Good evening friends, it’s been an age; how’ve you been? Your hair looks nice and you smell delightful. Sorry to hear about that thing that made you sad but congratulations on the thing that made you happy – I hope the things happened in that order. No, I didn’t kill myself, and thanks for asking; although of course those of you that know me are often subjected to regular mind-deterioration updates via facebook and those that don’t may imagine me to be sipping whisky in the lowlands, writing the Great American Novel the way it was always meant to be – by an Englishman in Scotland – so I shouldn’t judge.
So nothing new to report of any merit where I remained clothed throughout and that I’m willing to share with my family; still holding on fast to this mortal coil for my own reasons. It’s been almost constantly wet up here in Edinburgh for a while now and I’m still almost entirely depressed, if in a ferociously charming and arrestingly witty fashion. I miss the sun like a dog misses its master – and the rain is a neighbours cat I go after only because I’m convinced one day I’ll catch it and tear out its fucking throat.
Now I’m not a doctor; but if I were then I’m certain I would recommend I treat this feverous cold with a vitamin C pill dissolved in a glass of vodka and supermarket lemonade. Also, I’m not a dentist; but if I were then I’m certain that in the absence of a clean syringe I would be cutting my gums with shards of a broken mirror and rubbing street-drugs into the wounds. Thirty-three and I just got my first toothache – gargling with crushed garlic and vodka helps. Recently had a check up and still no fillings so they must all be crumbling at once. I digress.
You’ll no doubt be overjoyed to hear that I have been up to something and even though I was not always fully-clothed the telling of it could turn out to be both informative and amusing, at my expense. I hope the rambling here will help with pacing and attention spans.
Last year when I wanted to be a journalist when I grew up I thought it would be fun to write about doing-scary-things-for-other-people-for-no-other-reason-than-to-try-to-be-nice (I don’t mean the hypothetical situation of telling the Big Issue guy to keep the change then he tells you the price has actually gone up so you fumble for more change and you start sweating GOD PEOPLE ARE STARING and you give him the change and he says: ‘Thanks mate, have a good night.’ and you say: ‘Thank you, you too.’ even though he’s sleeping under a bridge and you have a kitchen and a duvet and sex and I dart down an alley and cry.)
What I mean is: I’m poor and my knee’s fucked (tiny violin?) so I couldn’t make good television by jumping out of aeroplanes or wrestling jellyfish or learning to dance but there are still things the traditionally poor have to offer that are always uncomfortable but often valuable. I gave blood for the first time last year then I donated my hair to cancer (sorry to the regulars for repeating myself), but the plan was always to see how much I could donate of my body. The astute among you may already have picked up on where this is going; you work with what you have.
I’m going to ‘donate my body to medical science’ – as much of it is of any use when I die in 800 years of the exhaustion of adjusting suspender belts for Jupiter orbiting lingerie pantomimes. When I was in Middlesbrough the nearest University that would take it was Newcastle so I’m waiting to see if I’m settled here before going and wasting anyone’s time. It’s an amusing thought to contend with, especially living in the city of Burke and Hare. My mother works for a funeral director and has buried three of us so far so we’ve come to regard the human corpse as a husk worthy of a certain sensitivity but not the carnival that crushes us all. Okay, no more of that talk or I’ll go off on one.
In terms of things I could part with now, yet wouldn’t be too detrimental to my health, it starts getting painful. There’s bone marrow/stem cells I could donate, or even a kidney – although that seems a little too much like a soldier giving away his rifle – but as mentioned already with the toothache, I’m a bit of a Jessie (as it’s known round these parts) so I felt let’s try something that doesn’t hurt, maybe even something we ‘all’ do for pleasure/relief, perhaps something I’m thought of as in certain circles.
A few months ago I read an article in a Scottish paper interviewing a sperm donor. It spoke of the reasons behind his decision and dropped in a few snippets like how one in six couples will have fertility problems (I guess they mean in Scotland, I’m not going to look that up now) and gave 2010 Scottish figures for only 29 men registering as donors. My initial thought was: ‘Well adopt if you can’t have kids.’ but dictating family planning is opening a moral can of worms on a slippery slope and where will that lead? China, that’s right, and look at them; only getting knocked off the top spot in the Olympics by the USA as I write this making this stupid joke stupid all right but fuck you I’m not waiting until China wins another two gold medals tomorrow or not to post this fucking thing so this is all you’re getting. Look, a bunny!
Altruistic concerns aside, and without giving too much away, I was becoming a wee bit concerned over my fertility; I do what we all do and look at the children of ex-girlfriends on facebook; at how
demented charming they look and how that could’ve been my child right there, chewing on its jaw and shitting all over mummy. The more of these children I saw I started to wonder at the probability of a little accident happening during our relationships and had pretty much convinced myself that due to the absence of such I was shooting blanks. So I did what any good Cub Scout does and went and asked Akela to give my knife the once over.
The next post is about me wanking into a cup for the good of the nation and won’t take long. Chuckle.