God Hates God

God still hates God, but he also hates spam. There are over 100,000 spam messages floating around in God Hates God. The number is so great that Wordpress can no longer handle it.

So, in turn, I have created a new blog.

New blog

Several years ago during one of my daily student cartoon breaks, this disturbing advert appeared on my television. The first thing I thought? I must - MUST - buy this for my best friend. So I set about my quest to find this toy, in the hope of one day bestowing it upon a great friend.

So I went to all the toy stores in London; nothing. All Baby Wee-Wees had been removed from the shelving owing to the complaints and perverts alike. I was even escorted from the Harrods toy department for daring to speak of Baby Wee Wee.

But I was not deterred, oh no.

A few weeks later, I was listening to Edwina Currie’s (a former Conservative MP, known for her stern nature, bedded the then PM John Major, then resigned over a salmonella fiasco) radio programme. The topic? The world’s greatest toy. I sent through a tongue-in-cheek missive, paying special attention to Baby Wee Wee’s anatomical correctness. Much to my surprise, she read it on air. One of her guests was listening, and lo, he had a Baby Wee Wee collecting non-perverted dust in the back of one of his stores! Would I like it for free? Oh yes, I said, I would.

And so my best friend got Baby Wee Wee for Christmas that year. He was briefly used as a vodka dispenser, but now hides in her attic, as he terrifies her husband.

And that, my children, is how a Conservative MP best know for *ahem* enjoying John Major’s company facilitated the procurement of this distinctly disturbing toy.

Further to this story, I had to fly to The States to give it the friend - the terror I felt when my Baby Wee Wee-filled hand luggage went through the x-ray machine was unlinke any other. “And what, madam, is this?” “A pissing doll.” “And this?” “That, sir, is his wrinkled cock.”

Keith Chegwin called me a whore. At the Wagon Wheels Rolling Championship. In Slough.

So in summary, Cheggers called me a whore at a biscuit-based sporting event in a city widely known for its stench.

Lovely.

Tonight I’m having a computer nerd sleepover at my house. We shall wear our bestest jim-jams, carry around snugly bears and play truth or dare:

”I triple dog dare you to say that you prefer CGI over C#.NET!! OMG!!! Giggle!!!!!”

We’re going to stay up all night drinking Coca-Cola, prank calling cute boys and telling ghost stories before it all descends into a writhing cum-pit of fucking and hot lesbian action. You know, like how it does in the movies I like to watch.

The reality, though, is much less sexy; a leaving ‘do for a colleague combined with footy means that we all plan on consuming such a large quantity of beer that driving home without waking up to find the mangled legs of a granny poking out from the grills of their cars might be a probability. So they’re all packing off to mine for the night so they can use up all of my bloody hot water and get violently molested by an Airedale Terrier (the Dachshund would join in, but rubbing oneself against a person’s foot hardly constitutes a gang bang.)

I generally don’t allow people into the inner sanctum of my home, so this is a great leap of trust for me. I don’t know how they might judge me based on the house I keep (tidy and attractive, naturally), but my mind wanders out of control when I think of how they might interpret my life. “She collects animation art. SHE MUST FUCK BABIES.” “Her microwave is messy. SHE’S A SMACKWHORE.” “She has a blue sofa. SHE IS A GENOCIDAL WAR CRIMINAL, HIDING FROM INTERNATIONAL POLICE.” And so on.

Moreover, I suppose it mostly comes down to how I don’t want them to see me in my pyjamas. I have cultivated an image whereby I wear lovely and fashionable things and this will be destroyed when they see me in my circa 1994 Britpop t-shirt with yellow armpits and stained oversized boxer shorts with a worn-out crotch. They’ll probably hear me fart. They’ll probably smell my fart! What if they find a pubic hair lying about? What if I find one of their pubic hairs lying about?!! I should have never opted to be kind-hearted and philanthropic in the first fucking place. This is what happens when I do something entirely out of character.

The only answer to this immeasurable stress? Many pints.

The light in my office toilet is on the fritz, blinking in psychedelica before plunging the toilet-goers into complete darkness. Previously, my wee visits would take a matter of moments – enough time to check for perverts in the cupboard, do my business, wash my hands, and be on my merry, emptier way. Now? I can’t properly check the cupboard for wayward masturbators. Hell, I can hardly find the fucking toilet, which could wind up slightly embarrassing when my trousers are at my ankles and I’ve had a few too many cups of coffee.

But enough toilet talk, download this album, for it is FREE and it is GOOD and it will make your heart MERRY. Well, maybe not the last bit; it is depressing as fuck. Personally, I can’t fathom why somebody would spend money on a fucking Fergie album when this example of tuneful perfection is free.

Fergie once stayed with me during her now-heavily talked about ‘I was an urban yoot with a crystal meth addiction. Did I mention the meth? I did? Did I mention how I was very urban?’ phase. Funny that, the Fergie I was forced to spend time with was an stab-yourself-in-the-ears annoying valley girl with fame for brains and a laxative fixation.

Also, the Beaconsfield Fair was yesterday and a carnie coiled a giant carnie shit next to my office door.

There are some evident truths in this world. First, only people with questionable criminal / chromosomal status drink in pubs with flat roofs. Second, 1000 monkeys, if given 1000 typewriters, will be too distracted by their own willies to type. Lastly, that if my dog goes on wanderabout in the middle of the night, it is because he has to shit. No amount of shouting at him will make that doghole turtlehead dissipate.

And thus I barely slept last night. Instead of putting the poor sod outside, I just kept calling him a cunt from the comfort of my duvet. To be fair to the little shit, though, he did keep his poopies inside his bottom for as long as he could. Nonetheless, I am so tired that it could very well lead to my own messy death. Death by Tired. I hear it involves having your eyes melt. It has happened before, my friends, and it will soon be my fate.

Being tired makes me irritable. Funny that, as if I spent the wide-awake periods of my life in a state of joyous idiot-faced stupor. The issue is, though, that sleep deprivation causes such a complete mental misfire that I forget what really fucks me off. Earlier today, I looked up from my work to bitch about something, and much to my absolute dismay, only the words, “Guh, uh, urrrrrrgh, cookies,” dribbled out of my sleepy maw! It has reached the point in the day where I am entirely incapable of normal human functioning and have thus decided to make a lump of blu-tac as squishy as possible. It ain’t differential equations, but it is all my spongy head can muster at the moment.

Mom. Dad. I love you. I’ll miss you both when this horrible haggard disease finally overcomes me, like The Blob to a then-unknown teenage Steve McQueen. Until then, remember my legacy like uhhhhhhh, hmmmmmm, like how, uhhhhhh. Fuck, I can’t remember.

It is odd – just a year ago I defined myself by my vices. Smoking and Belgian ales were my favourites, with menacing ginger children and putting broken glass in the fountains of Trafalgar Square coming in with an honourable mention.

A few months ago I went to my GP because I felt like shit. “How is your asthma going?” “My asthma?” “Yes, you have asthma.” “Ah, no wonder I can’t breathe. Hm, I should do something about that, you know, so I can live and stuff.” And so I did. Usually I’m not very proactive – mainly because I was lazy owing to the fact that I was always hungover. All of my extra energy was spent on hating complete strangers. But this time? I quit smoking. I’ve even managed to stick with it, which is far better than I do with most relationships.

Now I exercise. Exercise! Me! I’ve taken up cycling because it requires no skill or balance or athletic ability; it suits me perfectly. I’ve done 100 miles in two weeks, leaving me with a lovely callous on the crease of my arse.

Yesterday’s lengthy cycling exercise has rendered me unable to properly cross my legs in the ladylike and sleek fashion to which I am accustomed. Chocolate cookies, even if eaten on a regular basis, would take a decade to deliver this same side effect. So why cycling? Now I can eat even more chocolate cookies, as evidenced by my vast consumption of chocolate Hobnobs. I’ve upped by chocolate cookie game.

Why do we exercise? Some do it for a sense of achievement, of constantly beating their personal best. Others do it for weight loss and still others for the purpose of leading a healthy lifestyle. Me? I do it for the rock hard ass and thighs which snap chairs when I sneeze. I will name one arse cheek ‘Brutus the Barber Beefcake’ and the other ‘Ted Dibiase the Million Dollar Man’.

And now, of course, I have a vast circle of hate in my head. As a pedestrian, I hate cars and bikes. As a driver, I hate pedestrians and bikes. As a cyclist, I hate cars and pedestrians. Sometimes I get confused who to hate. I have drawn up a venn diagram of contempt which I keep in my pocket, just so I can remember who to swear at.

“Too old to fuck.”

This was the conclusion of some random teenage boys discussing my fuckability in the frozen food section of my local Sainsbury’s.

Apparently, though, I could teach them a thing or two. This benefit, however, would not override the horror that is my aged fanny.

I’m 28.