers," the hospital told me, ahead of my nose operation this coming Friday.

I don't think I've had slippers since I was a kid. And even though I'm getting old, I still think I'm far too young to be doing the slipper thing. But what else am I going to wear on Friday as I slip into that humiliating hospital gown?

So I trudged off to the shops, popping my head into various shoe shops staffed by model-like girls. How can I go in there and buy some slippers? What are they going to think? If for a moment they fancy me, that's going to completely disappear when they're looking for a size 10 slipper. I mean, slippers are hardly cool, are they? And if they think I'm a twat as soon as I walk into their shop, they're going to think even less of me when I ask to try on a dark brown fuzzy open back house slipper with soft non-skid bottoms.

I could do without these kind of problems.

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

Make the pain go away

2005-08-15T16:46:00.000+01:00

I hate pretentious people. So why are there so many pretentious people around? And why do I seem to know so many of them? They make my head hurt, they really do.

So if you're a pretentious person and you're reading this, tell me why ... why are you pretentious? Are you aware that you're pretentious? How did it happen? Did you just fall in with a wanky crowd? And what's wrong with net curtains?

I want answers. Someone make the pain go away.

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

Message to the Music Industry

2005-08-15T16:42:00.000+01:00

I will stop downloading music if you can promise me I will never again have to endure shit like Live 8 and any other earnest concerts featuring Elton, Coldplay, Saint Bob and Boner.

And if we can lose the stupid wristbands, I really will endeavour to stick to my side of the bargain.

Deal?

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

Coming Soon...

2005-08-12T12:29:00.000+01:00

DISAPPOINTED OF WEST EGG - the radio show...

Misc

2005-07-20T17:25:00.000+01:00

I dislike bossy women, but I hate hen-pecked men more.
Adults who read Harry Potter have something seriously wrong with them.
I think I open my mouth too early when drinking coffee.
I can't find my beard trimmer today.
I can't decide how I feel about apple juice.
I have run out of money.
There's no wax in my hair today.
I've decided I'll buy flight socks next time I fly. Can they be worn with shorts?
I haven't sat on any chewing gum for five days now.
I hate being cc'd on emails by people I don't know.
I don't like children.
I don't like jewellry.
I had to leave a sports shop yesterday midway through trying on some trainers because my socks didn't match.
I've realised that guys who shag younger women look good on it.
The guy in my local WHS is odd. He looks very intense and has five different wanky wristbands. He's called Craig.
I have killed at least twenty moths since Monday night and am prepared to kill more.
Why is it that I have a greater fear of a strong homosexual man than I do of a strong heterosexual man?
I can't make up my mind whether I prefer Narnia or Oz. But I don't think it matters.
My mate says kemal from Big Brother 6 has in his words, a big bollocks.
The same friend is about to have his house repossessed.
I steer clear of money transfer shops that double up as mini cab offices.
My aunt still has a perm.
My uncle didn't remove his feet from the table when I was having a sandwich there yesterday.
I think he could do with a pumice stone.
Having a tug is just like sex, only you get more done with your day.
I read about a man who got bummed by a horse in Washington the other day and died from a perforated colon.
Could a slow kid defeat a chimp in a tear up?
On seeing my reflection in a shop window today I was reminded why I need to wear wax.
I really don't like pretentious people. They trouble me deeply.
I know alot of pretentious people.
Don't get me started on men in white linen trousers.
I left a bus stop after a girl saw me see her picking her nose. I did it for her sake. I got on a stop later, and she was on the bus picking her nose again. I got off at the next stop. For her sake. She was wearing so much jewellry that I'm surprised that she didn't need help lifting her hand up to her nose.
I can't spell jewellry.
I love water melons.
Too much water melon makes me pass water.
A great female arse makes me pass out.

What about the gum?

2005-07-13T21:02:00.000+01:00

Okay, good work by the police on uncovering the identities of the bombers, but who's going to stop these bastards who put gum on train seats? I got caught out again today. Gum on the bag and on my right bum cheek. It was only April that I got hit big time, and now, looks like I have to lose another bag. I think I may be being targeted deliberately by the same gum assailant. Not sure why. Perhaps I slept with his mum during my phase of sleeping with older women.

And before someone suggests ice cubes, I don't have a freezer.

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

We are not defiant

2005-07-12T09:55:00.000+01:00

Earlier in the day I found myself to be the only person on the top deck on three of the four buses I went on. And we're talking lengthy journeys here. Big strapping men sat downstairs trying to pretend there was nothing wierd about that. The press have got it wrong when they trot out that cliche of how Londoners are defying the terrorists. No one is defying anyone. Everyone is worried. Understandably so. But let's quit kidding ourselves that we're defiant. We get on the buses and trains because normal life has to carry on.

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

Pink Shrt in a Bomb Scare

2005-07-12T09:46:00.000+01:00

Caught up in a bomb scare last night while wearing a pink shirt. Not good. Not good at all. I appeared to look cool and calm as I exited the station without panic, but the truth is my bag was bloody heavy.

Both the train and station were evacuated and maybe it was because the pink shirt set me apart, but people kept coming up to me and asking me what was going on. Not sure I gave them as much information as I should have. I was preoccupied with whether my wearing shades was justified. No one else seemed to be wearing them, and perching them on my head wasn't an option with a pink shirt on.

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

The Branch

2005-07-09T16:17:00.000+01:00

Was it so bad that I once stayed with a girlfriend because on the way to her front door there was a tree branch that you had to duck under? I enjoyed approaching the branch at an angle, and then ducking at the last possible minute. I felt like I was skilfully avoiding being hit. I tried to make my approach look as noncholant as possible, but in reality, I was always a hundred per cent focused on the approach to the door whenever I went round there. I miss that. It made me feel good. I needed to feel good. She never made me feel good.

In the mornings I used to pop out and get her the paper, just so I could duck under the branch once more.

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

Dangerous Times

2005-07-09T12:23:00.000+01:00

We live in dangerous times. That's obvious. I wasn't shocked by the bombings the other day. I don't think anyone was. I was on a flight back from the fatherland when the captain broke the news as to what had happened in London.

Let's be honest. This was long over due. We can't and shouldn't be surprised, though of course it is worrying.

I do hope however that we do not come to refer to this terrible day as 7/7. I have so far refused to refer to the 11th of September attacks as 9/11 and I hope we don't go down that wanky Americanised road with Thursday's terrible events. We are not Americans.

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

The moth, the spider, the hoover...and the DVD

2005-06-19T17:24:00.000+01:00

I hoovered up a moth a couple of hours ago. One second it was there on the skirting board just outside the bathroom, the next I'd altered its life forever. I wonder if it's still alive, and if so, what is it thinking? Can it breathe in there? Will there be enough room in there for it to stretch its wings? Indeed, will it run into the spider that I sucked up a couple of weeks back? If so, will the spider assert its natural superiority, or given their plight, will they become pals? I can see the world weary spider acting as a mentor for the frightened moth. The moth will be bitching about me, and the spider will be saying in a laidback manner, "Let it go my little friend, let it go. He's not worth it."

And I'll be crouched down by the hoover, evesdropping, and suddenly they'll hear, "Hey, I might not be worth it, but I've got Lucy and Michelle - the DVD, so think about that if you can think about anything other than that horrifc scenario you find yourself in."

If this was a Hollywood film, then I have little doubt that the spider role would be played by Morgan Freeman. More importantly, if there is a heaven, is it this kind of behaviour that will keep me out? I hope not, for once I finish with the insect kingdom, I'm looking to start hoovering wild animals. May start off with a tiger.

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

The Uni-ball Signo 0.7

2005-06-06T22:23:00.000+01:00

"How are you this week Disappointed?" asked my therapist.
"Well, my hair's an ongoing problem, I continue to have very bad dreams on a frequent basis, and I have a surprisingly large number of shoes."
"Are the shoes a problem?"
"It's a small flat," I quipped.
He paused, forming a triangle with his hands. "Tell me about the dreams."
"You don't want to know more about the shoes?" I asked.
"We can come back to the shoes later. Let's talk about the dreams."
"Well, it's wierd."
"What is?"
"The dreams. The way your mind plays tricks on you over time. I mean, I know what happened that day..."
"The day your mum died?"
"Yes. I know that I had no idea that was going to happen. There'd been no warning she was going to go like she did. But the dreams now tell me differently."
"In what way?"
"In that she's there..."
"Your mum?"
"Yes. She's there, but I know she's ill and on borrowed time, and it's always the same. She dies in front of me. But even though I know that's not how it happened, I wake up wondering if that's how it actually happened. Do you know what I mean? Maybe I've forgotten things. Maybe that is how it happened. The dreams take it out of you and you become convinced that's the way things really happened."
He was busy scribbling away as he always did, on a blank piece of A4.
"Is that the uni-ball Signo 0.7?"
"What?" He asked.
"The pen."
"Oh," he said, glancing down at his pen. "Yes, yes it is."
"I thought so."
"How did you know?"
I smiled. "I love pens."
"Do you?"
I nodded. "I had a great pen in the summer of '94, a blue pentum."
"Oh."
"I found it when I was working at a picture library. It was a joy to write with it. The most beautiful pen I ever had. I could never find a refill for it though."
"Did you ever replace it?"
"No."
"But you miss it?"
"Yeah, I do," I said, completely ignoring the piss poor analogy he was trying to draw. "Handwriting's never been as enjoyable since."
"Or life?" He ventured.
"Er, no. Handwriting."
"You've mentioned the summer of '94 before."
"Where'd you get the pen?" I asked. "I hope it wasn't Rymans. Those guys are really pricey."
"You don't want to talk about '94."
"No."
"The dreams?"
"I'm done with the dreams."
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Er...women's football. What's that all about? It's the one refuge men have from women, and now they're playing football. It's bad enough you find them in the pubs now watching games with blokes. I mean, what's the world coming to?"
"Anything else?"
"I've written a joke. But I'm not sure if it works."
"Tell me the joke."
"It's a girl speaking right."
"Right."
"She says, I'm going to do it in my own voice, okay?"
He nodded.
""The girl says, 'My boyfriend is dyslexic. Instead of finding my g-spot, he keeps hitting f and h'."
He thought about it. "I don't get it."
"See, sometimes I think it works, sometimes I don't."
There was an awkward silence.
"So you think Rymans are expensive?" He asked, pen pressed to his lips.
"What did I say that was? The uni-ball signo 0.7?"
"That's right."
"99p in WHS."
I saw him curse under his breath.
"How much they sting you for?" I asked him.
"£1.35."
I grimaced."You could buy yourself a three bedroomed flat in Peru for the extra 36p you paid for that."
"You don't want to talk about the dreams?"
"I don't want to talk about the dreams."

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

Carrots

2005-06-05T19:32:00.000+01:00

"I've never really sussed out what's the best way to do carrots?"
"Don't even talk to me," she said.
"I mean, do I want them in strips or cubes?"
"You're not even on a tight rope."
"Or maybe just peel them and leave them their normal length?"
"The tight rope's long gone."

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

He caught me looking at her bazookas

2005-06-02T18:56:00.000+01:00

It had been a mistake to check out the waiter's new girlfriend. But in my defence, I had no idea she was with him. Besides, who comes into work on their day off? But he had turned up at the cafe with a gorgeous bit of fluff and caught me virtually undressing her with my eyes.

They sat opposite me, and by the time I realised they were an item, it was too late. His top lip kept curling upwards every time he looked at me. That was on Monday. Since his return to work, I have been served a cold steak sandwich and a toasted cheese sandwich with some of the roughest bread I have seen since I spent a fortnight squatting on the infamous Winstanley Estate in Battersea in the summer of '89. You can understand my reluctance to order my favourite chicken escalope with mayo.

I'm not sure how to fix the problem. God knows what he's doing to my lattes behind the counter.

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

Making Up

2005-05-26T11:42:00.000+01:00

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.

Nose Matters

2005-05-24T11:27:00.000+01:00

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.

A Pattern Emerges

2005-05-22T11:02:00.000+01:00

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.

What kind of man...

2005-05-21T18:15:00.000+01:00

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.

The Fight

2005-05-19T09:40:00.000+01:00

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.

The Bump

2005-05-16T22:14:00.000+01:00

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.
"Bump?"
"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.

The Dumb Waiter

2005-05-14T15:26:00.000+01:00

"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.
"Almond."
"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."
"Chicken?"
"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."
"Chicken?"

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

Anniversary

2005-05-12T14:51:00.000+01:00

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.

Oranges

2005-05-12T10:44:00.000+01:00

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.

2005-05-11T09:46:00.000+01:00

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

Arm Cover

2005-05-09T10:34:00.000+01:00

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.

Therapists

2005-05-08T15:24:00.000+01:00

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.

Poverty

2005-05-08T15:13:00.000+01:00

"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.

The Stairs Issue

2005-05-07T10:58:00.000+01:00

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."
"Blimey."
"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.

Accentuation

2005-05-05T19:55:00.000+01:00

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!

2005-05-05T19:38:00.000+01:00

MAKE DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION A THING OF THE PAST!

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.

Is there a girl out there who?

2005-05-04T03:33:00.000+01:00

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.

Worse than '77?

2005-05-03T09:33:00.000+01:00

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.

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An Ugly Spectacle

2005-05-03T09:22:00.000+01:00

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.

The Watcher

2005-05-01T11:04:00.000+01:00

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.

Trying to be helpful

2005-04-29T18:55:00.000+01:00

On 4/29/05 at 18.09 Disappointed of West Egg wrote:

Hello again,

I trust you understand I could not leave things as they were. I have
therefore taken the trouble of setting the pair of you up with
individual email addresses, and am sending you your passwords in a
separate email.

The email addresses are as follows:

jamesreeves2005@yahoo.co.uk
paulareeves2005@yahoo.co.uk

I do hope this will be to your satisfaction and that from now on, the
pair of you will recognise you are individuals and do not have to do
everything together.

Regards,

Disappointed

On 4/29/05 at 18.21 JamesPaula Reeves wrote:

You again?
You’re fucking tiresome. Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?
Question: Am I telling you what you should do?
Answer: No.
Question: Why?
Answer: Because I don’t give a shit about you.

On 4/29/05 at 18.25 Disappointed of West Egg wrote:

What is your problem?

On 4/29/05 at 18.28 JamesPaula Reeves wrote:

You. You are my problem.

On 4/29/05 at 18.30 Disappointed of West Egg wrote:

I'm trying to help you. It's for your own good.

On 4/29/05 at 18.35 JamesPaula Reeves wrote:

You're a cock.

On 4/29/05 at 18.39 Disappointed of West Egg wrote:
At least I have my own email address.

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

Skateboard speaks

2005-04-29T16:05:00.000+01:00

Skateboard on the Sun

All you idiots who go mad soon as there is a bit of sunshine need to read this. Then hang your heads in shame. You know who you are.

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

Overuse of the F-Word

2005-04-29T12:20:00.000+01:00

On 4/29/05 at 11.40 Disappointed of West Egg wrote:

Dear Couple,

It has come to my attention that not only are you a couple, but you
also share the same email address. I implore you to pull away from
this sickly and ghastly venture and regain your individuality before it is too late.

I await your response with interest.

Regards,

Disappointed of West Egg

On 4/29/05 at 11.53 JamesPaula Reeves wrote:

Who is this?

On 4/29/05 at 12.04 Disappointed of West Egg wrote:

I'm someone who wants you to be an individual again. Have you ever been that ill that you'd forgotten what it was like to go out and feel the sun in your face? Well if you have, that's what sharing an email address is like. Get your own email. Feel the sun on your face once more. Go on. Do it now, and email me back from your own address.

Disappointed

On 4/29/05 at 12.07 JamesPaula Reeves wrote:

Fuck off.

On 4/29/05 at 12.09 Disappointed of West Egg wrote:

Are you not ashamed of yourselves?

On 4/29/05 at 12.13 JamesPaula Reeves wrote:

Last time Egg man/thing, whatever you are.
Fuck off.

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

A Warning to Couples

2005-04-29T11:17:00.000+01:00

I know it's pretty usual for couples to have things such as joint bank accounts, I have no real issue with that. But I have started to notice a trend recently where couples are now actually sharing email addresses. For instance, Steve dates Cathy, therefore their email address is stevecathy@provider.com. Now how wanky is that?

Must these people be joined at the hip in everything they do? From now on, I'm making it clear. Any emails I receive from such people will go straight into my Deleted Items folder. Do not suck me into your sugary world. And if you are one of these people, go hang your head in shame.

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

King of the Cuffs

2005-04-28T09:59:00.000+01:00

Above: My dad on the right, winner of the world's biggest shirt cuffs three consecutive years, 1960-61-62. It's a record he still holds.

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

Tears Roll Down - Part 2

2005-04-28T09:19:00.000+01:00

"Look, I'll take you out if you don't go to see Tears For Fears on Monday night. But it won't be a date."
"It's not a date?"
"Of course not. You're my ex," I replied.
"Right."
"Let's be clear about this," I continued. "It's not a date. But I'll take you out. Somewhere nice."
"But you don't like me," said the ex over the phone.
"I know."
"You hate me."
She was always prone to exagerrating. "That's a bit strong."
"You called me a cunt the last time we saw each other."
"That is true," I said, painfully remembering the incident inside Tottenham Court Road's Heal's branch some five years ago.
"But despite that, you'll take me out?"
"Time is a great healer," I said softly.
"You cheeky bastard. I was the one who was called a cunt and you're talking about time being a great healer."
"Hey, it took me a long time to get over the anger that prompted that uncharacteristic outburst."
"I need to think about this," she said.
"You think about it. But I'll need an answer soon. And if you're not going to the concert, I'll need guarantees. If I even see someone that so much as looks like you on Monday night, the deal's off."
"I'll get back to you, Dis'. I need to go now. Doing breakfast with a friend in Crouch End."
She was always a bit of a ponce.
"Saturday. I need your answer by Saturday." By now I was posing with my hands on my hips like David Caurso, listening to her voice coming through via the speaker phone.
"I'll speak to you then," she said. "See ya."

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

Tears Roll Down

2005-04-27T16:02:00.000+01:00

Fifteen years I've waited to see Tears For Fears perform together. Fifteen years...

Five minutes ago I find out my ex is going to see them on the same night. She didn't even like Tears For Fears when we were together.

"I got to like them," she protests.
"How? You never let me play their albums all the way through."
"What's the beef, Disappointed? There'll be loads of people there. We won't even see each other probably." Her grammar was always shit.
"That's not the point. I'll know you're there. If I know you're there, I won't be able to enjoy myself. This is a big night for me."
"Chill out."
"Please don't come out with that poncy media speak, you know I hate that. In fact, that might have been my my main reason for leaving you."
"Oh, so you finally admit it was you who left me."
"I don't admit anything." I paused for a moment. "Look, do you have to go?"
"I'm going."
"How much do you want for the ticket?"
"Disappointed..."
"I'll give you fifty for it. Paypal. Do you accept paypal?"
She laughed. "Forget it. I quite like their new stuff. Maybe I'll see you there. I'm in the third row, and I've got an invite to the after show party," she said. "What do you think about that then matey?...Hello...hello..."

I looked at the receiver as if I expected it to give me an answer as to why my head was starting to hurt again. And then I put it down and curled up into a ball.

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

Sensitive

2005-04-27T15:45:00.000+01:00

I sat down next to a chinese girl in this cafe yesterday. As I switched on my laptop, I noticed she was writing a letter, red ink on green paper, in what looked like chinese.
"Is that for real?" I asked.
There was no smile. "Yes."
"What does it say?"
"That's private." She put her hand over the sheet of paper. I don't know why. It wasn't like I understood what she was writing.
I punched in my password, before turning to the girl again. "Why is it that chinese guys have such bad hair?"
She looked at me blankly.
"I mean, they all look like something out of a cartoon, their hair's piss poor, and it always sticks up. They can't even grow sideburns."
She got her stuff together and moved over to another table. "Chinese women are a bit sensitive," I thought to myself.

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

Slow Walking Lanes for Amorous Couples

2005-04-27T11:39:00.000+01:00

Never mind cycle lanes. I think they should have special lanes for slow walking couples. What is that shit women do where they stick their hand in your back pocket when you're walking together? What's that all about? I can't work out whether it's affection or they're in training to join Customs & Excise. Either way, have you tried walking when they do that? It's not easy.

I want to pull these slow-walking amorous couples to one side and say to the girls, "You wanna do that hands in your feller's back pocket nonsense, get in the lane darling."

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

Smart money goes on the kid

2005-04-25T16:17:00.000+01:00

"Why is my jacket no longer good enough?"
"It smells," she said.
"You smell," I replied.
"Grow up Disappointed. You spend your afternoons in that smoky cafe and your jacket stinks."
"I only had it dry cleaned last week."
"It smells."
"It was all right when you first met me, eh? See, that's what women are like. You do my bloody head in. You come into guys' lives and slowly but surely you try to change everything about them. You lure us in like sirens to the rocks."
"Not the sirens analogy again? Please, I can't bear it."
"Blow jobs first few weeks, give the impression that's what it's always going to be like. Compliment their wardrobe until you're sure you got your man, and then boom, that's it. Start on the changes."
She was unmoved. "And you need a hair cut."
"Anything else I need to change?"
The girlfriend continued to look down at her nails which she was filing.
"I should really have gone for an older bloke. They know how to treat women well."
"They're also closer to death," I said.
"You could do with being told you have a few months to live. Might teach you to appreciate life a bit more."
"Me being closer to death is going to help me appreciate life a bit more?"
She nodded.
"Don't think I'm gonna be like Roy Castle darling, all heroic and running marathons to raise money to research and raise awareness of whatever's going to kill me. Fuck that nonsense. I will wallow in self pity. I'll cry morning, noon and night. If there's kids involved, no matter how young they are, they're going to know about it."
"You're so immature," she said. "And don't think I didn't hear you on the phone to your mate earlier talking about who'd win a fight between a Down Syndrome child and a mad chimp."
"My money's on the kid," I said.
"I don't want to know."
"I once had my mate's Down Syndrome brother threaten to throw me out of a first floor window just 'cos I smiled at him. He was only 4 at the time, but I don't doubt he could have done it. And he punched out a donkey at Blackpool one time 'cos it dumped on his shoes."
"Get that jacket out of the room. Now."

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

It's such a bore

2005-04-25T13:25:00.000+01:00

Holy fucking Moses!
I had no idea depression could be this bad. I obviously knew from past experience it's not a good thing, but no one ever tells you how boring it can be.
If I had a garden, I think I'd start throwing stuff over the neighbour's fence, just to get some excitement into my life.
I haven't really thought about what kind of stuff I'd throw. Maybe bits of stationery, some furniture, the odd porn mag, bits of torn paper with swear words written on them, like cunt, fuck, motherfucker, whore, wanker, fanny, you get the gist. That kind of thing.

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

2005-04-25T10:49:00.000+01:00

How the hell do people hang themselves? Is it because I never went to scouts and was always crap with knots that I have no idea how to do a hangman's noose?

Every summer, there's always a kid who hangs himself because he only got ten A Levels, and I think, "How the fuck does he know how to hang himself? He's only 16." It's the same when I read about a prisoner finishing themselves off by tying a bedsheet to the light fixings. Amazing stuff. I wouldn't know where to begin.

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

Pub Lunch Ordeal

2005-04-24T16:32:00.000+01:00

Went for a pub lunch. The girlfriend refused to drop me off to get my Sunday papers first. I think she was being deliberately malicious. We had to actually talk to eachother over lunch, which I'm sure was her intention. Once I realised this was the reality of the situation, I made a mental short list in the car of subjects to talk about that would appeal to her rather than myself.

1] The Beckhams
2] Celebrities
3] Nail varnish
4] Kids
5] Living in the countryside

Under no circumstances would I talk about great books I have read, football or the dwarf with the bright pink hair I saw the other day at Warren Street Station [if you're that small, surely the last thing you do is draw attention to yourself?].

"Just let it go," she said tucking into the last bit of her lukewarm cheese and onion quiche.
"All I'm saying is if you order the roast beef, you get the yorkshire pudding. If you ask for the lamb, you don't. Don't you find that strange?"
"Actually, I don't care."
"...I mean, who decides that? You get the same amount of slices of meat with both, same amount of potatoes and vegatables, but one gets the yorkshire pudding, the other doesn't."
She sighed.

The barman came over to take our plates.
"Would you like to look at our dessert menu?"
"Can we just have the bill please," asked the girlfriend?
"I fancy an apple pie actually."
"We'll have the bill please," the girlfriend said again, this time through gritted teeth.

I handed over my card. The barman handed me the chip and pin machine and I tapped in my pin.
""What's going on with the lamb?" I asked.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, how come you don't get a yorkshire pudding with the lamb?"
"I don't know," he replied, handing me my card back.
"You don't find that strange?"
"It's not something I've given a lot of though to really."
"Well you work here,"I continued. "And you've never thought to ask?"
"No."
"Don't you want to know why this happens?"
"Look, I just work here."
"You don't even try to pretend you care."
"I never said I don't care."
"Oh, so you do care?"
"Look, maybe I can ask for next time?"
"You'd do that?"
"Yes."
"'Cos it's really troubling me. I mean, on what basis is it decided that if you order the lamb, you don't get a yorkshire pudding? I mean what's going on there?"
I heard a car starting outside.
"Er, I think your girlfriend's just gone off without you," said the barman, motioning with his head towards the window.
Indeed she had.
I turned back to the barman. "Is there anywhere I can get a paper round here?"

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

The clever one watches

2005-04-24T16:13:00.000+01:00

The clever one is watching.

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

In the Land of the D's

2005-04-24T11:26:00.000+01:00

Today I am in the land of the D's.
I am one big giant D.

I am:

Dismayed
Depressed
Difficult
Detached
Displeased
Displaced
Despondent
Disillusioned
Disaffected
Dissatisfied
Disconnected
Disconsolate
Discontented
Disinclined
Disinterested
Disdainful
Sad - I know that's not a D, but I don't really care anymore.
And of course, Disappointed.

I am all of these things.

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

The flicking makes sense

2005-04-23T10:09:00.000+01:00

An hour after getting in, I realised I hadn't even noticed the girlfriend's new hair. Suddenly, her flicking her hair every few seconds started to make sense.

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

The Box

2005-04-21T22:13:00.000+01:00

“Would you rather I didn’t put the trainers back in their box?” I asked, having just taken off my Adidas Stan Smith.
“Well it would help if we could clear some boxes from under the bed,” replied the girlfriend.
“Okay, but will you promise me you won’t put anything on top of them, or let them get covered in dust?”
She gave me that weary look with which I am now familiar. She reached under the bed, brought the adidas box out and removed the lid, before sliding the box across the floor to me, the weary expression now giving way to what I can only describe as the most contemptuous look I have seen in a long, long time.

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

Old Man in Jeans

2005-04-21T11:15:00.000+01:00

The old man was taking forever to cross the road. I gritted my teeth. The girlfriend noticed.
"I know you'd rather I didn't let him cross."
"I'm gonna miss my train."
"What if that was your mum or dad?" She asked.
"Here we go. That guy doesn't cross the road now, the next car lets him go and all he has to do is wait ten seconds. I miss my train now and that leaves me running half an hour late."
"He's old."
"I don't care. Honk him, or whatever you call that beeping thing."
"I'm not honking him." She paused. "You'll be old one day."
"I won't be wearing jeans when I'm that age though. I think the cut off point for jeans should be 55. Blokes older than that don't look quite right in jeans...oh fuck me, is he having a laugh? It's never taken that long to cross a road."
"So what are you gonna wear when you're 55?"
"I don't know. There aren't many options. I'll probably have to switch to farahs, or suits."
"Will it be an overnight thing, or a gradual change?" She asked.
"Are you a fucking journalist now?"
"I'm just asking."
"This is like a bloody interview."
"You're so tetchy these days."
There was silence. The old man edged closer to the other side of the road.
"I'll probably do it gradually," I said. "And I won't wait till I'm 55. I'll start wearing the farahs a couple of times a week soon as I hit, say 53."
"That's very specific."
"Are details a bad thing?"
"No," she replied.
"No, come on. That look on your face seems to suggest details are a bad thing."
"Sometimes I wonder if you've got Aspergers syndrome."
"Oh great." I slammed the dashboard with my hand. "This clown takes half a day to cross the road and before he makes it to the other side you're diagnosing me with Aspergers Syndrome."
"Calm down."
"I can imagine what kind of journalist you'd be. Soon as someone gives you a straight answer you'll be pinning various syndromes on them."
My leg was starting to twitch. I rolled down my window. "Mate, come on," I shouted.
"Don't," said the girlfriend.
The old man just ignored me. He finally crossed, turned and raised his hand to the girlfriend in gratitude. She smiled at him.
"I thought the jeans looked okay on him," she said.
"Just get me to the station please."

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

The Nearly Wife

2005-04-20T21:39:00.000+01:00

She tossed me the car keys.
“Park the car.” She didn’t even look at me. To watch us, you’d have thought I was the house boy, not the boyfriend.

I was thousands of miles away from home, feeling lousy and still hadn’t quite weaned myself off the Prozac. The war was just weeks away and still the people of Bahrain weren’t convinced, despite the heavy military presence in the Gulf state, that war was unavoidable. And spiteful bastard that I was becoming, I was glad that the region was going to go up in flames because try as hard as I did, I really didn’t like what I found there.

I’d gone there to marry the girl. Though I wasn’t quite sure when that was happening. We were barely talking to one another by now. On the way here we’d passed some plush hotel and it was then that she broke the silence to tell me that our wedding reception would have been held there. Would have been. I guessed that meant we were no longer getting married.

By the end of the first week, I’d had enough of her moods and had started sleeping on the sofa. I’d gone to a lot of trouble getting there, and had basically made myself homeless back in London, as I didn’t plan on going back. I’d even gone to the trouble of working out for eighteen months, two hours every night, as I knew from my time at college that she was shallow enough to go for those kinds of blokes. So there I was, me and my new well-toned body sleeping on my own, when ironically, during my days out of shape, I’d been balling for England.

I held the keys in my hand. She grabbed her bag from inside the car and slammed the door shut.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
”All right,” I said, still looking at the set of keys, trying to figure out how I was going to find my way out of this one.
She made to go into the doctors. Not surprisingly, I’d been kept out of the loop with this as well. I had no idea why she was going to the docs. She wouldn’t tell me, but as possible husband to be I thought I ought to be there to offer my support for whatever might be wrong with her.
“You do know how to drive, don’t you,” She said sneeringly.
“I’ll get the car parked,” I replied, pleased I still hadn’t lied to her.

I don’t know if I’d ever told her I couldn’t drive. It was one of those rare occasions when I’m sure I hadn’t lied. I’ve lied my way through life you see. Dad always told me there was nothing wrong with lying in certain situations if it got you somewhere. My problem is I couldn’t stop lying. Even when there was no reason to lie, I lied and nothing was gained. Dad preached that you needed to remember your lies if you were to ensure you never got found out.

“It’s a big step for someone to come out and call you a liar, son” he often told me. “They might know you’re lying, and they might know you know they know you’re lying, but if they call you a liar, that relationship, whether it be lover, boss-employee, friend, is irreparably damaged.” Having put his theory to the test countless times in my hundred odd jobs, I have to say he was right.

However, I’d made a decision in Barcelona that if this was the girl I was going to marry, then I ought not to lie to her. I had enough secrets as it was, but I figured I couldn’t do anything about my past. Talk about skeletons in the cupboard, with me you’re looking at a major archaeological dig.

I think this girl assumed that, like all normal men, I could drive. We’d met up in Barcelona just before Christmas, getting to know each other all over again after the disaster that was our time together in the Seychelles in the summer of 2000. Without a car, Barcelona saw us go everywhere together by train and bus, and in her book, I was still, just about, a man.

But Bahrain was different. It was her home. She had her car. And suddenly, as a man sitting in the front passenger seat of a car being driven by a woman, in the Gulf of all places, I wasn’t looking too manly. I tried to style things out by rolling down my window and hanging my hand out of the car, occasionally making bizarre, completely improvised hand signals to other drivers. On the odd occasion when we picked up her dad, the girl would sit in the back and her dad would take the steering wheel.

”You drive D?” He asked me one afternoon.
”Been a while, been a while.” I said, not sure if the way I phrased this constituted a lie, but figuring that if it did, it was only her dad, and it didn’t matter.

* * *

She’d been gone twenty minutes, having double parked in the car park as she was running late for her appointment. Looking back, perhaps she suspected all along I couldn’t drive and in double parking, had been deliberately malicious. She had probably told her friends that if she could prove conclusively that I couldn’t drive, she would call the wedding off for good.

I still hadn’t managed to flag anyone down to park the car and was worried the wife to possibly be would come out any minute and wonder what the fuck I was doing. I decided on the manly pose of standing behind the open driver’s door, and as far as anyone was concerned, I was a driver. I opened the bonnet a couple of times, peered inside and pretended to be fiddling about with something.

“Hey American, you have a problem with your car.”

Again, I’d been mistaken for an American. I hated that. If I wasn’t mistaken for a yank, I was mistaken for a Jew on the account of my broken nose, and I was tired of explaining to locals where I was from. But I needed this guy.

“Listen bruv’, I need a favour.”

“Is it automatic or manual?”

“Does it matter? You said you could drive?”

“American, I’m doing you a favour,” said Osman, suddenly showing me he could lose his rag too. “There is no reason for you to take that tone with me.”

I apologised. Indeed, he was doing me a favour. “You’re right Osman. You’re right. Now if you could park the car, I’d be grateful.”

I’d never wanted to drive, and I wondered were I to get married, how many years it would be before I got found out. How many times would I need to find someone to park the girl’s car? How would I be found out? What would my reaction be? Would I be embarrassed? Dark secrets for most men tend to involve a secret mistress in the Bolton area and a few kids here and there. But for me it was that I couldn’t, and still to this day, can’t drive.

Osman parked the car perfectly, not that far away from the entrance to the health centre.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re very handsome,” he replied.
Now having done my fair share of travelling, I know each country has its own peculiar customs and traits, but I was pretty sure that there was not one English-speaking country where this was a stock reply to a thank you
“You work out,” he continued. “I can see your chest, puffed out like, how you say, bird with red chest.”
I got out of the car.
“If you like, I can drive you home when you finish here.”
”That’s very kind of you, but I’m waiting for someone,” I said.
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. Then his eyes shot into life. “What are you doing tomorrow? Would you like to go discotheque with me?”
“That’s very kind of you, but look, I’m kind of seeing someone.”
”Another soldier?”
“A girl.”
He smiled. He took out a picture from the inside pocket of his grey-coloured jacket, the type you see by the hundreds on the Edgware Road.
“My wife and two children.” He then pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote his number down. “You are like me. I too see woman, but I have fun also.” He winked. “If you want to go to the discotheque tomorrow, call me,” he continued. “But if wife answers, tell her you are client.”
With that, Osman handed me his number and put the keys back in my hand.

I was in little doubt that I hated the Gulf. The people who mistook me for an American, the Arab guys that would constantly hit on me, the way the call to prayers always woke me up at 4 in the morning, the food, and above all the girl. My time there was drawing to a rapid close.

* * *

The nearly wife looked at me incredulously. The car couldn’t have been parked better. I met her glare, and could suddenly hear dad’s voice.

“It’s a big step for someone to come out and call you a liar, son.”

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

Dry Cleaning Question

2005-04-20T11:58:00.000+01:00

"Does this jumper smell to you?"
The girlfriend put the jumper up to her nose.
"It smells, but it's not a smelly smell."
"How can it smell, but not smell?"
"It's not a bad smell. That's what I mean. I tell you what you should do, get all your jumpers and take them down to the dry cleaners."
"I don't know about that," I said.
"What's the big deal?"
I was in the dry cleaners most evenings to buy an evening paper. The local dry cleaners you see also doubles up as a newsagents.
"Every time I go in wearing a jumper they've cleaned, they'll recognise it. They'll know they've cleaned it. I don't like that. It's like they've been doing me a favour."
"What favour? You've paid for it."
"I'd rather go somewhere where they don't know me." I paused. "Does that make sense?"
"No. No it fucking doesn't. Neither do you. Neither does any of this."
There was a long silence.
"Do you know what that Surridge Dry Cleaners in Stockwell are like? What's their turnaround on jumpers like?"
"You're going to jump on a bus to take your jumpers there when there's a dry cleaners down the road?"
"Do you think I need to iron this?"
"Fuck off Disappointed."
"You know, none of my ex's ever swore at me like you do."
"I mean it, fuck off. You're doing my head in."

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

All-Rounders

2005-04-20T10:27:00.000+01:00

A girl that doesn't swallow is like a tennis player that doesn't have the game to compete at Wimbledon. Yes, maybe 'serve and volley' is something most tennis players don't like, but if you're going to climb up the rankings, you need to adapt and get to grips with the game on grass.

Andre Agassi didn't play at Wimbledon until 1991, but even he had to get with it in the end, and of course, he won in 1992. Monica Seles was another one that struggled on grass, and though she would never win Wimbledon, she reached the final one year. Neither of them ever pretended to love playing on grass, but they did it and their efforts brought pleasure to many.

"Oh, but I don't like the taste," is the usual line from those girls who believe they have enough in their armoury not to have to bother.
Listen, do you think Seles liked coming to the net? But she did because she needed the ranking points.

You get my drift ladies. Us guys, we don't want clay court specialists, we want girls with an all-round game.

See you at Wimbledon.

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

Shoe concerns

2005-04-20T10:10:00.000+01:00

"What is your problem Disappointed?"
The girlfriend had stopped in the middle of the high street. She was wagging her finger at me somewhat aggressively. People could see she was finger wagging. And she didn't care.
"I'm just saying," I began, "If I let you take my new shoes to work so I don't have to carry the bag around all day, I don't want you showing them to your work mates. I don't want people touching them. Keep them in their box."
"Look Dis'..."
Aargh! I do hate it when people shorten my name.
"...I have no interest in showing your new shoes to anyone."
"That's not a very nice tone you're taking," I replied.
"I came to the shop with you so you could get a second opinion on the shoes, like you wanted. That's all. Now I'll take this bag, stick it under my desk and forget all about it. No one's going to be seeing any shoes."
"Well, don't forget about it. I mean, I want them back tonight," I joked rather lamely.
"You need to lighten up," she said.
Oh God, I knew what was coming.
"You need to be grateful for what you have. There are starving children in Africa who..."
I closed my ears to the rest of the speech. I'd heard it too many times. I'm unhappy. Being told there are starving children in Africa doesn't help my unhappiness one bit. I will not have my legitimate shoe concerns undermined by images of hungry kids.
"Just keep them in their box," I said, before kissing her on the cheek and heading off to get my train.

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

The Flip Flop Nightmare Goes On...

2005-04-20T10:03:00.000+01:00

I saw too many men out and about in flip flops yesterday to be happy with the way the world is going.

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

Sandwich solution

2005-04-19T09:12:00.000+01:00

Is there someone out there who has it within their capability to create a properly-packed sandwich, one that doesn't fall apart when you're trying to eat it?

What's the point in looking like a ponce, knocking back a latte, and sitting there in the cafe with your lap top - the locals wondering whether the laptop is in fact an alien - when your sandwich is breaking up before you? It's humiliating. I was having to ask people from the next table to come and help me with it.

"All right, you take the chicken escalope, you, woman with big hairy mole on her face, take the lettuce. You with the sovereign ring, you're in charge of the bread but clean your hands first."

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

Blues

2005-04-19T00:00:00.000+01:00

It won't surprise you, being the miserable bastard that I am, that I hate birthdays. And today is my birthday. I always saw it more as a day for the parents, especially mums. After all, I didn't really have to do anything. And with them not being around now to make a big deal about it, it's a nothing event.

I've been preparing myself mentally for the last six months. Every October 19th the countdown begins in earnest. Like most people, I find getting old depressing. I think 22 was my best age. You're not a kid any more, but with 21 being just a year earlier, you're still young enough to get away with doing stupid things and I certainly did enough of those.

27 was a shock. I remember still thinking that meant I was still in my mid-twenties until someone pointed out that was late-twenties. That cut me like a knife. I don't think I have ever recovered.

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

The Finish Line

2005-04-18T23:45:00.000+01:00

If you’re ever thinking of calling it a day, make sure you’re absolutely sure that you don’t want to carry on with life.

I felt like a right cunt the other day pulling myself out of the river, and there’s no telling what kind of infection I could have picked up from the Thames. My clothes were soaked right through and I think my pants line was visible. I was also covered in mud having hoisted myself up the muddy river bank, my pockets still bulging with the rocks I’d used to weigh myself down.

I'd tried to ready myself properly by holding my nose under water in a lukewarm bath in the month leading up to my attempt, but nothing can prepare you for jumping into a freezing dirty river that tastes horrible. And to see a fish within seconds of opening my eyes under water was a terrifying experience. On refelection, perhaps I ought to have reconsidered my decision not to throw myself off a tall building on the basis that I don't like heights.

I could see the bemused look on this couple’s faces as I struggled past them. Understandably, they must’ve thought they’d found themselves a quiet, romantic spot. I think they were a new couple. They looked like they actually liked each other, and the guy seemed to be genuinly interested in what the girl had to say, so I'm guessing this was week 1 of their relationship. On reflection, my sudden appearance may have interrupted their first kiss.

So remember. Be sure you’re doing the right thing before you bow out.

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

Worrying Euphemism

2005-04-17T21:25:00.000+01:00

I read in the paper today that police had discovered a body in some woods, and according to the Sergeant, the "corpse had been worried by animals".

Death's biggest selling point is that you've got no more worries, so how the hell does an animal worry a corpse? What happens? Do animals come across a body in the woods and start flicking elastic bands at it, or place letters by the corpse from creditors demanding payment from the deceased?

I'm guessing the term is a euphemism for animals eating away at a body, but this is a rather puzzling euphemism that took me a while to work out. They should just get to the point. If a family of foxes were seen taking chunks out of a human torso, or if a badger was spotted casually sauntering off with a human arm, I want to know about it. Instead, I've spent my afternoon worrying about how animals could possibly worry a corpse.

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

Where did the good dreams go?

2005-04-16T11:41:00.000+01:00

What happened to the good dreams? When I was a kid, I used to have some superb dreams, battling aliens, having a punch up with the reggae singer Eddy Grant on the deck of the QE11, shagging my mate's mum [he never talked to me again after I told him]. Not like now. I'm afraid to go to sleep these last few years.

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

Bad Yawn

2005-04-15T23:45:00.000+01:00

Produced perhaps the most unattractive yawn of my life tonight on the train home. Eyes scrunched, mouth wide open and uncovered, teeth bared. All witnessed by a girl. I caught her looking but I was too tired to cover my mouth. Thankfully she got off at the next stop. She had a good arse too, so I applauded her off.

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

Nothing Really

2005-04-14T16:44:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I just feel shit about things. I'm not sure what I'm railing against, what I'm fighting for, indeed, whether I should be fighting for something. I'm not sure about anything. Just that my head hurts. And that life hasn't quite turned out how I'd have liked it to. But there are people on here, soldiers, you'll probably know who they are by now, who keep going no matter what, and love them or loathe them, knowing they're out there can snap you out of any navel gazing you might be doing. And I've needed that today.

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

The Wasted Decade

2005-04-14T16:07:00.000+01:00

I spent the whole of the nineties convinced I was one half of Tears For Fears. The whole thing became so real to me that even mum believed I was in the band, though dad had never heard of them.

The decade passed me by and it was only once I realized I had never been in the group that I became aware of how attractive I was to the ladies. Looking back now, it is likely that my efforts to convince people that I was the real Roland Orzabal probably cost me somewhere in the region of, and this is a conservative estimate, two to three hundred ladies.

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

My Aunt must clean

2005-04-14T13:47:00.000+01:00

My aunt is obsessed with cleaning. Even when she comes round to visit me, she has to clean.
"Leave it," I say. "Just sit down and finish your coffee."
"Let me clean," she pleads.
"Please. It's not why I got you round here."
"I'll clean your internet," she says.
"You can't clean it."
"Come on Desilusiónado [Disappointed in Spanish], I bought my bleach and my gloves with me. Where is it?"
"It can't be cleaned. It's not a physical thing."
"What do you mean, it's not a physical thing?"
"Please, just sit down."
Just when you think the conversation is dead, she picks up a silver-coloured box with tax receipts from my desk. I know what's coming, but it still hurts.
"Is this it? Is this the internet?"
I grip the arms of my chair hard.
She blows the dust off the box. "Look at the dust on that. No wonder you're always complaining your internet's slow. You sit down, I'll go and get my duster."

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

Fishing For Porn

2005-04-14T11:19:00.000+01:00

I’ve always been fascinated by water. Ponds, lakes, rivers. Never the sea though. That might be partly down to the fact that at nineteen, I'd fallen asleep on a waterbed in Malta and drifted out of the bay, only to be rescued by a fishing boat several hours later.

When I was sixteen I became obsessed with fishing. And like everything I get involved in, within a matter of days I had amassed an impressive array of fishing equipment.

I liked the idea of whiling away long summer days casting my rod into waters. The truth was that after a couple of such afternoons, I was completely bored and I didn’t like touching fish. I’d literally throw them back into the water with the hooks still in their mouths, and it’s things like that that I believe will count against me when it comes to getting into heaven. Mind you, I bet no one in their own fish communities messed around with those psycho-looking pierced fish once they were returned, or rather hurled, back into the water.

Yes, my affair with angling was brief, and lasted perhaps a couple of months at best before I moved onto collecting porn. Buying porn was a wholly different matter to buying angling equipment though. I looked way too young for my age for a start, and the growth spurt that saw me consigned to bed for 3 weeks and rocket from 5.4 to 5.11 inside a month was still nearly a year away.

At night I would psyche myself up in bed – thinking about porn is no easy thing when your parents are in the bed to your left, and your sister is occupying the top bunk, let me tell you – and I would come up with a hit list of newsagents that I could attempt to buy a filthy magazine from. I’d hit them early on the way to my Saturday job, I told myself. There won’t be many people about.

Saturday morning would come and my bottle would stop at the door, and instead I’d buy myself the morning paper. And then, despite all this careful planning, one Friday afternoon I just decided I couldn’t take it any more. I needed porn, and I needed it there and then. More than needing porn, I actually needed to know I could buy it. It was a rite of passage for every young man. The wait couldn’t go on. Common sense deserted me. Folders full of porn-buying strategies were tossed into a bon fire and with a couple of mates [regular buyers of porn despite being younger than me] I marched to my local newsagent in Clapham North, Pete’s, of all places, and with the shop full of customers, reached up to the top for a copy of Escort.

“Excuse me young man. Put that back.”

Everyone’s eyes were on me. Ten years of shopping at Pete’s almost every day came to a shuddering halt there and then and I fled, my face as red perhaps as it would be the day those Maltese fishermen saved my life. I have never been back to the scene of my disgrace since. I have often asked myself why I put Pete through that. He’d seen me grow up; he’d seen me buy my comics, slush puppies, match box cars. He was proud of the man I was becoming, and then I put him through the pain of watching me trying to buy porn. I should have gone elsewhere. He deserved better than that and it was unforgivable.

After that I knew buying a Jazz mag was beyond me, and to this day it remains so. Fuck all them 50 Things to do before you die lists that have visiting the Andes at number three, and swimming with dolphins in the Maldives at number 8. I want to buy porn before I die. I want to walk back into Pete’s, buy myself that copy of Escort and say, “Hurry up and take my money man, I need a tug and I need it now…look, if you don’t hurry up I shall be forced to do what I need to do right here.”

As it was, it was left to my younger friends to help me put together a collection of porn mags almost unrivalled in Europe, and it was a collection that came together very quickly. Calls were fielded from museum curators as far a field as Moscow, eager for me to exhibit my collection.

It was an offer I was giving serious consideration to when my sister discovered one such magazine hidden in the sleeve of Kylie Minogue’s first album. After a fortnight of paying her to keep quiet, I was quickly running out of cash and decided a quick evacuation was in order. It would be an evactuation on a scale not seen since British and French troops were withdrawn from Dunkirk in May 1940.

The magazines were hurriedly put together into several bin liners and tossed over – no pun intended – into a neighbour’s garden, crashing through [I was later to learn] his greenhouse.

Two years later, another brief dalliance with angling took place. This time I went to Richmond with several work friends. Italia ’90 I remember was on, Gascoigne’s famous tears just a week or so away. It really was a glorious summer’s day and I was there with all my angling gear and dressed up in the baggy Madchester garb that was all the rage in them days.

Among the friends was Ray, a 29-year-old security guard with a serious drink problem and a very grave comb over. It quickly became obvious to my group that I had no idea how to fish and Ray, despite the dozen or so cans of tenants super he had already put away was becoming increasingly involved. In fact, if you were at Richmond that day and saw two men holding a rod, that was probably Ray and I.

Then disaster struck. My rod got stuck among some reeds and I was struggling to resolve the situation. Ray told me to step aside and I decided to help myself to a drink. I walked over to the rest of the group who couldn’t have been more than three or four yards away.

“Where’s Ray?” Asked Jill, his girlfriend.
“He’s back there,” I replied nonchalantly.
“Where’s Ray?” She repeated, though this time she was screaming.

I turned round. Ray was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t see him amongst the reeds, I couldn’t see him full stop. The man had vanished, though my rod, thankfully, was still there [I was planning on selling it].

“Take off your trainers.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Take off your trainers,” Said Jill. “ You’re going in.”

By now, Ray must have been gone for at least a minute. Not a long time in the real world, but in ‘might be drowning time’ an eternity. I took my trainers off, finding it hard to come to terms with the fact that I was about to go into the water. “But there’s fish in there,” I almost cried.
“Off course there are fish, that’s why we’re here watching you fucking fish,” she retorted.

I was undoing my top when all of a sudden, Ray’s head popped out of the water and he began a drunken swim back to the riverbank.

We made our way back towards Richmond High Street with barely a word uttered, Ray greeting the strange looks he got with a volley of abuse at strangers.

Our bus came quickly. Ray handed the driver a five-pound note.
“Single please.”
“I can’t accept this,” said the driver. “It’s wet.”
“Off course it’s wet, you cunt.” There are many who think the c-word is never more effective than when uttered by a northerner, but Ray, with his strong south London accent, could give them a run for their money. “I’m fucking wet. Now a single please.”

Suffice to say we had to wait for the next bus.

I expected to have better memories from my brief flirtation with angling, but they’re almost as disappointing as my doomed attempts to buy porn.

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

Compulsory applause for a great arse

2005-04-13T00:18:00.000+01:00

I think when you see a woman with a great arse walking down the street, it should be acceptable and compulsory to break into spontaneous applause.

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

Imperfection

2005-04-12T09:29:00.000+01:00

"Oh my God."
"What?"
"Your chest...feel this...it's higher on one side."
"It's what?" I was getting really pissed off by now.
"It's raised," said the girlfriend, sitting herself up in bed. "Feel it."
I felt my chest. There seemed to be nothing unusual.
"Your chest's got an imperfection. It's deformed."
"Get the fuck out of here with your deformed," I replied putting my top back on, all of sudden feeling self-conscious. "You're deformed.
"There's no need to get personal," she said sounding hurt.
I turned my back to her and decided to try and get to sleep. There was a stony silence for all of a minute.
"I think you need to go to the doctor's."
"It's Sunday night," I shouted.
"Well it's up to you, but that to me looks serious."
"It's Sunday night," I repeated. "What, if I wait until the morning it'll be too late?"
"No, it's just-"
"Just what?" I was like an attack dog by now. "Could you not wait until the morning to tell me this? How am I meant to sleep now?"
She looked at me with disdain. "So if you saw I had one breast bigger than the other, you wouldn't say anything?"
"I wouldn't put the fear of God into you at 2 in the morning," I replied. "I can't believe you. This is the first time we're getting it on, and this is what happens?"
She tried to rub my chest again. I pushed her off, but there was no letting up from her. "You need to get that looked at."
I leant over my side of the bed, scrabbling around desperately. "Where's my fucking headphones?"

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

Raise your glasses to the headphones

2005-04-12T09:19:00.000+01:00

I could never envisage myself living in a world without headphones. When the girlfriend is sobbing her heart out upstairs, you just slip them on and block the world out. I wonder what guys did in these circumstances before their invention?

Let's hear it for the headphones.

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

Meanswear

2005-04-11T17:08:00.000+01:00

Why is menswear always upstairs when you walk into a department store? Why is it always us who should have to make the effort to go up a floor?

If I make a million, I'm going to buy some premises, open a store and I'm putting menswear on the ground floor. Floors one through to five will be empty, and womenswear will be on the sixth floor.

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

Gum Horror

2005-04-11T15:38:00.000+01:00

Above: The stain that ripped the heart out of my weekend.

"No one can see it," Said the girlfriend.
"That's not the point. I can see it."
She sighed.
"I know it's there, and it's making my head hurt something bad. It really is."

Me and stains have never made for comfortable bedfellows, and here I was, a victim of perhaps the worst staining I'd ever suffered. Jacket, bag and jeans had all succumbed to serious staining because some moron decided to put gum on the back of my train seat yesterday.

The jacket is on its way to the dry cleaners, while the bag has been thrown. I wore the jeans out today but had to turn back. I just can't function looking at that stain. If I find out who did it, I will sleep with their mother and I will take pictures. If it was you and you are reading this, I want you to know you are a cunt. And your parents are cunts. In fact, if I'm right, you have to go back to the 1760s to find the last person in your family not to be a cunt.

"Stop trying to scrub it off. You'll make it worse."
"How can scrubbing it make it worse than it already is?" I asked.
"You're such a drama queen," the girlfriend retorted.
"Why do you always have to make out I'm making something out of nothing? Look at this," I said pointing at my gum-stained left leg. "My jeans are ruined."
"They're not ruined," she said, making little effort to disguise her lack of interest.
"You never agree with me on anything," I said.
The girlfriend shook her head and reached for her nail file. "You know, I don't really know why I'm with you."
"Well, we're agreed on that."

****************
"How about ice cubes?"
"What?"
"I've heard if you rub an ice cube over the gum, it gets rid of the stain," I said.
"If this conversation lasts another five seconds, you're going to be rubbing the ice cube over your jeans as a single man. Now switch the light off and go back to sleep. It's 4 in the fucking morning."
"You have to swear? You know I don't like women swearing."
"Fuck off Disappointed."

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

No More Wristbands

2005-04-11T12:54:00.000+01:00

Message to all the wankers out there wearing well-meaning wristbands. I don't care what the cause is. Enough is enough. No more wristbands. Please.

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

Similar Interests

2005-04-10T23:47:00.000+01:00

The only thing my girlfriend and I have in common is that we both have no interest in eachother's interests.

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

Stairs

2005-04-10T10:19:00.000+01:00

I spoke to my dad's cousin yesterday. She's always been the only one of his side of the family I've got on with. The rest were all a bit vulgar and hillbillyish.
"Is that you Disappointed?" She said excitedly on hearing my voice.
"Yeah. How are you?"
"Oh, not well my love. I fell down some stairs."

She's in her early fifties now, still too young you'd have thought to be tumbling down stairs like an old granny. The thing is though, she's been falling down stairs for as long as I can remember. I don't think we've ever had a single conversation where she isn't recovering from such a fall, all the more remarkable when you learn that there were never any stairs in her flat.

Her falls were often a useful tool in dad defusing the arguments that ensued because he never let my sister and I eat there. Their flat - my cousin was one of five family members and two dogs that lived there - you see was filthy. Dad would brief us before we went round on what to say if we were offered food, often stopping as we arrived at their front door to check one last time that my sister and I were on message.

"What's the matter wth you?" My cousin would yell at my dad. "You never let your kids eat here. Are you disgusted by us or something?"
"What happened to your face?" Dad would ask calmly whilst pulling a dog hair out of his tea.
"Oh, I fell down some stairs," she'd reply
"Again? You really need to be more careful."
"I know."

In over twenty years of going there, not one single bit of food, not even a biscuit, passed between our lips.

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

They've got to be ****ing joking

2005-04-09T16:15:00.000+01:00

Why?
Don't they realise this woman makes my head hurt?

Playing It Straight
New series. June Sarpong presents the dating show in which 10 eligible bachelors arrive at a Mexican hacienda and compete to win the affections of single lady Zoe - who is unaware that five of the men looking to impress her are gay, attempting to fool her to win the £100,000 prize up for grabs. During the first week, Zoe learns that some of the guys wooing her aren't straight - and must vote two of them out of the game based on her first impressions.

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

Fish and flood

2005-04-09T16:04:00.000+01:00

Do you get fish in floods? I mean, when you see these people in their rubber knee-high boots wading in through the water, pushing the elderly and infirm in boats, do you think there’s a chance of them being attacked by carp or pike?

I would imagine there is. When a river bursts its banks, I can’t quite see fish trying to swim against the tide and saying, “It’s a flood, let’s stay put."

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

Women

2005-04-09T15:54:00.000+01:00

Women.
You can't live with them...and you can't live with them.

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

Blame the mum, she never locked the door

2005-04-08T09:18:00.000+01:00

I once walked in on a friend's mum when she was on the John. I couldn't have been more than ten. Why she didn't lock the door, only she could answer that. What I can tell you is that it just wasn't possible to continue my friendship with her son after that. We tried, but it just wasn't possible. Everything came back to his mum. I needed years of counselling to deal with that one, and I still have the odd night where I wake up screaming after dreaming I've walked in on her again.

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

Pump up the volume

2005-04-07T22:27:00.000+01:00

When the guy next to you on the train whips his little feller out, you kind of know that knocking up the volume on your walkman isn’t going to help you.

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

What else can happen?

2005-04-07T09:57:00.000+01:00

One of my many ex-girlfriends is now in a band garnering many a positive review. With the band placing much of their hopes on her ample cleavage [as seen in the papers], there is a good chance she may become well known before I do. That's just not on. Soon I think this will start keeping me up at night, especially if she makes any more disparaging remarks about me in interviews. I mean, what's her problem with net curtains?

She never had any obvious talent, but she hung about in a rather cliiquey, poncy group that was always destined for great things, and some of those people are already well known. Some people will, despite a lack of talent, make a name for themselves in the arts. They'll try their hand at acting, music, whatever, and while they'll be crap at most, they will be decent enough at one to embark upon a stellar journey.

I don't know how I will deal with the fact that I was balling this girl when she was a nothing. Might have been better to sort her out when she was a something. Now I'll be like Britney Spears' teenage sweetheart, working in a factory, selling the odd story about prom night and so on.

Why did this have to happen to me? I'm all wrong to be dealing with this kind of thing. I'm bitter enough as it is without having to watch someone I, at times disliked, have a successful life.

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

Body Pumping

2005-04-07T09:49:00.000+01:00

"How can you only tell me on the same day?"
My Ugandan friend [the same man who would drive his women around for 20 minutes so they never worked out where he lived] wasn't happy. I'd called him up that morning having just seen that the annual Jazz festival at St Christopher's Place was back on that day, and knowing my friend was a big jazz fan, I thought he might like to head down there that evening.
"In Africa, you can tell me to come tonight, but here in England you can't. Things are different here, Disappointed."
He took a long pause. My ears were burning.
"Obviously you didn't want me to come," he added. "Anyway, I body pump my body on Wednesday at the gymnasium, make sure it looks right for my ladies."

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

Left-handed Texting Championships

2005-04-06T16:29:00.000+01:00

Just received my wild card invite for the second left-handed texting championships to be held in Brussels this year. Not sure I'll be entering. This year it's gone all gimmicky. They've introduced a section where the judges talk to you about several topics. Now I can talk about anything, but I'm worried I might be asked to go on about animals for five minutes. As you know, I don't like animals. They are so boring.

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

Shola

2005-04-06T14:09:00.000+01:00

Train hopping on the underground last night, I passed a young girl on her own who was singing loudly on the platform. This always reminds me of the time a decade or so ago when you'd always get girls doing this in the wake of the R n B singer Shola Ama, who was famously discovered warbling to herself at Hammersmith station by a record executive.

On hearing of Ama's good fortune, all these young girls immediately took to singing banal R n B shite on train platforms, raising their hands to the heavens as they hit the high notes [usually forgetting all about their young kids who were left to wander freely on the platform].

I remember getting myself some bogus business cards made up at Oxford Circus underground station which said I was a top record executive with a well-known company, and I'd hand them out to these fools whenever I happened upon them on the underground.

Within the day they'd call me and I'd vent all my fury.

"You cunt, you think you're gona get a record deal with a voice like that. Fuck off back to college and lay off the KFC...and clean your kid's mouth. Yeah, you heard me."

Shola Ama was okay though, to be fair.

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

Dead Man

2005-04-06T12:22:00.000+01:00

There’s a rather rough looking old bloke who’s always in my favourite café. He’s never smelt great but he looks to be in really bad shape these days, inching towards death. Having been around people who’ve passed away suddenly, you do get to recognise the blueish pallor the skin adopts when the end is near for someone, and the end, I think, is near for this guy.

I did wonder yesterday whether he was dead already. Maybe I was the only one who could see him?

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