I’m forty. It’s time for me to take stock. Let’s see what our Viperish Discordant Hero has achieved. Let’s also see what might be set down against him in the Book of Life and Death.
Before we start, do try to avoid comparing yourself to me. I’m magnificent and you’re the sort of person who chooses to read blogs by strangers. Don’t feel bad for living your tiny life, you precious little non-entity.
Let’s start with the positives:
Some Academic Qualifications
I achieved some GCSEs, some A Levels and a BA in English Literature (2:1). This is, practically, useless. What am I qualified to do? Read stuff and talk about what I have read. This is something I could do from the age of five. Since five, my academic career has been a process of refining the thing I could already do. Looking back, I should have studied something else. Anything else. I did English Lit because I found it easy. I could still get a half decent degree while paying little attention and doing less work. I’ve read some books, some plays and some poetry. I could talk about them to you, but I won’t, because I hate you.
Skills in the Arts
I can write stuff that is vaguely readable (the sales of my pornographic novels prove this to be true). I can act. No, really, I genuinely can. I never saw it making me much money. It didn’t make me much money. I earnt the most by being an extra (no acting required). I have also done an advert where I played a stupid security guard. Oh, I was paid to pretend to be one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men. The sort of thing Ian McKellen dreams of doing, no? I’ve done lots of roles in amateur theatre that other amateurs would kill for… trouble is, I’m so arrogant that I see am-dram as below me. Am-dram makes me feel like I’m a professional sex-worker giving handjobs for free just to raise my self-esteem. I end up with lower self-esteem than before and a metaphorical jizz-stain on my shirt (usually metaphorical). I am an average singer, a less than average guitarist and a terrible painter. That is the extent of my arts skill set. Oh, shit, no it’s not. I learnt to juggle, just to prove a point. The point is: juggling is shit. It is a skill that wankers learn. I learnt. I am a wanker.
I read widely. This means that I can appear to clever, as long as I don’t meet anyone that is truly clever. Imagine that I’m a lab rat and I meet a bunch of sewer rats. They think I’m smart because I’m not covered in shit and I have lived in a lab. I like to hang around with sewer rats because it boosts my confidence. My general knowledge is useless. I think quizzes are pointless, so I can’t put my knowledge to use in winning prizes. I make no contribution to science, philosophy, politics, religion, history… or any of the other subjects that I enjoy reading about. I just consume. Munch, munch, munch. The other cows are eating grass, but I’m eating daisies! Look at me! I’m the best cow! MOO! FUCKING MOO!
A Marriage and Children
I can take no credit for this ‘achievement’. My marriage lasts because my wife is stubborn and has learnt to tolerate me. She says she ‘loves’ me, though I find this bizarre. Why would anyone love me? I mean… I AM me, and I can barely stand myself. Still, I mustn’t say this too often, or she might realize that I’m right. My children are also my wife’s achievement. I was there at the birth, but I have to be honest, she did most of the work. When it comes to raising children, I do my best. My wife says I’m good at it. I’ll wait until my kids hit their teens and explain to me, in punishing detail, EVERYTHING that I have done wrong. That’s what teenagers do. Looking forward to that. Oh, I’m a house husband, so I’m good at domestic stuff. Well, I say good… we don’t live in squalor and we eat regular meals. My Yorkshire Puddings are tremendous.
Fabulous Charisma and Physical Beauty
I can’t take much credit for these. Perhaps I was blessed by fairies at my christening. I’m almost dangerously charming. I look like the offspring of a movie star and an angel. Plus, I’m dynamite in the sack. Don’t believe me? Fuck you, it’s my blog, I’ll write what I please.
Now, let’s cleanse the palate by sampling my failures.
HA! I’m currently a house-husband and I sometimes do domestic work for others in return for cash. I have a degree. I’m a middle-aged white male. According to statistics, I should be driving a mid-range BMW and earning around fifty grand a year. Fuck you numbers, statistics. I drive my wife’s car from time to time and I earn sweeeet Fanny Adams. No career.
Taylor Swift put it best when she said, “I’ve got a long list of ex-lovers, they’ll tell you I’m insane…” If she had added, “And they fucking hate me, and they call me satan, and most of them have needed therapy and feel damaged by even knowing me…” she would have been spot on. I’ve got a bad history when it comes to relationships: family, friends and fuckeroos (is that what people call their lovers?). Family? I see the point in some of them, but most of them I’ve just dropped. My wife and kids get a pass, but cousins? Why bother. As for friends… I’ve had a lot. Trouble is, I don’t like most of them, I’m just being nice. I drop them whenever possible. Even the ones I do like tend to piss me off. I know, I know. If everyone you meet is a dick, it probably means YOU are the dick. I’m not the dick, though, you are. Got that, buddy? YOU ARE. I have two currently active friendships. They are good.
I write stuff that hardly anyone reads. I used to act, but I can’t be bothered with that at the moment. I enjoy reading. I love to masturbate, but who doesn’t? I like to walk in the countryside. That’s about it. I have no achievements to boast of here. Move on, nothing to see.
I was a bit depressed when I started to write this post. Now I feel positively jovial. Only kidding, I feel like a donkey turd in a ditch. Not to worry, I’ll put the kids to bed, have a nice cup of tea and continue writing a novel about people with worse lives than mine.
Have fun, readers. If you’re feeling a bit low, try having a nice relaxing poo. Or a wank. Or a sandwich. I don’t fucking know, I’m out of ideas.