Searching for gibberish

You aren’t who you think you are. You’re somebody else.

It doesn’t matter how certain you are of your identity, if you ask Google you’ll discover you’re actually somebody else entirely. For example, I was fairly sure I was me until recently, but it turns out I’m actually a violent, gold-toothed, crack-addicted, black rapper known to his friends as Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Oh, and I’m dead. Bummer!

Perhaps I really am that dead rapper, but I think it’s more likely that Google is mistaken, and I’m still me, and as likely to rap as Prince Phillip is. All of which proves Google can’t be trusted: just look at the ways it’s directed people to these pages.

WordPress shows me statistics about this blog, which is why I know I sometimes get as many as 7 people reading this tender outpouring of my aching soul. It rises to 9 if I mention sex, but I’m not prepared to whore myself for you, you dirty-minded bunch of scoundrels.

(No, it’s fine, don’t feel any pressure to retweet or like me on Facebook, I’ll survive on those few paltry views).

I digress! Amongst the WordPress statistics is a list of the search terms used to find my blog. It’s sobering reading…

fully naked simon cowell
There’s no need for that. Stop. Just… stop. I briefly wondered what sort of mental frailty would make a person want to see a fully naked Cowell. And why the inclusion of the word “fully”? Had they previouly searched for plain old “naked Simon Cowell”, and been disappointed to find he was wearing a glove? And then I saw that 19 identially mental people had found my blog with this search, which qualifies as a spree, or maybe an outbreak. I don’t want to encourage genocide, but if anyone has a vial of Smallpox, now would be a perfect time…

Craig the dirty naked molerat
All of those words are perfectly valid, but when you put them into that order it takes some explaining. It’s just so specific. Not just any dirty naked molerat: it has to be Craig. He’s the best of the many, many dirty naked molerats in the world.

mole thrashing behaviour
Is this a request for information about the most appropriate behaviour when one is going on a mole-thrashing expedition? Or is it that there are thrash-metal moles listening to Anthrax in some poor bugger’s back garden, and he wants to know how to curtail this behaviour? And, more importantly, what results did this person actually find? Because when you search for “mole thashing behaviour” the only matching results are a tweet from me about it. He must have been so disappointed.

huge hard morning wood throbbing photo
I can understand wanting to see photos of huge throbbing body parts, but why does it have to be taken in the morning? Is the person behind this search really disinterested by erections that happen after midday? I demand answers.

Mick Hucknall naked
These words, in this exact combination, make an excellent emetic. No more slipping fingers down your throat and groping for your sick-trigger on those ghastly, hung-over mornings: just repeat “Mick Hucknall naked” twice, and you’re sure to vomit lavishly all over the cat. But be careful: say it three times and he appears in person, like a ginger, plastic-soul Beetlejuice, and you have to beat him to death with hammers.

women’s tits
Not men’s tits. Careful! What we’re looking for here is specifically women’s tits. If you’re after men’s tits, please allow me to refer you to the search for a naked Simon Cowell.


Pointless birthdays

Did you know the Earth is weightless?

Yeah, I know: it sounds like I’ve been on the crazy pills again, and you’re probably saying “if you think that, mate, have a go at picking it up”. But it’s true! Weight is a measurement of the influence of gravity on an object, and because the main thing that causes gravity around here is Earth, it becomes impossible to weigh it.

But it does have a mass: 5,212,000,000,000,000 tons. Think that’s big? Naah. It’s tiny. Look how big some things are.

But Earth is still growing, so give it a chance. Dust and tiny cosmic debris lands on Earth all the time, adding a few million tons to the weight every year, and slowing it down. Rick Waller probably had quite an influence on our speed too, like keeping an anchor in the boot of your car. But most of the time you’d never spot the changes to our planet. In fact, you’d probably be amazed how much stuff happens to our planet that you don’t notice.

For example, last year there was a massive earthquake off the coast of Japan. Lots of people in Japan noticed, because it got quite damp underfoot, the buildings kept toppling over, and they all glowed red with radioactivity for a while. But over here in the UK you only knew about it if you watched the news. The actual quake was undetectable to us.

But it was so powerful it tilted our entire planet on its axis by 17 cm, and added about half a second to the time it takes us to orbit the Sun.

Think of all those earthquakes down the centuries, millenia and eras. Several per year, many of them much larger than the Japanese quake. Think of all those half seconds added to our orbit. Is a year now the same as a year was when the mammoth roamed the planet? Undoubtedly not!

So why bother celebrating birthdays? What are we even measuring? Yesterday marked the point when I’d been around the sun 42 times. Whoop-de-do. It looks the same from every angle as far as I’m concerned, so what’s the big deal? I’ve been round IKEA more than 42 times, and it seemed to take longer too, so why don’t I get a card for that?

(Not that I got many cards. It’s one of the things that the internet is killing off. I got a few texts and emails, and somebody threw virtual livestock at me on Facebook, but real-life, physical cards seem to be teetering on the brink of extinction, along with handwriting and newspapers.)

The whole “age” thing is meaningless, and that’s not just because I feel narked about only getting one card, dammit. I really feel that it’s utterly pointless to count birthdays after the age of 12. I used to think it was worth counting up until 65, so you knew when to retire. But the retirement age seems to be accelerating away from me faster than I’m aging, and I’m pretty convinced my fate is to work until I keel over dead, and have my pay docked if I stop generating income for the International Entirety Corporation one second before my heart stops splashing in my chest.

To me, the effect of every birthday since I got into double figures has been as undetectable as the Japanese earthquake on Earth. Sure, it changed stuff, but in such a tiny, unnoticeable way that it might as well have happened to somebody else on the other side of the planet.

I’m sure at one point in my life, age mattered. It wasn’t just years we counted, it was months, and in some cases the days. The fact I was a weekend older than Wayne Perry meant it was OK for me to steal his egg sandwiches on the school bus. Whereas these days, a 10, 15 or 20 year difference between me and my friends doesn’t mean a damn thing (although I do miss those egg sandwiches).

When you’re a kid you assume birthdays will be a rite of passage. I remember being wildly excited to reach 13, because it meant I was a now a teenager. But I hated being a teenager, just like every other teenager does, so that was a pointless birthday.

I mistakenly assumed being 16 meant I was a man, but it didn’t: it just meant I could legally buy cigarettes and watch The Transformers: The Movie. But I’ve never smoked, and The Transformers was a terrible movie the first time around. So that was a pointless birthday too, and I wished it had never happened, if it happened at all. I don’t remember anything about it, and I probably spent it like I spent Wednesday the 9th August 1986.

(I have absolutely no idea what I did on Wednesday 9th August 1986. It was just a day, like every other day is, and neither that date nor my 16th birthday mean anything to me.)

I was sure I’d become a man at 18, but I didn’t: I remained a specky geek with skin that made me look like I had the plague, and a magical superpower that made me invisible to women. At least they couldn’t see my festering face, so it wasn’t all bad.

At 25 I started to overhear parents in shops tell their errant brats to “behave or that man will shout”, and it after failing to see which man they were talking about it eventually dawned that it was me; and that consequently I might be drifting into adulthood, and becoming a tool for parents to scold their kids. It gave me a false sense of my own importance, and I experimented with giving people advice, like I knew a damn thing about life. I quickly gave up my career as an oracle because I still felt like a teenager. So what was the point of the previous dozen birthdays, each of which had drifted past without a trace?

I’d been promised 30 would bring big changes, but in all honesty it felt like being 29, but very slightly later. And 29 felt like 28, 28 like 27, and so on, back to the time I slithered out of my mum.

When I was 35 I was asked for ID while buying a bottle of whiskey in Tesco, and it occurred to me that literally the entire previous 20 years may as well have not happened. I grew a beard so at least there would be some evidence of a physical change over a couple of decades.

I forgot my 40th birthday, literally. I got a text message in the evening, and suddenly realised it was 11 June, and I was at a milestone. I wasn’t excited, or scared, or freaked out. I probably did what I’m going to do after I’ve written this: have a cup of tea and make dinner. Not much happened in my 40th year, at least not much that changed me. My dad jossed it during that year, but that wasn’t a thing that happened to me – it happened to him. So that doesn’t count, does it? Oh, and I had cancer. But inside I felt the same as I always did, but with fewer kidneys.

I’m 42 now, and wonder if it’ll ever change. Will I always feel 17, even when I’m looking at a wizened husk in the mirror, and ordering a bath-chair online? I used to assume I’d feel grown-up when I moved out of the ancestral manse, or started a business, or was no longer scared of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. But all of those things happened half a lifetime ago, and I still feel like a superannuated teenager.

I’m starting to think Groucho was right: a man isn’t as old as he feels, he’s as old as the woman he feels.

Bollocks to God

My genitals prove God doesn’t exist.

Look at them. What kind of hyper-intelligent super-being would create a set of organs like that?

For a long time I’ve thought male genitals – or menitals – to be the most gruesome, pointless, unreliable and untrustworthy collection of objects outside of parliament.

But let’s start with God. This is a being who can – we’re reliably assured by lunatics wearing tin-foil hats – clap his hands twice, shout “Alakazam”, and conjure up a planet, a galaxy, a universe, and all the beings that live in it. He can read the thoughts of every human alive (and dead), know what’s in our hearts, and send us cute little psychic messages like “Abraham, take your son to the top of the hill and almost – but not quite – murder him with a big fuck-off knife”. He can be vengeful but merciful at the same time, and he loves us all but drowns us all, and he can even turn Himself into a burning bush, his own son, and a holy goat… or was it ghost? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.

Are we really claiming that the best this all-powerful God could come up with as a mechanism for passing sperm into a lady is this: a mangled group of things hanging off the front of my body like a parasitic alien?

Take my penis (so to speak): it’s a droopy tube of fat with a hole in the end, and a head like a wizened old man wearing a leathery turtleneck. Even when it gets angry and wants to fight, it flails around blindly, unable to find where it’s meant to go and needing constant guidance and encouragement. If God is so fucking smart, why didn’t he just give me plastic tube and a little plunger to press when I want to dispense semen?

Instead I’ve got to manage with this fugly arrangement, which reminds me of nothing so much as a grumpy and unpredictable sea-cucumber.

At any given time it can either finish too soon, finish when everyone else has long since got bored and started a Sudoku, or decide to not finish at all, give up and go to sleep. Frankly, I find it damned offensive. And when it does deign to grace us with its presence, it’s either so sensitive that it can reduce me to agonized, doubled-up whinnying, or so insensitive that it takes four long, grinding, sweaty hours of Olympian pounding to make it “be sick down your lady-passage”.

If I can keep myself oxygenated for long enough to get to “the point”, I often find that I’m all keyed-up for a monumental eruption, lasting 90 seconds and sending a fountain of little soldiers all over the lucky lady… and instead, for absolutely no reason at all, I produce a watery dribble that reminds everybody involved of a very small, very milky baby sick. And that’s not an erotic thing.

And when I think there’s going to be no more than a dribble, it comes out like a tsunami, knocks over nearby ornaments, permanently ruins the curtains, and blinds somebody.

But this mindless, pug-ugly object can regularly beat my actual brain into dumb acquiescence and make me follow nice bottoms around the supermarket for hours at a time. It can make me forget to work so I can fiddle with myself, and drag me away from minor things like cooking and eating and sleeping so I can maintain a hands-on relationship with my pork-truncheon, and make every day “palm Sunday”.

And then there are the testicles. You can tell what people’s attitude to them is by the fact that the words gonad and scrotum are almost perfectly designed as insults. You can yell them at any annoying teenager, and he’ll want to stab you for “dissing” him. And I don’t blame him for taking umbrage: the whole arrangement is a fucking mess.

Two balls of pain hanging in a sack of skin that looks like off-cuts from Walter Matthau’s last neck-surgery. The entire region is a morass of tubes and pipes and valves, any one of which can block up in a heartbeat and render the whole arrangement defunct. They swivel around inside you, and rise and fall like the Assyrian Empire. They stick to your thigh or drift painfully downwards until they’re trapped in you trouser leg. They swell and droop and contract, and sometimes draw up into your body in a way that convinces people who watch you climb out of the pool that your clingy swimming shorts are covering the smooth, flawless inanity of a Ken doll.

But, with notable exceptions (such as my little visit from Mr Kidney Cancer) at least they don’t bleed for days on end, spread pain throughout your abdomen, back, hips and boobs, or give you violent mood swings.

Q: How many women with PMT does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: One.

Q: Why?

A: It just fucking does, alright!!!