It’s about 4 in the morning. I’m sat here wrapped in a large blanket with a nasty virus of some description, desperately trying to figure out why the default font on my MacBook has suddenly changed. I can only assume Steve Jobs woke up yesterday and decided he didn’t like the font I was using and sent an update to make me conform to his aesthetic view of typography. It’s something you quickly become accustomed to when using an Apple product. If Uncle Steve doesn’t like it then it won’t do it. The iPhone is typical of this. I love my iPhone. I’ve played with other smart phones and so far nothing has convinced me that I’ve got the wrong one. I understand why other people won’t necessarily agree with me (they’re wrong, of course. And probably racist or smelly or something) but for me it does all the things I want to do and it does them very well.
Maybe if I didn’t already have an iPod and a large iTunes library (and a desperate desire to fit in) then I would have looked at something else but the integration between Apple devices is genuinely a joy to behold - particularly when you come from a background of fiddling with PC’s before somebody came along and invented “Plug and Play”. Mind you, the first few years of “Plug and Play” could be more accurately summed up as “Plug, Install, Wait, Swear, Reboot, Install, Wait, Swear, Unplug, Reboot, De-install, Punch Table, Plug, Install, Swear, Wait, Swear, Kick dog, Pace, Fume, Swear, Give Up”. I remember spending an entire weekend trying to get a graphics card to work. Blimey, I know how to life the high-life.
Now you’ll have to forgive me if this blog is a little more rambling than usual. As I already mentioned, it’s blisteringly early in the morning and I feel like a wrinkly pink bag of aching goat mucus. Trying to keep myself occupied. I’ve read the internet - finished (the endings a bit weak and the main story is patchy. Lots of sex though!). It’s too early to put on the PlayStation - and I currently have the reaction speed of a felled birch tree which would make shooting aliens an even more frustrating affair than it normally is. I looked at a book but it was in black and white and the pictures didn’t move (I’m only joking… I love books but reading makes me seasick at the moment). I’ve written a children’s story called, “Arsington Duck and the Fuck-Off of Monday”. I had the vague idea of wrapping some Christmas presents, tidying the kitchen, dusting the studio, updating my film collection database (yeah? what of it?) and various other menial tasks that I’ve had to put off since this evil disease kicked in. Unfortunately I have about the same level of energy as an ageing one-legged tortoise wearing a chloroform-infused balaclava. I briefly went to look for a new desktop background but couldn’t find anything funky that didn’t intrude too much and/or make your eyes bleed so I’ve gone back to the art-deco Doctor Who thing I had before.
And when I started writing this blog I had a vague idea in my head about what I was going to ramble on about but that thought has completely escaped me now. I suspect that, rather cleverly, this blog will symbolise Man’s inevitable spiral towards madness and death as he claws desperately at all around him in a vain attempt to hang onto his youth, good looks, vitality and ability to maintain an erection without the need of chemical or prosthetic assistance so that now his fingers are just bloody stumps and he completely wasted that money on the manicure last week that was just done in a last ditch attempt to make his girlfriend realise that he really did have hidden depth before she leaves him and runs off with Derek who has an Audio and his own dog-grooming franchise.
Or, of course, the blog will symbolise that a fever really does turn your brain into mush and my thought processes are currently as rational as trying to hot-wire a cow with a rusty blancmange.
On the plus side, my visiting mother bought me a chinese take-away in an attempt to cheer me up (or possibly to avoid having to eat something that I’d cooked - either is fine) and it came with a nice calendar for 2011 in a little gift box. The calendar tells you what animal of the Chinese Zodiac you are. Apparently I’m a Boar.
Who sniggered?
Anyway, a Boar is self-reliant, dependable, determined, peaceful, likes deep friendships, enjoys social gatherings and parties of all kinds, they have an incessant pursuit of pleasure, make terrific fund-raisers, have big hearts, can be naive, are honest and trustworthy, possess chivalry, are unselfish and make great romantic partners. Fortune favours the Boar, it says here.
So that’s all bollocks then. I’m grumpy, easily irritated and flatulent. I have a natural aptitude for creatively swearing at children. The only time I tried to raise funds for anyone was when I was in the scouts and I kept all the money that was donated and spent it on ten Silk Cut and a Beano Annual. I do enjoy friendships but show me someone who doesn’t and I’ll show you someone who has lived alone in a bedsit for ten years and is currently designing his first lady-skin suit. I like most parties unless they involve fancy dress. I don’t do fancy dress. Not just because of some deeply held principle about “enforced enjoyment” but more because I was once stopped by the police whilst dressed as a Cyberman and it haunts me to this day. But yeah, fancy dress parties are uniformly shit. See what I did there? I’m only chivalrous if I want to see your boobs. I’m deeply selfish. I do, however, make a great romantic partner because of my legendary love-making longevity - I’ve trained myself to sleep with my eyes open so as long as I’m underneath I can keep going for hours. I was only found out once when, in the middle of a particularly unusual dream, I accused my girlfriend of, “stealing Uncle Bouncy’s glow-stick”
So now it’s a little later, the sun is “up” and the cats are pestering me for food. I think I should probably drink more water, get a piece of toast and prepare to glare accusingly at whoever comes down the stairs first as if to say, “where the hell have you been? Don’t you know I’m suffering and need to have things brought to me? Pass me those Minstrels and the pot of Vick’s Vapour Rub. And change the channel. I grow weary of BBC News”.
It’s a very complex and well-practised glare.
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