A friend of mine recently stated that the definition of comfort was lying in bed, listening to the rain tapping on the window. I agree. It is nice to have toasty cockles nestled underneath a high tog count; a hot, milky brew on the table and something soothing on the hi-fi. Like Tom Waits with the hot coals of a voice he has. Isn’t it?

I’m thinking of what my friend says because it ties in neatly with a few other bits of brain-flotsam preventing sleep. Yes, it is nice to be in bed, having defied the elements and provided yourself with the maximum creature comforts the modern consumer-hoarder adores. But maybe, just maybe, it’s nicer to be in the rain, walking towards it.

Hear me out.

I’ve been re-reading “Margrave of the Marshes”, the semi-autobiography of the late, great John Peel. A man, without whom, great swathes of underground music would have gone completely unnoticed. This, I am aware of, and grateful for. What I truly love about the book though, is the way his personality shines through. First from his own perspective, and then through those of his wife and four kids.

He seems kind, funny, and humble. Wizened with age yet still with odd childish insecurities. I read particular anecdotes, and wish I could be like him. Act as he does; be recklessly romantic and endearingly screwy. Be able to act with the knowledge that his age has brought. I resent my impatience, and how it has been thrust upon me. Upon all of in the two-second-ATTN:Span-generation.

At this point in our lives, so much emphasis is put on learning. So much so that we forget we are learning. I can’t be the only person who thinks that if something isn’t done to a standard well above where I should be aiming, then I am a colossal failure fit for the scrap heap – years before I’ve even built up a decent no-claims bonus.

This brings me to Ithaca, Odysseus’ destination in Homer’s Odyssey. Ithaca is everything you yearn for. A goal, not a gaol. And, as it’s 2:28am, and I’m already regretting writing such sentimental tripe, I’ll allow Greek Poet Konstantinos Kavafis to elocute in ways I cant quite do.

Yet.

“Keep Ithaca always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.

Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.”

And if my point still eludes you, then maybe Frank Turner’s version is more suitably succinct.

“If you’re all about the destination, then take a fucking flight”

He wrote, “For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.”

See if you can recreate this task. I don’t mean finish a story, like “Just ditch the gun”, he said.” There are to be NO rhetorical questions, like: “But aren’t we all just dust?” I want a STORY.

“For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn.” A couple comes to terms with their lost child– perhaps a miscarriage, perhaps a problem during birth, we don’t know, but it tells a brilliant story in just six words. See if you can do the same.

“My father: Jailed. Because of me!”

Recently there have been more than a few shock-tactic headlines adorning the Tabloid pages, making martyrs out of those unfortunate enough to die while under the influence with over-emotives like “Ban Meow Meow for our John”. My personal favourite, however, was “Legal drug teen ripped his scrotum off”. Genius.

MCAT, Meow Meow, Drone or Bubble (or 4-MMC to boffins), is a legal high sold on the Internet as plant fertiliser as it is against the law to sell, supply or advertise the powder for human consumption under the Medicines Act. It is not to be confused with Methadone, the opiate substitute given to warm up a Heroin Addict’s cold turkey.

In the space of a year, Mephedrone has become the UK’s most popular drug. It is popular for its low price, ready availability, legal status, and the obvious pleasurable effects. It is most effective when snorted like Cocaine, and the average bump lasts up to an hour. The high is compared to amphetamines, MDMA, and cocaine, with users feeling greater empathy, social awareness and relaxation. As well as the obvious need to dance and tell everyone you love them. Twice.

You will have read in the media reports of deaths linked to consumption of Mephedrone. In all of these cases, yes, the deceased took Mephedrone. However, if the red tops actually bothered with such trivialities as coroner’s reports, they would have seen that the use of the drug was not actually the cause of the death. Not for a second would I suggest that a journalist were to completely ignore facts in the process of putting together a story, Lord no.

The death of teenagers Louis Wainwright, 18, and Nicholas Smith, 19, has propelled the government ever closer to a ban on Mephedrone, following the example set by Israel, Finland and Norway. This is a move which the EU has warned against, advising the government to wait until an EU body conducted more research into the drug, the long term effects of which are still largely unknown by the authorities.

What you will not have read in the papers about the death of these two men, is that as well as Mephedrone, they also drank dangerous levels of alcohol and took Methadone, which reminds me of a quote by the late comedian Bill Hicks: “You’ve all seen it: “Today a young man on acid…thought he could fly…jumped out of a building…what a tragedy!” What a dick. He’s an idiot. If he thought he could fly why didn’t he take off from the ground first?”

Why are these same tabloid editors and writers not calling for a ban on alcohol? In 2008 there were 9,031 alcohol related deaths in the UK. So far this year there have been zero deaths caused directly by taking Mephedrone. Zilch, nada, nyet. Of course, taking Mephedrone didn’t exactly do them any favours, but I don’t believe that it is the real evil here. It is a mass media preaching to the converted with a mixture of omissions and distortions of truths.

The media scrum is scarily reminiscent of Chris Morris’ Brass Eye, and their drugs special. The moral panic and self righteousness spewing forth from the frothing sound holes of flesh-waste celebrities like Noel Edmunds is happening again, minus the genius satire. That episode was aired 13 years ago, and nothing has changed.

Which brings me back to Bill Hicks, who has the simple idea “To base your decision on information rather than scare tactics and superstition?, perhaps? Wouldn’t that be interesting? Just for once?”

Wouldn’t it be nice?

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Top five pickup lines you have never used.

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Though my man-whore days are now beyond me, I can be caught using an outrageous pickup line every now and then. But back in my days of promiscuity, and this is the honest truth, they mostly worked. Now that can be attributed to a number of things, but most arguably it is my intense appreciation for irony and sarcasm. I didn’t use pickup lines under the pretense that they will actually result in anything but disdain towards me, I use them to start a conversation. By “conversation” I mean an intense berating or a witty response right back.

Two things usually happened after I dropped a bomb: the girl either found it funny that I had the balls to use such a line, or she immediately wanted to go in for a nut-shot—this usually leads into me bollocking my way out of the girl’s bad books and coming off as a down-to-earth, proverbial “funny guy.” All this said, however, chaos theory would suggest that there is no way a pickup line could work on every girl—and they don’t. But for the sake of the article, here are my “Top five pickup lines you have never used.”

Disclaimer: These are all my own lines that I have used throughout my life as pretentious asshole.

1)   Approach two girls with a stark difference in attractiveness. Go up to the blatantly more attractive of the two and say, softly, “Your friend is a bit out of my league, but you I could settle for.”

2)   “I’ve got Chlamydia, but you don’t look like you’d mind.”

3)   “If I was you I would be a massive slut.”

4)   “My friends and I have a bet. They say you don’t take it up the ass, and I say you do.”

And finally, the line that won me my first girlfriend:

5)   “Fancy going halvsies on a bastard?”

Use these lines wisely, my friend, for great danger be upon those that can’t bullshit their way out of getting kicked in the nuts.

As usual, here are some reasons why I don’t have a girlfriend:

-       I’ve discovered recently that the second a female enters my life, my personal hygiene skyrockets from “questionable” to “anal retentive.” I brush my teeth twice a day, I shower twice a day, I clean my room, I make my bed, I do all the things a normal person is supposed to do on an every-day basis. Two things then happen: I either get with the girl and date her for while, at which point (around 2 weeks in) I revert back to my normal state as a modern day Cro-Magnon and she dumps me, disgusted. Or, my efforts to clean up my act go unnoticed (because what girl doesn’t expect basic personal hygiene), she loses interest and as retribution to the time I spent looking good, I compensate for with a streak of intense non-showering and cleaning and my room begins to look like inside of Oscar the Grouch’s trashcan. All this leads to one conclusion: 95% of the time I am a smelly, dirty bastard.

-       Everyone over here seems to think that rugby is a tougher sport than American football. Rugby is better in many aspects than American football, but tougher it is not. I’ve watched it a couple times, and what tough man watching rugby can actually take an Australian commentator yelling “WOT A TICKLE!” every 30 seconds without giggling? Not me, sir, not me.

-       Showering with a woman will never result in actual cleanliness, at least for the guy. I can guarantee that every woman who has ever showered with a man has come out with sparkling clean boobs. EVERY. TIME.

-       Never lie about the size of your penis. Picking up a girl under the pretense that you are hung like a moose will only lead to her being even more surprised when, and if, she pulls down your pants and sees that you have been grossly exaggerating the extent of your lovemaking abilities.

-       Finally, never use a pickup line in front of a group of girls. I was with a bunch of friends at a bar/club early in the night for some hot wings and a few lagers. It was basically just us in the place until a gaggle of giggling girls showed up at the bar and started ordering shots. As mentioned before, my friends and I like to play a pickup line game in which the object is to get slapped and win a round from your friends. Being the brave boy I was I openly volunteered and sauntered my way up to the girls, picking out one particularly good-looking blond out of the group.

“Five bucks says you won’t sleep with me,” I said with a smug, wry grin.

“Well I don’t have five bucks to blow, so let me take a look at you.” She told me to spread my arms and show myself off. I was chuffed to bits, she was playing right along… or so I though. I gave a twirl for her and she pantomimes a huddle with her girlfriends, at which point she turns around, smiles, and deftly swoops her hands into the waistband of my shorts and boxers and whips them to the ground to reveal me in all my flaccid glory.

No wonder I don’t have a girlfriend.

Yet this doesn’t seem to be the case. The lifeline of cooking skills that are traditionally passed down from parents to children seems to be becoming severed. Young adults are actively choosing cheap, boxed comfort food, not just for the economic benefits but because they believe it tastes better. The concept of buying basic natural ingredients, storing leftovers and using them for new dishes seems completely lost to most students that I talk to. Within the next two generations, most of the classic British food that I respect and love will have probably been lost, replaced by the culture of international takeaways. Now don’t get me wrong, I love the diversity of cooking dishes from other countries… but Old El Paso boxed meals and jars of Dolmio are barely broadening your horizons.

What would happen if the supermarkets and takeaway stores suddenly shut? Most British citizens wouldn’t know how to grow their own vegetables, or where to buy fresh, local produce. As obesity continues to rise on our little island, shouldn’t the government focus on encouraging us to care about what we eat? Or at the very least, the ability to recognise ingredients and acknowledge how they came to be sitting in our freezers? Even if it means restricting students to only a handful of meals, I believe it would be better to have them at least preparing food properly and with care. This starting block would perhaps enthuse society to broaden their kitchen skills and learn to cook in their own time.

The greatest façade seems to lie in celebrity chef television. Although the number of shows seems to rise with every year, it arguably sparks a very small response in the kitchen. Last Christmas, my family spent each night gazing passively at the television set whilst Jamie Oliver produced simple, inventive and festive food. Each relative would nod at an individual recipe, commenting “That looks nice, doesn’t it?” with as much conviction as a local MP. They obviously had no desire to try and make the dish, but felt that it was socially attractive to express an interest in it. Let’s be honest; we watch Gordon Ramsay for the drama of his vocal abuse and Nigella Lawson for her flirtatious presenting. Rarely do we quickly grab a jotter and pen, taking down the process and ingredients that a chef uses to make an eye-catching meal.

Students aren’t supposed to cook. It seems to have become the accepted stereotype that we must only live off Super Noodles and Iceland frozen meals, slowly degrading until we are saved by the safety of the holidays. Three years or more of bad University habits are hard to break. The vain hope that we will all fall into the perfect 9-5 job and suddenly come home with the added vigour for cooking properly is, in my opinion, a lie. Perhaps I am simply blind to the thriving community of young food enthusiasts in Britain. All I know is that yesterday I made tomato and rocket risotto. My friend thought I had made something from the Renaissance period.

We just sat there for a while then she disappeared into her bathroom then eventually took off. I haven’t heard from the cops yet, so that’s a good sign. I didn’t know what to do, I called my mom and my momma got scared…

She said you’re moving with your auntie and uncle to Bel Air.
I whistled for a cab and when it came near,
The license plate said FRESH and it had a dice in the mirror.
If anything I could say that this cab was rare,
but nah, just forget it, ‘yo holmes, to Bel Air!’
I. Pulled. Up to the house around 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie “yo holmes, smell ya later!”
I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there,
to sit on my throne as the Prince of Bel Air.

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Issue #3

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The Homeless are only here to entertain us.

I don’t “hate” the homeless, my morals happen to oppose their way of earning money. Not that I myself have ever learned that money comes from hard work. I mean, my greatest fear is manual labour, but begging for money from people other than your mother just seems downright lazy. My first night back at Docksiders (the local pub I’ve been being kicked out of since 2004) I found myself setting up a joke that would send me to the bathroom in fear of urinating myself.

“Its nice being back but FUCK, you know you’re back home when you can’t even get into a bar without a “Ey bie” from Keith.” I said. It was at that moment that my audiences attention was visibly directed behind me where I heard the heavy breath and smelled the words “Eyy bieeeee.” It was Keith.

I used to give money to Keith quite a bit, especially when I was actually making money. But in recent months with the recession and drink prices leading you to believe they should be sprinkled with green turtle shell, I’ve been a little more frugal. So, to combat this, I offer Keith deals. He will not be getting money from me by merely lighting my cigarette, no. I prefer things along the line of one-armed pushups, alphabet recitations (amongst other songs like Jingle Bells or I’m a Little Tea Pot). You can imagine my amazement when (women, specifically) people come up to me and assault me with accusations of being inhumane or unjust. The Homeless should work for their money just like anyone else as far as I am concerned, even if my mom has been supporting my cigarette/alcohol addictions since I was 17. As always, here are a few things I have been pondering lately.

1. The Cold Weather Slut Identification Equation:

(let X designate the female vagina)

if, at ≥0º temp, X is visible at ≥80º angle, then -2º + X = SLUUUUUUUUT

In other words, if it’s fucking freezing outside and all it takes to see your clunge is a slight bending over then… 1+1=2

2. Okay, England, sure you haven’t had a winter like this in over 20 years, you still have no excuse for the amount of bitching and moaning you’re doing. I went to school in Canada (for a year…) and we handled that with the style and grace of a hooker getting an abortion. Sack up, you should be happy that your country is now white and not the depressing grey it usually is.

3. My last week at home was spent getting drunk and filming “Pirates of the Caribbean in 60 Seconds” (you can see the glamour shots in my latest photo album). I suppose I should use this platform to thank everyone that was involved. Not only did it give me a chance to get drunk all week but it also alleviated the immense guilt I had over not doing ANY of my schoolwork. The film is for a competition in which I have been told the prize is glory and whiskey. Two things my life revolves around already. I just worry that people will see the film and think “So… basically they got dressed up as pirates and got shitfaced. Oh, and someone filmed it.” I worry only because that is EXACTLY what we did.

4. Since this is my first posting since the holidays I suppose I should include a small NYE story. While my memory stops at the vision of myself pouring champagne down people’s throats on the dance floor, imagine my surprise in the following days when my night was pieced together for me. While there are some funny stories that would be hilariously self-deprecating at this point, I will draw from only one person who I find to be extra “special.” For anonymity’s sake we will call her Wilma. Now, apparently, Wilma had been out to a nice dinner and was not particularly boozy when she arrived at the party. Wearing a beautiful white blouse with a plunging neckline that happened to show off her finest assets (BOOBS if you don’t get the hint) she arrived with poise and grace. Making her way through the crowd, smiling and waving at all her friends, she came upon one particular friend I like to think she is especially fond of: me. While we usually exchange witty banter before any of the following, I found myself in a situation that is often quite rare. A bottle of champagne in hand, drunk, facing a pair of beautiful boobies. “Is that a bottle of champagne you are drinking out of?” Wilma asked. Famous last words. While doing lines off a hooker’s ass still evades a cross-out on my “To Do list”, motorboating champagne soaked breasts most certainly does not. No wonder I don’t have a girlfriend.

This is why I have decided to start a diary. I want to record the next ten years of my life to see what actually happens and if any of it turned out the way I wanted it to. And maybe, just maybe I’ll put it on my blog to show the world how my life destined to be. Columnist Tanya Gold does this very well. She is her own muse. Her column about what happened when she visited all her ex partners was absolutely fantastic. It made me realise that people are interested about people. The disasters of her failed relationships were so hysterical, they made me realise I can do this, but hopefully with less misery.

A week or so before I broke up from uni for Christmas my Nan rang me. We were reminiscing about life in general and that is when she suggested starting a diary. Time goes by so quickly now so it would be great to keep a record of what happens, as well as being a right giggle to read back on when I’m older. So this is my new years resolution for January 2010 and it will hold truth – the whole truth – as well as using my gym membership to its full advantage, but hey who’s list isn’t this on? If it will stick who knows? My diary will contain secrets about life and love, moans and panics, as well as a day to day note of what I do. Maybe I should get a lock - oooh I feel twelve all over again.

Maybe I have so many expectations for the next ten years because I’m like my Dad. He’s always had the determination and get-go to do well in life. Or because my Mum married my Dad when she was 18 and I think I’m falling behind, destined to be single forever. Not saying that I’ve never been in love, of course (a four year teenage romance went down the drain a year ago) I’m just quite picky. I believe in fate and things happening for a reason hence why I want to start this diary. I have no idea whatsoever what my fate is for the next ten years but I know it’s going to be fun.

Being twenty is the real start of life, when the fun begins. I will graduate and with a bit of luck, and hard work of course, get to the place I really want to be. Move out of the Shire and countryside to the big capital and be a city girl. Be a journalist, drink Starbucks, have a rather nice designer bag (when my salary allows me to) and network with the world with business cards. First impressions are key, therefore it is important to say that my past has made me who I am today. The present reminds me everyday to just be myself and the future will fill hundreds of pages of my diary to be. Who knows, maybe this premature Bridget Jones will work her way through, stress ball in hand, to be at the top.

The tip is in the middle of an industrial estate in the heart of Southend, surrounded by small, failing businesses with rubbish logos. The only one that isn’t failing is Keymed, a dominating glass and metallic building that my old girlfriend’s Dad more or less owned. It makes medical equipment used in hospitals and other places, like dentists and that. She did work experience there once and broke a two million pound medical machine. They put her on CD packaging after that.
Also near the tip is a carpenters, a marble dealer, and directly opposite, a Jewish cemetery. This makes me feel uncomfortable. I always thought it a bit tactless that they decided to place a Jewish cemetery just across the road from the local dump. Them poor Jews. God forbid the day someone gets it all horribly, horribly wrong, “I’m sorry to hear about your loss Mrs. Freedman, but we just don’t know how Marc ended up in Glass and Plastics.”

The tip really isn’t the ideal place you want to find yourself in. Everything smells funny and the whole place looks and feels grubby. The crushers look like ATATs fresh from Star Wars and the “Recycling Advisors” walking round are about as likely to help as Bin Laden in a charity shop. Nonetheless, they still took our shit telly. We both agreed there’s no way they’ll let that go without trying to fix it first, and to be honest they’re welcome to it. Even if they can’t get it working, I’m sure it’ll make a wonderful bathmat for somebody.

The TV we’ve got up and running now works perfectly fine and everybody’s happy now. We can hear what they’re saying at the same time they say it now. We don’t have to pretend we’re watching a badly dubbed Japanese action film. The people on Eastenders are still green, though. I’m starting to think they’re just like that.