Forgive me father for I have sinned.

It has been almost 10 weeks since my last confession and in the time I've done a number of things. Some great, some not so great. Rarely a thing I've done has been an acheivement to be proud of.

Once again, I have come off Ryan's ladders to work indoors, for shit money and long hours, but this time I may not have totally shot myself in the foot. There is a genuine chance of furhtering myself within a company. This is not some tinpot plastic facade at running a pub, this is a chain pub, and I'm in the kitchen, which is hard graft. Hot work. Hazardous work. Lots of scrubbing. To begin with, it seemed like an endless list of chores, but now I know my arse from my elbow with a degree more clarity than I could claim to not 4 weeks earlier, I can confidently say "I Could Go Far"

The only trouble is, I fear that my in-built self-destruct button may push itsself at any moment and extinguish this little flame attempting to light a career beacon. Or some such nonsense analogy. Knowing full well that I have a history of shooting myself in the foot when it comes to chances, and other things not quite dropping right for me at the right moment, I could throw my toys out the pram now, declare it not for me and piss off onto the dole. Just like everything I never wanted to be.

As it is, I work with people I enjoy working with(some quieter than others) and the bar-staff whom I dont have a great deal of contact with it must be said, seem to understand that I talk a load of rot and I'm mostly harmless, and so are slowly warming to me. Methinks. Maybe not. Fuck knows. Doesnt matter anyway. This is the first job I can honestly say I'm enjoying. Pay and hrs notwithstanding, but all the same, its not terrible.

Work aside, I'm still very much infatuated with the delightful other half. I really should tell her more often, but I dont. I'll write a post-it note or something to remind me. Which reminds me, I need to ring her. I also need to ring Marky. Tis the season to get ripped off and bitterly disappointed and all that.

I've moved in with my sister and her burgeoning brood. I adore her kids to bits. My little stars, even if they are incredibly noisy. As far as the dwellings are concerned, there have been murmerings about a move in with Colin and Leanna at the end of this academic year which is ....(carry the 2)...a while away yet. Could get along with that. Colin. Dear Colin. He's leaving his joyous place of employ in the near future and shall be without work, nor money in the foreseeable. Long live student loans and all that jazz.

Right, I've divulged a bit, thats your fix. You have to play nice and EARN your next dose. Plus, I've been at work, twatting about online for over 2hrs now, time for bed, said Zebedee.

King Garry I of Swandanavia

And I call myself a writer?

By heck, ladies and gentlemen. You'd think that I, a self-proclaimed writer, would keep this thing up to date on occasion.

But yeah, writing. I'm thinking that's the way forward for me, it seems to keep me occupied and I enjoy it. Something I enjoy? That people say I'm good at? What are the odds?

My main current project is the sit-com, but I'm not sure if I want to keep that up. Its a good idea, but its hard graft trying to write the script and do all the other things when my "writing partner" has seemingly welched on the idea (safe, JACK, mentioning no-one, JACK). Plus, its a touch exploitative. Its based too heavily on people I know directly, even with a supporting cast, its looking more and more like a sketch show, which isn't how I envisioned it.

I might do some more sporty shit, or I might have a sniff around the freelance stuff, see what I can pick up for a bit of scratch in between doing fuck all and doing less than that.

Also, I'm currently transfixed by a delightful young lady named Emma. Not an unwelcome distraction, not by any means. My mind focuses on the writing for a brief fleeting moment and then hops onto something else entirely, usually along the lines of "I wonder if Emma likes..." This is especially true in the shop. "I wonder if Emma reads Top Gear", "I wonder if Emma likes eggs" and other such questions which no-one but Emma can answer, but are too pointless to ask.

At the minute, I'm having a bit of a hemorrhage of inspiration as far as writings go. Blogging is fine, because I forget that, but trying to submit articles to things I have no authority on makes me feel an impostor of sorts, so I tend to avoid those particular articles more than perhaps I should. Expanding horizons and all that.

Also, I've just twigged that adding tags would probably aid the traffic for this post, but fuck knows what to label it as. I've got a touch of minor adjustments to do to the layout of the page as well, now I think about the functions and features of blogger.com.


I got back Sunday night after spending a wonderful, if a little quiet, weekend at Emma's student digs. I had an immense amount of fun, and although Karl was bouncing about, and The Other Emma and her boyfriend Richard were floating about, it felt like there was just the two of us there. Lying in bed until the small hrs of the afternoon, talking nonsense and watching Come Dine With Me were easily the highlights of the weekend, silly as it may sound. I wasn't impressed that I had to come home again, and I felt rotten for meeting Tanzy and then pretty much just breezing past her as I went home. Just poor timing more than anything, I think.

When I roll down there next time, I've promised to cook, and it shall be YUM and there shall be piles of washing up to do. As any good student house should have.

It was shit this morning when I realised that there was no Emma lying next to me to wake up with a smile, and there was also work on a cold and horrific morning.

WORK! That's a bloody joke as well. Too cold in the morning, so the ladders are freezing, and then by about 9 or so, the air heats up to a temperature approximating the surface of the Sun. Its either too cold, or its far too hot. Its unreal madness. However, its money in the pocket, and I'm not sure what sort of basis I'm working on at the minute. I'll need to speak to the gaffer about that. Also, another company have contacted me to say they will be in contact soon (the name rhymes quite closely with P&Q and is a diy shop. You work it out) and have yet to do so. I may need to give them a call again. It can wait until tomorrow. If I get the job though, I'll be out of my current abode at the earliest possible moment.

Speaking of which, I think its fair to say, its getting a bit crowded in here at the minute. I'll be eternally grateful to H & V for granting me this stay, yet again, the accommodating people, and I'm fairly certain they think I don't appreciate. I do, I genuinely do, but at the first chance, there will be a Garry-shaped hole in the door with a note explaining where I've gone and when I'll be back to pick up my kettle. Cant not have tea, you see. I'm fairly certain I've more than out-stayed my welcome, which is a shame.

Never mind, shouldn't be for too long. Maybe I shouldn't be pinning my hopes on not-quite-P&Q and should begin the great job hunt all over again. Woo, and indeed, hoo. Forgive my underwhelming enthusiasm, please.

Right, enough of this silliness, I'm off to do some real writing. Sit-com or article though?

On the face of it, I've been rather lazy with this of late.

I should really do more writing. Especially now I claim to be a writer. Its atrocious. And my sentences are WAY too short for proper writing. Fuck you, buddy, its my style.

Lets have a run down of the last month and a half.

1) I am no longer going to Africa. This causes quite a problem for me, as I'm still living in temporary housing.

2) I'm back up ladders on the windows. Again, a minor problem because its only temp. Still, coffers in the pocket for a short while.

3) For the first time in a long, long time, I'm truly happy. All my loved ones appear to be happy also, or are heading in the right direction. WHat more could I need?

RIGHT! Enough of this "sensible lark. Lets get a bit of inspired nonsense going.

Lately, I've done nothing. Mainly because I had the option to, and I ragged that option. Now I've got a job again(albeit temporary)I have a proper reason to get up in the mornings. Even though mornings are, and forever will be, shit. Add to this, a delightful young lady who has appeared in my life of late and who seems to like me, despite having seen me drunk more than once.
Sadly, she has gone off to Uni, but its not far away, so I can handle this. I'm big enough and ugly enough to pull through.

Also, I've discovered a bit of a passion for writing. I'm the first to admit I'm no good, but other people appear to like it, which suits me down to the ground, so I'll carry on, get myself out there and get published. Published on real paper, none of this internet blog bullshit. Might have to pester the guardian to get my arse in the sleaze papers.

Also, there is talk of starting up a protection racket. Few shops here and there. Nowt fancy yet. Make a few friends, get the word about.

You ain't heard nuffin' though, right?

Tennis.

Now that the Williams sisters have pissed all over the rather beautiful Eastern Bloc women that are the new stars of tennis, its the turn of the nth Nadal/Federer major final.

I live approx. 5 minutes drive from the tennis courts, and frankly, the hub-bub is an enourmous pain in my arse.

We've all seen Rafael Nadal floating around in Tesco's buying bananas and bread, and we've all seen Andy Murray moaning about some such nonsense(he's Scottish, its what we do) before flouncing out of the competition with a whimper.

Federer, though, is a different beast all together. In all the time I've lived around here, I've never seen him off a tennis court. Admittedly, I havnt exactly been hunting him down, but still, it'd be nice to see someone of his status out and about in the local community.

For two weeks in summer, we get an influx of posh people drinking Pimm's Number 1 and eating strawberries and cream. Then it rains and all the Tarquins and Cressendas all go home in their massive Range Rovers to complain that the box seats they had were ruined because (UK former King Of Chat) Micheal Parkinson was in the next box, and he is of a lower social standing. WHAT AN AFFRONT!

Doubtless, when Tarquin and Cressenda get home, young Fairthorne is already prancing around in his tennis whites having an all weather court built in that little dis-used patch of the grounds where the servants quarters were.

And then there is the weather. Why would anyone choose to have a major international tournament, which can only be played in dry conditions, in a country with roughly 99.99% chance of rain on an given day? All that means is the players get warmed up, a drop of rain goes past the umpire, the tarpaulin comes out and the players go away again. And then we are subjected to the horror that is Cliff Richard. I'll say again. Cliff. Richard.

For those of you not in the know, Cliff Richard is a stalwart of both the UK music charts(as a solo artist, teddy boy, Christian and a member of The Shadows), and for the last 6 decades he has had a "hit" of some sort. I think thats a record of some description. He is also an avid tennis fan. As soon as the rain comes out, he whips out his microphone and pipes up with Celebrations, or Millenium Prayer, or something equally schmoozy to appease the true tennis fans who for out £84 (roughly $8000 US at last count) for a day. A DAY. To see the tennis get called off and press-ganged into Cliff Richard. Again, CLIFF RICHARD.

How do the All England Lawn Tennis Association get away with it, year after year? Do they think that no-one who goes there likes tennis? That they actually come in the hope of a Cliff concert? Is there some unfortunate employee of the purple and green club who has to stand on top of the roof with a hose and call it off so that Cliff can play, otherwise the world will end? As a Christian, I imagine that Cliff Richard is at one with God, and will strike down with a great fury upon thee, and they will know that his name is CLIFF RICHARD if he doesnt sing.

In case you hadnt guessed, I hate Cliff Richard. And tennis.

Actually, thats not strictly true. I like womens tennis. Rather attractive young women grunting and wearing short dresses? Have them washed and sent to my room, please, bellhop. But thats ruined now. Because it was the Williams sisters who were in the final.

Fucking tennis. Fucking Cliff Richard. Fucking shit.

Dahling, indoors are the fabulous new outdoors.

When I was a mere twinkle in my Dad's eye, kids spent all day outside. Dawn to dusk, only coming home for tea and then going out again to see if they could catch owls with fishing rods or something. And fat kids were fat because they ate too much. But they didn't have a lot of food to eat. Rationing was rife, and they could all sit up trees on thin planks of wood with catapults and slingshots without fear of snapping the 2x4.

I'll be honest, as a nipper, I wasn't exactly likely to be on the front cover of Weight Watchers as something to strive for. Bluntly, I was a fat biffa child. I was unhappy, blah blah, I was the cliche. And I like chocolate.

Because I was fat, and children are cruel little gobshites at the best of times, I became a touch reclusive and sat in my room playing computer games, eating biscuits and getting fat. And then getting fatter because I was eating more biscuits and getting taunted more and more.

I used to be fairly active as a podger. Always doing P.E and stuff at school. Even to an extent, playing football after school. However, I was still throwing the pies down my throat faster than I could waddle them off.

And so, Fatty Arbuckle over here began to retreat into his room. Deeper and deeper into solitude when a miracle happened. At Christmas.

FIFA 2001.

A FOOTBALL GAME! I played it religiously. Completing season after season(in amateur mode, natch) and it sparked my interest in going out and socialising again. "Fuck the hatahs" thought I, "no true friend would take the piss out of me for my shape" and other such Trinny and Susannah crap.

So my next door neighbour and I would play tennis. Hour after hour of tennis.

Then I discovered skateboarding. Which was far more rewarding for me. Easier to control, made walking downhill an even bigger doddle, and ultimately, pulling off a trick gave me an enormous buzz. I had to strive. I found a sport I enjoyed, and could easily improve at.

And I was progressing nicely, when I discovered that despite my best efforts, I am not a natural sportsman. Average at lots, good at none.

So that put the kibosh on that one. Which was a shame, because I really enjoyed it. Still do on a rare occasion.

And despite all of the sweating, effort, grunting, blood, tears and pain I went through, I hadn't lost an ounce.

Again, this was due to my love of pies and biscuits.

And then a few years past with 0 effort on my part. I move to opposite ends of the country twice.

I return to Londinium's outposts and begin an illustrious career as a window cleaner. Ya, Lumpy was a glazing hygiene technician. In the height of summer. The flab pisses off me. "This is great" think I, "I'm finally losing lbs hand over fist."

But then I stopped being a Visual Sanitation Engineer and got a job as a beverage refreshment consultant. And still the weight pissed off of me. I begin to worry.

I head to the docs.

Diabetes? Hepatitis?

No. No.

Eating well?

Yes.

Epstein-Barr Virus?

Wassat then, quack?

"Well basically..."
*lengthy medical jargon which I failed to comprehend*
"...and that's what we suspect you may have."

Oh.

Bugger.

It has been more than 6 months since my diagnosis, and STILL I'm heamoraiging weight. Nowt to be done apparently.

I spent years indoors, getting fat because I wouldnt go outdoors. Then I get ill and all my issues go away?

Fuck it.

Unhappy teddy.

Wankers.

I still eat more shit than perhaps I should, but I cannot put on weight. Quack is totally baffled with it.

Useless sod.

Last time I go NHS.

I worry too much, I reckon

I found myself worrying about my rubbish in my bedroom this afternoon. How much I produce in a fortnight, and how much I can get away with taking out without people wondering what on earth I'm doing.

I find myself worrying about wether I'm going to miss the bus to work, but this blows over rapidly because I dislike my job.

I often worry about my dad, because he is a diabetic. Anything goes wrong, and I'm 400 miles away, and can do precisely 0.

I worry about my sister, because I do.

Recently though, my biggest worry has been my impending relocation to South Africa. Mainly because its a big scary thing and I know almost nobody out there. My entire life has been spent moving from house to house, so moving isnt the issue. Its the distance. My dad and my sister are staying put in their respective locales, and I'm flying further and further from the nest.

I have raging paranoia about being stuck out there and commiting some tiny felony whilst there and being imprisoned on Robben Island (Free The Swandanavian One!) for 37,000 years or so. I've read horror stories of the notorious "Numbers" gangs in the jails in S. Africa, and this has failed to cure my fear.

Couple this with heading almost blind into a field I know nothing about, and the odds of me succeeding are dwindling faster and faster with every passing thought to it.

HARUMPH.

I think I shall be forced to find solace in games of Mornington Crescent or GTA4 until I actually leave for the Dark Continent.

Shit.

Dark? I'm afraid of the dark...

Contact Your Inner Caveman, For The Greater Good

The METROSEXUAL. Not the hidden sexual perversion it may seem. It is fast becoming the pretender to throne of The Alpha-Male.

Once upon a time, it was considered the norm(if not expected) to be dirty, sweaty, smelly, unkempt and rude. If these glorious qualities didnt get you a mate, you found the nearest female, clubbed her over the head and returned to your patch of the cave and kept her there until she developed a type of Stockholm Syndrome.

These days, in order to aquire something relating in status to a wife or girlfriend, you need to be clean, tidy, well dressed, witty and intelligent. You have to earn decent money, be able to look after yourself, as well as the lady in question, and any potential children which may appear in the future.

Gone are the days when you could stroll around wearing scant more than a smile and your own back hair. A chap walking around like that in those heady fays of 10,000 BC would be a stunning candidate for the procreation of the species. Walk around like that these days and you'll be locked up in a padded cell with a straight jacket for warmth.

I'm almost certain that I was born out of my time. If I dont have to be seen in public, I'll often choose to not even get dressed, let alone shower or comb my hair. The moment I know I have to step outside, I'll bow down to the socially acceptable appearance that the casual observer sees. I'm more than happy to sit in my own squalor, provided its my squalor. Were I born in my true era, that filth would be brushed into the fire at the cave opening to keep me warm.

Dont take all this to mean that I am a disgusting person. I am. But for all intents and purposes, I keep my social spaces clean and tidy so that other non-caveman types wont turn their noses up. Its not an acceptance thing, its just easier.

I often find myself thinking in Neanderthal man ways(I'd like to think so, not just I have an under-evolved brain) about how things can be done. A lot of the wise-arse remarks made to people about sexual practise involve clubs and caves. Far more than is natural.

If I encounter things which I find difficult(physical tasks, not crosswords and sudokus) then I furrow my brow and grunt. Sometimes emphatically. I quit often beat my chest one or two times in triumph. I genuinly cannot envision myself living past the age of 40, the average Neanderthal's life expectancy.

I often create tools out of other ojects in a vain attempt at making my life easier, but they are often clumsy. I dont care for jewellery, or other such flashy objects. I can make fire from sticks, pieces of flint and other such fun shit.

Am I a caveman, or am I just very odd? I find it increasingly hard to distinguish one from the other. I havent actually clubbed a lady over the head and dragged her back to my cave, mainly because I'm too lazy for the dragging, and its not a very easy thing to explain to the police, one imagines.

Sod it. I might go out and create fire, skin some animals and go live in a park. Best make sure the park has wi-fi. I'm a caveman, but I have to be in touch. I suppose plug sockets wouldnt go amiss.

Best bit of all that would be I would be able to start my own caveman tribe. I'd be the tribal elder, I could command my peaons to gather me things.

I am the Swandanavian Alpha-Male, and The Universe is right within our cave.