A Sport Named Whiskas

This has been pretty overdue, so sorry to all the…ermmm…one regular readers, for my uselessness. I shall endeavour to be better from now on.

So what’s new? Well many of you will know that I am now unemployed once more. Yep, quite the talent I’ve got there.

And it’s my own fault – I had a bit of a nervous breakdown and got £100 out of a cash machine on the company credit card to use on t-shirts and booze. In my defence, those are the two best things to spend money on though – especially when the t-shirts feature one Mr Scott Pilgrim. Yeah they still kick ass. They’re taking the edge off being a useless waste of oxygen for the time being.

So, in summary, Cambridge was shit. It didn’t work. Lots of posh people on bicycles. That’s really all I could see there. The main problem was that I wasn’t living in the city. I was living in Royston, about 10 miles south. It’s a shithole. Please, never go. Well, that is, unless you just want to sit around in a knock-off Wetherspoons. That’s all there is there. And I was living in a bed and breakfast for three months. Lovely as it was to not pay rent, get my washing and ironing done and not be tied into a contract, I could never relax properly. And I was always eating out at the pub because I had no means of cooking. Yeah, doesn’t sound too bad, until you see my waistline. I’m a tubby fuck right now, and I don’t like it. Couple that with the shaving of my head – it’s getting thin and I can’t afford haircuts right now – I’m starting to look worryingly like I did when I was 20, and nobody wants that, least of all the female population of the UK. They want pretty, confident Dan. They told me so – there was a protest outside my flat. It was weird, but flattering in a sort of backhanded way.

So what else should I talk about? I guess I should tell you all that I’m back in Portsmouth. That feels good, I have to say. Back by the sea and more importantly, back amongst people that I don’t just despise. Makes a big difference. Plus there’s the Honest Politician here, and that means £3 doubles with mixer and free pool. Can’t say fairer than that, can you? I bet it’s making a few of you wonder if you should move to Portsmouth. You should. Be near me. I’m epic.

Also, I’m on antidepressants. May as well throw it out there to those of you that don’t know. They’re really good – totally unexpectedly as well. I turned them down a year or so ago because I was in the “those things are fucking stupid and you get addicted to them” camp, but now I’m realising why they are actually, you know, prescribed by doctors. If I hadn’t been on them, I would almost certainly have fucked up immeasurably and been on the verge of suicide right now. I don’t think I’ve got the balls to kill myself though. It’s supposed to be a coward’s way out – and I get that – but really, it must take at least a bit of cajones to throw yourself in front of a bus or go buy a rope, ceiling hook and learn how to tie a noose. I’ve always wondered how suicidal people know how to tie nooses. Especially pre-internet. I mean there’s probably a tutorial on it on Youtube for it now, but it doesn’t look incredibly simple. Knowing me I would tie this piddly little thing that would snap as I kicked the stool away and all I would end up doing is spraining my ankle in the fall.

I have been feeling funnier in the last couple of weeks, since I got back, especially when riffing with Chris, but forgive me if this isn’t coming across right now because I can’t recall all of the hilarious stuff I’ve come out with. Just trust me, it was fucking funny. Oh oh oh. I have to tell you something that’s been tickling me for three days now – Chris told me that he has a new cat in his house now, and it’s been named – not by him, I must add – Tennis. That’s not an autocorrect error. That’s not my mind accidentally slipping out of my ear mid-sentence. That is a cat. Named. Tennis.

Tennis.

Tennis.

Drink that shit in. Is that not the most ridiculous name for anything you’ve ever heard ever? I mean, aside from a sport. Though it’s not got that lovely Ronseal logic of football or basketball to it, it still sort of works. I guess if you were to apply that basis of thinking to the world of tennis it would be racquetball, which is already a (rather similar) game. Or maybe runny-thwackyball. Or, judging by the last women’s game I saw, possibly gruntball. They do love a grunt nowadays. It’s all well and good when it’s a lithe Russian 18 year old, but when it’s a beastly Hungarian with arms the size of my legs, it’s just damn intimidating, and it puts you off your stroke.

Yeah, ok, resorted to lowbrow humour there. Apologies. Maybe I should stop now while I’m behind. After all, I have got my big telly back now, and there’s an awful lot of Assassins Creed Brotherhood to be played yet. And FIFA. And Mass Effect 2. Mmmmm games. Maybe I won’t bother getting one of those job things for a while yet. I’ve found I quite like sitting.

Until next time, when I promise I’ll try to make it funnier.

Dan-gerous.