I know what you’re both thinking and, no, it’s not another one of my much-loved, imitated and lauded best-selling novels. Calm down my precious fans, you haven’t missed a pre-order for another first edition that you can keep your families warm with over those long winter months. This is something completely different.
Prior to being hoisted back into clothes and into the general population by work, I was having yet another sort out in order to try and fit a large amount of THINGS into the same space they’ve been living in for six months now. This requires a meticulous amount of opening boxes, sighing loudly and then trying to squish something else into it in the hope that the top will still stay on once I’ve pushed a large rectangle into a tiny triangular slot. Most of the time it works. Soon I may have to invest in some more shelves and possibly some hammocks for the corners.
I unearthed yet another pile of gibberish, which is what I refer to anything I was scribbling in prior to this post. I have a lot of it, notebooks and notebooks of word guff hastily wangled around early attempts by post-modern hedonistic oober artist, Reuben. Sandwiched in-between my original lyrics for ’10 out of 10 out of 10 (out of 10 out of 10)’ and Reuben’s sketches for something called ‘Pirate Chicken and Son’ (spoiler: you don’t need pants to be cool), there was a couple of pages you may recognise:
It’s important for a number of reasons:
It features Chris’s disgusting scrodsack of change (or was it Kev’s?);
There are a number of facts including Marshall can sense mums with his crotch, that mushrooms come last and that I am an eager-maniac;
The original appearance of cult favourite Wexford and his cheese-polishing adventures;
The height chart to explain how tall Kevin is.
I would donate the entire thing to Chris’ archives but there some boring old Christmas lists and some other questionable songs I wrote that take up the majority of the book so it would be a fool’s errand. I may carefully rip the pages out and send them via special courier so that they reach you in one piece now that Steve “Steady on, now” Steveingtons has finally given up on his restraining order and let you back in your flat.
Look at you. How old are you? You’re very old. You have done lots of things in your life and more often than not someone will have been there to make a note of it or possibly take a photo.
Nostalgia is what sells lots of old crap in that you remember how it was “back in the day” and then you want to get that feeling back by, I don’t know, buying your first car again, playing that Atari you had up in your uncle’s loft or investing in Microsoft shares. When I was looking for a photo for my brother I found a few photo albums, most of which were filled with sentimental (i.e. pointless) photos of my bedroom when I was 9 and other guff. I did, however, stumble upon several re-discovered gems of what used to happen when Kev and I, and sometimes Tom, would get whammed.
Now don’t get your hopes up, dear people. If you’re looking for sordid, filthy accounts of unscrupulous behaviour then you’re really on the wrong website (you took a wrong turn at boobpedia.com). What I’m talking are polaroids (easy now) of us all looking young surrounded by drinks bottles and cans. If you ever wanted to know what Kevin looked like with a bog roll on his head, holding one of those plastic separators you get with cans of lager, then you’ve come to the right place. If you were “desperate” to see a photo of me fake passed out on the floor then go no further.
I don’t remember ever looking that young but I know it happened. Here’s the proof:
I would like to call this version 3.0 but I don’t believe I can. It is more of a downgrade than anything else, a version 1.5 or 1.7 and a little bit more. The face you once knew has changed so dramatically that you may not even recognise it anymore and certainly not in the way I was planning it. This great year of 2020 was going to be the year that my face soared into the stratosphere. I had so many plans lined up and this Bovona Virus has sent all of them crash-landing into Mike’s Carpets. It’s gone proper Lesley Pipes, no no, worse, it’s gone Chesney Wipes. Look at what has happened:
Original Eyes – they’re still there, still the best. In fact the last opticians appointment I went to they had gotten slightly better. I reckon that all the new eyes have prompted them to up their game because they didn’t want to be left behind. Good on you, original eyes!
Looking Eyes – the viewing eyes had to be removed and replaced with last years’s looking peepers. I couldn’t go an unknown amount of time without looking at things.
Peering Eyes – sticking strong at three, a non-mover by all accounts. I peered outside today and saw a lovely sky. Worth every penny.
Seeing Eyes – another one locked in. I believe that based on previous comments the “chin boobs” are a favourite amongst my admirers and I did my damnedest to ensure they remained.
Perception Eyes – it was a difficult choice between holding onto these instead of my others. Their tactically favourable position around the back of my head gave them a distinct advantage and in the end the decision to keep them was a wise one.
Spotting Eyes – these were moved from their previous position, above the ear, into a more fancy, bobbing effort round the front. I expected that any spotting would need to be done at a moment’s notice so there is a little switch next to my right ear which launches the Spotting Eyes when I need to do some spotting. They hide underneath my fringe (now quite long and droopy) until they are required. It was the last project my team did before most of them were disbanded.
During these financial hardships we are all going through, I had to remove and sell my glimpsing, viewing, noticing, mysterious, triple and poker eyes. They’re all gone; sent through the realms of the black market to those who probably do not deserve them. My crack team have also been significantly reduced to just one lady scientist and a robot with a limp. They’re the best at what they do and I know they will keep plugging away although when I will be able to afford new eyes again is anyone’s guess.
Such a sad state of affairs. My face has never felt so open, so vulnerable, so naked. What happens when I need to notice something in the distance? What do I do when I need to glimpse ahead to see how busy the petrol station is or how long the line into the supermarket is? I don’t have the answers and I don’t expect anyone else to have them either. To give into despair about one’s lack of ojos though is to give in to life itself. No, I will not allow myself to dwell on this. I still have six perfectly good pairs of eyes at my disposal and I will carry on, friends.
Look, peer, perceive, spot and see me and I hope you are all inspired.
I’m so lazy. Look at me and be uninspired. Just look at me, one big ol’ slobbery mess. I haven’t looked this bad since that stage in my teens when I was gelling up my fringe; a tidal wave of greasy hair fixed in place. God, what was I thinking? It was aggressively bad. Now is worse though. Since the lockdown all I have done is indulge in everything I can get my chubby paws on. I find myself daydreaming about desserts. You know in cartoons when hungry characters start hallucinating? Last week I looked over and where Reuben should have been was a roast ham. It is time for a change.
As Kevin has confessed that he has a soft spot for the doggos, I have done a thing and signed up for a sponsored walk. In May I will be raising money for guide dogs by walking up and down my flat. Yes, it sounds insane and I reckon that by the end of it I may have finally crossed the line, gone through the looking glass. Is it worth it for the doggos? Of course it is. I plan to walk 100,000 steps to get some much needed cashola / dough ray me / fresh bread for Guide Dogs. In order to keep it realistic, I have set a target of £100.00 which would be enough to buy a kit for one guide dog trainer.
It takes 52 steps to walk from the front door to the window in the living room and back again. Based on my poor grasp of maths, I will have to do this 1,924 times in order to accumulate the aforementioned total of 100,000 steps. I have a full week in order to pin down this sucker, which means if I can manage about 275 times each day that should be enough.
If I had Kevin’s legs, which we all know are thrice the length of a normal person’s legs, I would be able to get from front door to window in a handful of leaps. I believe that would make the process a lot more tiresome so I am grateful for my small leg span and smaller step count.
Nobody is rich at the moment. The world is in chaos. I say this sat wearing an Adventure Time hat to keep the hair out of my eyes (my fringe has seriously lost the plot, it needs a chop). Am I still in my pyjamas? What day is it again? The point is that if you can, please sponsor Chesty at the link below: