Hello there Blog Fans,
Apologies for the heinous delay in getting back to you. Believe it or not, I had actually been happy for a while and didn’t think I would end up writing on the blog again for a little bit. However, you will all be delighted to know that the last few weeks have brought on layers upon layers of abject fucking misery so I thought it high time that I vented.
When I left you last it was 4 bloody months ago. Since then, Arsenal have been ritually humiliated by various opponents more times than I care to remember (poor Kieran Gibbs. The one guy it didn’t deserve to happen to), my dear old mum has found love, I’ve been on holiday, had my flat flooded flooded, been dumped, had all kinds of shilarious henanigans you can possibly imagine (including being nearly bully-raped by a 5’1” Scottish midget – that’s a Bobby Dazzler and I can’t wait to get that out to you) and generally experienced the kind of life you all love to read about but which none of you would even dream of living.
My life is still a sitcom. And here’s the latest episode – “The One Where I End Up Crying Myself to Sleep Tonight as I sit on the edge of my bed trying to Cry-Max to ‘Anthony & the Johnsons’”.
So, when last I wrote I had two dates lined up – THHS (Tammy Horsey Hockey Sticks) and Tits McGee. Well, I’ll be honest with you – THHS never even got off the ground because Tits McGee and I had a second date and never looked back. Don’t get me wrong, THHS was a lovely, beautiful, charming and (to be completely honest) utterly rich young lady. Yet something clicked with Tits McGee, I cancelled with THHS and took a punt on this large-breasted frauline (and before any of you raise a suspicious eyebrow, I’m actually a bum man. So there).
Me and Tits just hit it off. It was like being great mates but at the same time a mate that you fancied and thought about doing all manner of things from ‘Caligula’ to. First date was a couple of beers and a few games of cards(!), second date was even more beer and pool(!!), third date was dinner and a bit of a snog(!!!), and by the end of the fourth date I was hanging out the back of her(TA-DAH!). It was like something out of ‘Pride & Prejudice’ only with hair-pulling and a lady’s face being pushed into a pillow.
From there, things got better and better. We did everything couples in the nascent stages of their courting do – pub quizzes, met her friends (I got the seal of approval), lots of what I can honestly say was really rather good sex, we cooked for each other... we even developed a Sunday night TV-based ritual of sorts around some truly awful reality shows. Add to that, the ridiculously tragic time of her having a close family bereavement and me being ‘the best comfort [she] could have wished for xxx’, I thought things were going pretty well. Life was rosy, I had a skip in my step and I was walking the streets of London Town with the Bee Gees in my head.
Then, from out of nowhere I get a phone call. Evening of the Champions League Semi-Final. I’m on the train from work to meet my bro and Kinky Steve when the phone rings and it’s her.
Me - “Hey Babe, ‘sup?”
Tits - “Nothing, just thought I’d give you a call... there’s... we need to talk”
Me - “Err.... ok... care to share?”
Tits – “I don’t think we can see each other anymore. I kind of want to see other people and don’t want to get into a situation where I’m doing the dirty on you”
Me – “Well, apart from when we first started seeing each other and you were also seeing Kinky Steve at the same time you mean?”
Tits – “Yup.”
Me – “Oh. Right. Fair enough then. I appreciate you being honest.”
Tits – ...
I won’t quote what she said, but the bottom line is that it was 5 minutes of “it’s not you, it’s me”. Although I was rather confused when she acknowledged that we got on great, had great banter, rubbed off each really well, that she fancied me and that I ticked all her boxes. But then again, ho hum.
And then we lost 1-0 to ManYoo in the footy. All in all, a shitty evening. Although she followed up the dumping by sending me a text message telling me that I apparently “did things to [her] in the sack that [she] didn’t think possible and for that [she is] eternally grateful!” I know it said that because I have kept the text message and had it put on the back of my business cards.
The problem was, that damaged me a little and left me rather sceptical. I mean, after all, if you get on brilliantly with someone, you spend most of your free time with then, you sleep together, you tell your mum about them and introduce them to your friends, you banter, you text them, you email them during the working day, you kiss, you hold hands... what else is there, exactly?
So, I took a back seat for a while. I took stock. I took time to contemplate myself, my life, and whether I could even be bothered getting back on the horse with this entire dating thing anymore. After all, a pattern was beginning to emerge – we go out, we have fun, we go out again, we maybe have a little sex, it all starts going rather well and then I get dumped. Now, after the L***a incidents of last year, I had gotten used to being kicked in the nuts by a great big fucking horse. However, that doesn’t mean that I had grown to like it.
After L***a there was Curly O’Hair, the Irish temptress with the Amy Winehouse look (only without the scars, tattoos, drug habit or annoying fucking voice) who also gave me the elbow out of nowhere after two months of congeniality, good food, wonderful sex (I’ll give her her due, in fairness. She might have been a cunt, but when she got going she rode me like Tony McCoy up the hill at Cheltenham), informing me that it wasn’t me but her. Although she did at least do it with a degree of humour...
Curly – “I’ve been thinking about us”
Me – “Oh, ok. Everything alright?”
Curly – “Well... I don’t think it’s a good prognosis”
Me – “Eh? What? Like bowel cancer?”
Curly – “Don’t be like that”
Me – “Like what? You’re the one who has just compared me with a terminal illness”
Curly – “No, I... it’s not... well... I don’t... look. The bottom line is.... well, how can I put this... I’m not the one for you, dearie”
Dearie? Cunting DEARIE? What the fuck am I? 8? 80? DEARIE? For the love of Christ...
It was after that that we had the tale of ‘my Big Fat Greek Bedding’ and from there, I started writing this blog so it’s not all bad. I suppose. From a certain point of view. Maybe.
So, I’m back at square one. I’ll update you with more over the coming days as that’s only where the fun began. There’s been other shits and giggles since then and I firmly intend to get those across to you in the next few days.
In the meantime, take care of yourselves and each other xx