Monday, 4 October 2010

Psychopathological Investigation

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
for admission.



  1. Charging admission? That prayer must have been edited by the pope.

    I moved so often when young, I never had friends as such - just passing acquaintances.

    I did have enemies, and took subtle revenge until I was old enough and large enough to thump them.
    I once drank the bottle of orange juice (delivered by the milkman) from an enemy's doorstep and refilled it with piss.

    I am always saddened by people that build a huge list of acquantances and call them friends. As if numbers make up for quality.

    I totally subscibe to b) and c) on your list, and the consequence for not adhering to them results in very rapid dumping.

    I disagree with a) cos someone having a go at me makes for an interesting chat.

    Same goes with d) really. I LOVE chatting with Goddies - and the more fundamentalist they are the better.

  2. Ah, the days when milkmen delivered orange juice. Do milkmen still exist? Not in my burgh, they don't. They should, by logic, be delivering muffins and bagels by now. Their obsolescence is strange. Probably too many nutters filling their deliveries with piss.

    My four criteria have, not surprisingly, stopped me accumulating friends. You either accept friendships on their terms, or you can lump it. Bah.

  3. See, now... I've identified your main problem. People named Phil are fundamentally unstable, and I think, from here on out, you ought to avoid them. I would probably avoid the worms too, unless you like to fish (because typing flies is a pain in the ass, so if you're a fisher-type, worms are good)

    And you had me all the way until you reveals that I won't find the lord in Tescos. I'm not sure I'm content to live in a world with godless Tescos. 7-11 maybe, but not Tesco.

  4. I've tried fishing twice. The first time I was nine and walked away from boredom. The other time was in July and I walked away from boredom. No Phils involved.

    Lidl and Aldi are the two missing disciples. That explains a few things.

  5. I was a milkman in the 1970's and I loved it until....
    They made us stock overpriced chickens, potatoes and bread - and pay for it if we couldn't sell it.
    I quit and I think that (my quiting and the unsaleable goods) was the beginning of the end of milkmen.

  6. Here's an interesting fact:
    In those days it was, and still might be, legal for a man to piss against the kerbside wheels of his vehicle.

    When on my milk round, I took advantabe of that law.
    Later, a housewife complained that I was running late.
    Me: I was whizzing along as fast as I could.
    She: Yes, I saw you whizzing earlier.

  7. Mike, you are a Mike of all trades. You might be a shapeshifter, who knows. The oddest place I ever urinated was in the mouth of Noel Edmonds. So rewarding.