Yes, the moment you have all been waiting for is finally here. I know that I have asked a lot recently but the fact that you’ve all waited patiently means so much to me as a writer and a human being / doing.
Despite what some people have been spreading rumours about on here, as we and all the diehard fans know, ‘Three Shits to the Wind: The Secret Bathroom Attendant Within Me (M-Me)’ was a so-called spin-off book written by my old personal assistant and is not an official book in my ongoing series of self-help books. A hack can come in various different forms and there is nothing more hacky than passing yourself off as a competent author whilst releasing third-rate knock-off nonsense. Why settle for a mouse on toast when you could have the real thing right here, prime rib in your eyes? Disgusting behaviour.
The real deal. El trato real. La vraie affaire.
The name of my new book about to be released within the next week is ‘We: The New You’. Let me explain.
I have received letters from so many fans asking me to write a self-help book for those who have led multiple lives and may have multiple personalities within themselves. They can’t possibly use the assistance from my other multi award-winning volumes so it was only right that they have their time in the sun. Naturally I know that this will not be useful to everyone but as with my other New York Times’ best-selling books, even if you think you can’t learn anything new there’s bound to be something in there that will help you lead a better life. I guarantee it*
As well as that, ‘we’ can be applied to so many things: the royal ‘we’, ‘we’ as in couples, ‘we’ as in dogs and their owners, ‘we’ are in people living together etc. There are so many applications that it’s now my biggest book yet, literally; over one thousand pages of pure gold and at a low, low price of only £24.99 for the hardback and (coming in November) £17.99 for the paperback you can’t possibly go wrong. I’m not giving you this advice, I’m giving it to you for a reasonable price. I want you all to believe in yourselves and work through your problems in a safe and healthy environment, an environment full of hope and love and credenzas and little bowls filled with grapes and waterloo pumpkins.
I have been meaning to make a confession for some time now because it’s happened again and it happened right under my nose. I didn’t mean it to happen and it did. Oh, what a fragile and tragic series of events it was!
Some years ago I “purchased” a locker from a local art gallery. By “purchase” I mean I paid the £1.00 to use the locker and then kept on using it. It was practically a purchase after all because money changed hands, they got something and I got something. I would return to the locker to store things inside, hiding them away like a squirrel burying nuts for the winter. After several months of this I returned to a sign telling me that my purchase had been rescinded and the art gallery had taken the locker back by force. This was completely unacceptable and in my outrage I fled the scene and never returned. I didn’t agreed to these terms and yet I was being forced to comply with them. Absolute b*stards.
All those lovely trinkets of mine were lost. I had several diamond necklaces, a couple of Monets (rolled up very tightly and very carefully of course), a wallet full of oil and a Chinese urn signed by every member of the Ming dynasty amongst other things. Priceless.
In my new place of work I was assigned a locker. Actually, it’s less a locker and more lockable filing cabinet. It’s mine though and I keep only the essentials in there in case it gets taken away from me again. It’s a very busy office so the majority of the lockers are already taken by other members of staff however a few nights ago I was walking through and noticed that I was making a mental note of the odd ones that were still free. I had previously borrowed one to keep my gym items in until I worked out how to use the lockers at the gym (that’s another story in itself). When I returned to my locker the next day though I realised that the one adjacent to it was free. How had I not realised this before? Why was this only being brought to my attention now?
I took the key and kept it. Obviously the idea of knocking through the wall to make it a double locker is not permittable but it’s still good to have a spare. Is it though? Am I only coveting the locker because I can and because of what happened previously? Am I destined to continue to take lockers that don’t belong to me? I don’t need it and yet I keep it as mine.
I need some advice so please help in any way you can.
It was my birthday, obviously, but as an adult man with his own bank account I very rarely have a list of gift-sized things that I want but don’t yet have. As a result, when Kev and Ian came knocking with birthday questions, the only thing I could think of was that I needed a toolbox because the house is littered with all sorts of DIY paraphernalia.
They sent me some money. I ordered the one I wanted. Yesterday it arrived.
In many ways, that’s great, because it has absorbed not just all the tools I own, but also a range of other miscellaneous things, including a set of 100 drill bits in its own heavy duty carry case, a picture hanging kit, several pairs of goggles, miscellaneous other items of workwear, and it still has room to spare. In other ways it’s a bit dispiriting because the measurements of this box match the measurements on the listing I chose (I checked them) and yet somehow I failed to appreciate that I was ordering a toolbox that is only marginally smaller than my car.
Still, there’s plenty of room to add more stuff in future, which is good, and if I ever go camping, I’ll just take this and sleep inside it. Win win. Thanks everyone.
How will you be remembered? What will be your legacy?
What small nugget of nonsense will you leave the world so they know that you were once here, plugging away through all of life’s shambles like everyone else? Most people think it’s easy enough to pop out of a couple of kids and job done, right?
While my legacy is currently encroaching on my status as ‘tallest person in my family’ and ruffling through cupboards looking for chocolate cereal, there is another way that I will be “fondly” (?) remembered for years to come.
My nieces have all collectively lost their minds, which is nice when you think about it; they could have lost them one by one but they chose to do it all at the same time like sisters. together as a family. Adorable. I’m so proud of them. They then decided to write a song, which is clearly inspired by me, and John sent me a video of them performing it. The internet doesn’t deserve that but what I will do is show you the lyrics to this timeless masterpiece. It’s so poignant that if that rumoured Papples reunion ever happens they may have to croon a cover of it.
Now all I need is someone to paint my beautiful visage next to a newly-commissioned big-chinned, bollock-necked MaGee with the lyrics surrounding me in a halo of light and my voyage to immortality will be complete.
So here is a story I have been meaning to tell for a while. It is a story about my chair, a chair story if you will. The entire story is about a chair so if you’re looking for a tale about something else then I would advise you to jog on, like a couple of sea lions, because it ain’t happening sunshine.
Once I was a person without a chair and without some level of warning I became a one people with a chair. How chairs come into your life I cannot say. Sometimes you get given them, sometimes you find them in shops and they’re the right kind of sitting device, that perfectly compliment your own particular exterior, that you have to buy them or regret it for the rest of your life. So there I was, a young man with a chair, sitting like a sitting person should. It dawned on me though that despite the right level of comfort and chair-intensity that there was something missing.
Typical, right? “Oh the problem with your generation is that you are never satisfied. Look at everything you have and it is still not enough.” Whilst that is true, no matter what I did there was something gnawing at the back of my ears that I could not put my finger on. What was it that I needed? A god damn foot stool, that is what I needed. This chair needed the perfect companion though, I could not settle for any old Johnny two foot-putter.
Fast forward eight hundred years later. After developing the ability to not only halt my ageing process but also travel to the far reaches of space in my custom-built Grimmy 101 Space Hulk Meat Vestibule, I stopped getting older and flew to the end of the galaxy. It took a while, hence the 800 years. When I got there though I was vastly disappointed. Despite plenty of signs boasting about this and that there were absolutely no furniture shops, not even a charity shop with thirty copies of ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ stacked up in the corner. My chair looked even more glum that my poor viso/volto did. I was about to flip the spinsh retractor into reverse when I noticed a rubbish tip at the end of the street. I had nothing to lose so I walked over, fearing the worst yet secretly hoping for the best.
There it was. It was staring me in the eyes (which pair of eyes I cannot recall), a footstool I could not recall every seeing in my extended life. Sure, it had taken 834 years to find it and it was worth waiting for. This the story of me and my chair, my chair story, and it’s also a little bit about a footstool. It’s my chair footstool science-fiction search story. I hope you enjoyed it.
Another Christmas has died and been buried in the garden. The tree is crackling nicely in the fireplace and the leftover cake has been used to block up a hole in the kitchen wall where a pipe used to come through.
Let’s see how we did.
Pack of ten socks
Box of orange Matchmakers
Jeremy Paxman’s autobiography
Motoring accessories that duplicate things I got for free in a nice presentation pack from the garage when I bought my new car but I’m too polite to tell anyone
The other day, I found a kitty on the street near my flat and stopped to stroke it. The kitty then followed me all the way home and was quite insistent that the stroking should continue. It was all set to follow me right into the flat and the only way I could stop it coming into the building with me was to distract it temporarily while I ran inside.
This is the kitty.
I have seen the kitty on one other occasion, when my family were visiting, and it seemed equally keen to spend time with all of them. We decided to name her Kevinetta.
My question is this. The kitty appeared to want to come and live with me, but I suspect someone else thinks the kitty lives with them. If I see the kitty again, can I keep it?