If you’ve ever wondered why you turned out such a weird and wacky dude, it helps to think of your friends in early childhood. Me:
“Phil”: My first friend. Ate worms.
“Phil”: Second friend. Owned lizards and bats. Chopped up worms. Never washed.
“Phil”: Third friend. Waved at passing cars. Pooped in his pants as a matter of course. Stank of dogs.
“Phil”: Fourth friend. Video game addict. Pretended to be a squeaky-voiced worm with me (I had a thing about worms). Accomplice on ride into teenage oblivion.
Adolescence is a custard pie machine, endlessly whomping trifles face-wards while a clown pours cream down one’s trousers. Freaks look on laughing while children jeer and point. There’s no point laughing through the terror, because terror isn’t remotely funny.
I’ve always had odd friends. I attract the unhinged. Friendships are a nightmare to maintain. At some point, your interests diverge, and it’s sayonara, see you later on Facebook, maybe. I’ve reached a point where if someone wants to be my friend, they must commit to the following:
a) Reading a list of my strengths and weaknesses and agreeing to accept every one, no complaints.
b) To make the effort to engage with me in some way. Invite me to things and coax me into talk.
c) To shut up and stop talking about themselves and their interests and their boring lives.
d) To remember that mankind is fundamentally evil and join with me in a Prayer of Despair.
All together now:
O Lord, who aren’t in heaven
nor Waitrose nor Tescos
we are but lumps of flesh
held together with guts
and we ask you
as useless dreamers
to take our screams
and build a Church
from our Pain
and charge £12.50 a ticket