Bump.

'Looking where I'm going so you don't have to.'

This had become my unpleasant mantra, running continuously around my undisciplined mind like a demented rat, spitting and snarling in its exercise wheel.

I had become obsessed with this thought and it would often be the only thing that I was thinking and I had to do something about it, clearly, instead of just thinking it all the time, making me ill. Instead of saying 'Can I have one of your bags please', to the lady at the supermarket checkout, I would blurt, apropos of nothing in her eyes: 'Looking where I'm going so you don't have to'.

And so there came a day when I decided that it was up to me to actually do something about it, because it was making me ill and I had a permanent, fearful lump in my throat.

It was on this day (a Tuesday, which are usually nice ones) that I was Bumped three times before tea, which upset me,  a usually mild mannered (and anxious) gentleman, to the point of vengeful retribution, which wasn't a good fit for my weak body.

BUMP 1

The first was during the morning commute. The routine march into the building, a young man, face deep in his pad and, from the little that I glimpsed, watching hard core pornography. At that time of the morning (tut). As he approached I waited for him to look up, in order that he might avoid me, but he continued directly into my path.

BUMP! My left shoulder into his left shoulder. He was barely able to hold his pad steady for the money shot.

'Careful, mate!'

He said that, to me, would you believe. Barely looking up to see who he'd bumped into, he carried on, presumably rewinding the good bits that he'd missed and somehow negotiating the subsequent stream of good, correct thinking, pedestrians.

Upon my recent awareness that this Bumping was becoming a thing, I had been forgiving. Thinking that they had a perfect right to behave in this way and that it wasn't an issue and that I shoudn't, under any circumstances, let it become so. I decided, on this morning, that this had been an incorrect epiphany, if that is what it was. I don't have many of them and I didn't want to waste one on something that was a wrong one.

BUMP 2

The second bump of the day came during my lunch hour. I have a desperate need to claim this time as my own and will not be put off from this daily extraction from my opressive office and the idiots therein, as is my preference, just through anxiety of the Bumpers. I will not let this become my problem.

This time it was a middle aged woman, a woman within my age bracket who should surely, therefore, have been in better possession of herself.  She approached, one of the new fangled portable screens in front of her, dangling precariously, vision obscured by that and hearing impeded by the the aural feed.

BUMP! My left elbow on her left hand as she was trying to type.

'You cretin! This call is of optimum importance. You made me do a typo!' she said, not taking her eyes away from the comically boinging screen. Had I said anything in reply it would have been unheard, such was her concentration in the virtual thing she was within.

DAVE'S DOUBLE BUMP

I had got off lightly, of course. My mate Dave, he got hospitalised by a pair of them, he got Double-Bumped and fractured his arm. They fractured his arm. He was minding his own business, but got Bumped (double) and got the blame. They said it served him right and that he shouldn't have been such a clumsy man, or words that conveyed this opinion with far greater hostile representation.

Yet we (incorrectly, as I say) forgave them, as we thought we should, because this is sometimes the way things are when the world is adapting to new ways of being.

The trouble was they kept on Bumping and there was never ANY remorse from them, the Bumpers.

BUMP 3

I had successfully made it back to my street, post-work, without getting bumped by anybody. Some weren't so lucky. I saw one poor girl, being wheeled into the back of an ambulance, one of the attending Paramedics, tutting and shaking his head at her, telling her she should have been more careful and considerate and watched where she was going and got out of the way of the school boy who had been writing his hourly blog on his lap top. She shook, her shaking making the tears come out that much faster.

My third Bump of this day was the worst. A teenage girl, wearing the latest fashion, which was no fashion, a blind assembly of bland high street clothing, hard to tell whether it had come from this year or any one of the last twenty. She did, however, have the latest kit. Portable mixing decks, attached to her, umbilically.  Oversized cans, but the volume still at a level where you could make out every unfortunate note of the music she was 'doing'.

I had no chance.

BUMP! Full body Bump, the force landing me backwards onto the cruel, unsympathetic pavement.

Accusation by her, of my incompetence as an individual, coloured by bland vindictive swearing. Coldplay swearing. I can forgive creative swearing, but just being called the bad things with no sense of why I might be these things is just disheartening.

This juvenile, potty mouthed automaton had, however, led me to form my resolve that this must stop, and that The Bumpers must be taken seriously and dealt with effectively, and that it was, specifically, MY job to do it.

MY PAL, MUG THOMPSON, AND THE PLANNING

Of course, this wasn't an undertaking for just one man, no matter how resolute and determined.
I am, after all, just a man, not a superhero, nor a Time Lord or a big Fireman, more is the pity, for all concerned.

These people, The Bumpers, had evolved. They were a new sub-species of human being, albeit one unconsciously becoming undeserving of the term human as I understood it.

I was surprised there hadn't been some sort of national, or at least, localised uproar in the press. This was exactly the kind of issue that should be defined and reported in order to avert the growth of the problem.

I asked my mate, Double-Bumped Dave, to help, but he was having none of it. He was scared and clearly thought that I was loopy. He would have been a liabilty with that useless, slinged arm, mind. Before I left him, I asked if I could write on his cast, as the tradition has it. Upon his agreement I wrote 'Beware the Bumpers!' It was a small gesture, but consistent with my newly stated vision and purpose.

So I went to see my best pal, Mug Thompson to enlist his aid.  Not the smartest man in the line-up, but with a good heart and firm in his opinions, providing you told him what those opinions were (and providing he wasn't stoned).

'It's the Bumpers', I elucidated. 'They're everywhere. Becoming dangerous. Threatening our way of life'.

Mug scratched his head and looked for the bits that were falling out as a result.

'Dunno'.

'What do you mean 'Dunno'?'

'Well, it's like...' Mug broke off and coughed.

'It's quite simple, Mug. These people, have become something other than human. There would appear to be no hope for them. It's up to me to do something and I need your help. Please, man'.

'Tell me what you need, man.'

Mug had been a loyal friend to me since we were kids and I helped him work out how to set the timer on his VHS so he could record the Laurel & Hardy films that were shown on regional TV in the mornings, so he didn't have to keep bunking off work. 'Blockheads' was his favourite, which seemed appropriate.

I gave him a printed list of instructions, which I'd laminated, just in case stuff from his being or any objects associated with him got onto it and reduced legibility of any percentage of the important content.

(And I wrote this list of instructions, sitting at my laptop, on my desk, in my house, and not some ludicrously expensive device while I was out riding a child's scooter, for example).

This was going to be expensive, but I had (with considerable foresight) recently created a small pot of money my way from a fraudulent accident claim. (These people are asking for it). I therefore gave Mug a tightly wrapped coil of used bank notes, in order to pay off his dealer (so he wouldn't be violated, of his person, by his 'dealers') and to pay for those things necessary for the execution of my plan.

FALL OF THE BUMPERS

A fortnight later and things were falling into place. Mug had done me proud, apart from one afternoon, where he had taken a bad trip and been found partially clothed in a freezer in Tesco shouting 'All aboard the nude chicken train'. And laughing, (naturally), and not appreciating the volume at which he'd been doing so, due to wearing headphones and playing, loudly, the greatest hits of Foster and Allen.

The situation vis a viz the Bumpers had become unbearable and untenable, at least for me. The more that everybody was Bumped, however, the greater their resignation to it. This, they concluded, was just the way things were these days.

The Bumpers by this point had totally lost any ability to appreciate that they had bumped into anybody, let alone cursing their victim.

Their skin had started to grow over their appliances.

I was Bumped by an old man driving a motorised scooter, working on a novel. He also crippled a nurse who was in his way, and that was just the way things were these days? I didn't think so.

Mug, however, had come through. Via his bizarre and, thankfully, random list of contacts, he had managed to facilitate my every requirement, which I am quite certain that other companions would have regarded as mere fancy. He had got all the things on the list.

1. Dodgem car rink

2. Wasteland of appropriate size to house the first item.

3. Man with a van.

Mug then rounded up a number of the worst bumpers who I had kept under surveillance. All my years of voyeurism were finally starting to pay off.

He didn't need to capture them or drug them, he merely got the man in the van to park his van in their path, and they walked/drove/rode in up the tail gate, without the slightest cessation of their activities when they had come to a full stop, so unaware and uncaring were they of their surroundings.

They were they then driven to and unloaded onto the dodgem car rink.

As soon as they were let into this enclosure, they began to Bump into one another. I sat in a comfy chair, laughing heartily, as I believe I had the earned the right to do.

LOOKING WHERE I'M GOING SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO

Using my Facebook account, I advertised this as an amusement. 'Roll up', I said, 'and ride the Bumpers. They have no feelings and thus can knock into one another with no apparent injury to mind or body'.

Within the first week, two people responded to the advertisement, on a whim, and not entirely certain of what to expect and, indeed, whether this was a genuine thing.

Mug had made a little booth at the entrance to the attraction and had managed to attract a popular coffee retailer to run a small (and ultimately unprofitable) stand.

He had also managed to procure some bespoke saddles which he placed on the backs of the Bumpers.

As a demonstration for the punters, I mounted a Bumper. This was easier said than achievable, as they just didn't stand still for very long.

However, I eventually managed to wrangle one of the older men, who was busy writing a music blog, where he was attempting to list all the running times of all the songs by Showaddywaddy, and writing about how those things were important to their relative chart positions.

He was oblivious to me. As he crashed into his fellow Bumpers, I screamed at him. 'This is what it's come to hasn't it! There was no need for this, but you had to be told. I was sick of it. What was I sick of? Looking where I'm going so you don't have to!' I shouted at his old head. Which I then reiterated, by repeating what I'd said, only louder, and straight at his old head: 'LOOKING WHERE I'M GOING SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO!'

The gathered crowd of two undertstood what was afoot and mounted their respective rides.

That's all the Bumpers were good for now, in my (correct thinking) mind.

Within 2 days the word had spread on social media.  They came from as far away as Dusseldorf to ride the Bumpers.

My cause had been recognised and the revenge aspect of it was absolutely wonderful.

THE END

The eventual press coverage had been localised but there were some damn good people who had identified it as a worthy cause.

I was reading such a piece, in the local free paper, walking along the busy main road by my work building. I was proudly looking at a picture of myself and Mug, riding a Bumper apiece, when I stepped in front of a courier bike and was carried two metres down the road until the rider stopped suddenly, bouncing me off into the road, whereupon a London Bus (a 73) crushed my legs, unforgivingly, under its wheels, going round and round.

I was too embarrased to wait for an ambulance and hailed a Black Cab. The driver saw that I was in considerable agony, but under the influence of cash, he dragged me into his vehicle and drove me the 13 miles to the dodgem rink.

I phoned Mug, telling him what had happened, and to expect me. Upon my arrival, he gave me some of his nice drugs to take the edge off of the agony, emanating from my shattered limbs.

Under my instructions, he then placed a saddle on my back, and stuck the next punter on me.

As I dragged my customer along, Bumping into the Bumpers, I giggled about the irony of my situation, until I passed out due to loss of blood.

The Police took a dim view of just about everything that they saw that day and the operation came to an end.

I had, however, made my point, and that was the most important thing.

Pouring Boiling Water, From a Great Height

Thoughts -1

I enjoyed being on top of the building.
I experienced a sense of relief and a feeling that I was, finally, about to determine my own future (or lack thereof).

And I wasn’t too dumb with depression to be aware of the irony; that at my lowest spiritual state of being, I was the highest I’d ever, physically, been.

Not that I was particularly amused at this. I didn’t consider it worth tweeting, with a smiley face.

I was 36 and had recently been diagnosed.

I had researched the matter and concluded, rationally (I thought) that I didn’t want to end up like so many others, becoming a burden (as I had recently been described).

Thoughts - 2

The Civic Centre was not a building with any degree of security. There was nothing to prevent me from getting to the roof and jumping from it. It was a mere matter of arriving at the top floor of the building in the public lift, and from there, accessing the service staircase to the roof. There wasn’t even a lock on the door. Health and safety not nearly ‘mad’ enough here, it would appear.

I’d flippantly fantasised about doing this when I was a teenager and depressed, the time, for example, when that girl didn’t want to come with me to see Arnold Schwarzenegger in Commando. In the end, I went with my mate Dave, getting drunk on three pints of weak lager and watching the film in double vision.

This time was different. This would be the end of me and there would be nothing that anybody could do about it. The doctors could give some other poor sod bad news and Claire could find herself a more cheerful boyfriend, one without the temerity to be ill, one who wouldn’t prove to be such a burden.

I would jump from the roof of this fifteen story building, would (hopefully) suffer a massive coronary upon my descent, and my body would then be crushed on impact with the unforgiving concrete, my limbs flailing as though I were a man made of cloth.
The one thing that I didn’t expect to happen was that I would fly.

Thoughts -3

How was I to know that this was even a possibility? I had accounted for no variables in this plan, it all seemed fairly straightforward: Jump and die.

Had I considered that there was even the slightest potential for such a ludicrous outcome, then I’d have put more work into the development of either plan B or C, despite the greater need for resources, and the lengthier, and more painful, processes involved. (Added to which, the greater chance of discovery and ‘being saved’).

Instead of what I thought would be a direct plummet, then, I was caught by a gust of wind, which blew open my arms, and I began to glide naturally. Naturally, this was, had I been a bird and not a 15 stone lump of idiot human.

The intense feelings that drove me to jump from a very high building are easy to summarise: Feeling alone, and in pain, with no faith or assurance that this is going to change.  Quite how I was able to fly is something of which I continue to remain ignorant.

I had always been led to believe that humans could not fly as we have neither the wings nor the lightness of bone that birds have which enable them to be airborne and thus fulfil their brief as ‘bird’.

Whatever the reality of my miraculous new ability, the spell of doom that had been constant since the diagnosis, had been broken.

There is no relief when fear is constant, and all usual and reasonable responses and processes are perverted to the point where they are useless. I had, therefore, no consideration that the circumstances of my life would ever change for the better.

And I would certainly never have reasoned that the change would have come from this, flying over Southend-on-Sea, with my first erection for two months.

Thoughts -4

I was experiencing pure joy for the first time, probably since I was a child. I would say that I had a spring in my step, apart from the fact that I wasn’t stepping anywhere.

And, as I became sensible to my new ability (after I’d understandably finished screaming in disbelief), I began to think about my body.

What were the jobs for my body parts with this new skill?

The legs, formally the go-to limbs for self-transportation, appeared redundant. Instead it was my arms, and, in particular, my hands, that were the boss of my movement.

It all seemed quite natural. Not really any different to when I went swimming for the first time. I was a natural swimmer and now I was a natural flyer.

I’d never even been on a plane. Not through any irrational or developed fear of flying, merely that I’d never been remotely interested in going anywhere that I would need to use flying for.

I had been accused, often, of being a boring, unadventurous man for this reason alone. I had a stubborn refusal to apply for a passport that was the root cause of many a dispute in several relationships.

So, there I was.  A dull, and ill, burden.

Thoughts – 5

Claire had asked me to move out, and I hadn’t argued the matter. The illness had changed everything, making me behave differently, her initial sympathy ground to nothingness by my stark, negative attitude.

If I wanted to win her back, this would probably do it. I would be able to literally swoop down and sweep her off her feet. (Although, I thought, I might have to practice first, on something not composed of living matter).

I didn’t, however, have any desire to do this. We’d spent 10 years bringing out the very worst attributes in each other and that was quite sufficient.

What an amazing feeling this was! Above everything and ignored by everybody. Who would think to look upwards, to see some stupid bloke in his thirties, flying?!

 I was humbled.  Here I was, with this unique insight. Little old me, about whom there was nothing special or notable, was up here, defying the received wisdom of science.

And I had a hard-on like a rolling pin.

Thoughts - 6

Humbleness gave way to perversion, and I considered how I could use my new ability for coarse purposes.   And I started screaming and swearing and telling everybody what I thought of them and how I would take my revenge with various flying based methods of violence.

 ‘Now they’ll all want me. They’ll all want to be with the man who can fly. I can pick and choose and tell them that they’re not my type.  I’ll make love to beautiful naked women on normally inaccessible high surfaces and they will treat me like a God! ‘

I was higher than the buildings and tired and having trouble breathing.  I needed to stop flying and descend. There was no manual for this. By some instinct, I flapped my arms up and down and began to hover, thus preserving energy and allowing my breath to become regular again. I needed to acclimatise, couldn’t take it for granted that everything would work the way it does on the ground.

I didn’t miss the ground. The ground was boring. Perhaps, if everything worked out, I would never have to go there again. Boring people, insanely dull and commonplace, people who would tell you that you were ill and that you were a burden and that you were unlovable.

There was nothing like that up here, where I was a King and a God. I was the boss.

 ‘Down below, the common people go’.

I started singing this, making up a tune that wouldn’t have been out of place in the ABBA back catalogue.

I always knew that I was better than them.  Although I’d often felt inferior, I knew that I was better. I used to think that I was merely different, but now I knew that I was superior. Empirical evidence was finally with me, bestowed upon me.

I could fly. I was above the rest of my species and their petty concerns.

Down below, the common people go, with their jobs and their push chairs and their sex and their nights out and their bowling and their rubbish.

Rubbish rubbish rubbish rubbish. That’s all they’re about and all their business is. They have no freedom and no use and all their concerns are petty and boring and pointless.

'Down below the common people go

Their brains are slow and their bodies slow

On and on and on they go

The common people down below

With their shopping and their watching

And their sex and their money

Down on the ground where they belong

With me, up here, singing my lovely new song.

I KNEW IT!

 I knew I had a destiny that was much better than the remedial existence into which I was unfortunately born. My life prevented me from achieving any greatness of which I might potentially be capable.

My fate, I could SEE now, was that I had to become miserable enough in order to jump off the tall building and to realise my destiny, my destiny as the man who can fly. In a sense I did die up there, my old life died and this new one began.

This was my new life.

Thoughts -7

I flew above the train track, that travelled from Southend Victoria to London Liverpool Street, a journey I had taken on a ridiculous number of occasions before, on the train, the stupid, now pointless, redundant train that I would never need to bother myself with again, with all the Essex Boys, drinking their strong lager and saying ‘Oi mate’ at me, apropos of nothing other than a need to assert themselves over all other men and especially over all different looking and different seeming people. I would no longer have to listen to their dull voices, their grunting conversations about sex and nothing.

As the stations passed, Southend Airport, Rochford, Wickford, to Shenfield, I considered how lucky I was, to have had such a wretched life, otherwise I would never have gone to the building and jumped off and been able to fly.  It is not something that I would have considered, that I would be able to fly, that this was my special purpose. And even if that had crossed my mind as a possibility I am not sure what I would have done about it, that I would have taken any action to put such a stupid theory to the test.

I would merely have put myself in the way of harm and perhaps even had killed myself or become paralysed.  Better to think that I was the second coming. That would be far less dangerous.

I started laughing as I approached Romford, the first time that had happened.  It was exclamatory laughing, but felt quite natural.

Laughing at the thought of all the stupid people below me, encumbered by their method of conveyance, people who would despise me and ridicule me as soon as they saw me, and here I was, above them, free of restriction, able to do what I wanted.

They reminded me of the ants that used to accumulate around the kitchen door, leading to the garden. We got rid of those by pouring boiling water on them. I didn’t think that these were any different. Maybe I should fly down and get myself a massive container of boiling water.

And that’s when the doubts started. That’s when I made the mistake of starting to think about it.

Thoughts - 8

How was I flying? How was I able to fly? How was I, a human being, without the physiological make up to be able to fly, flying?

Exhilaration giving way to confusion, as it usually does, I started panicking.

‘Why me’?  This was the same question that I asked myself after being diagnosed.  ‘Why me?’ And then a friend to whom I’d been whinging suggested, ‘Why not you!?’ That was a different perspective. I wasn’t so special, so yes, why not me?

So, therefore, why shouldn’t it be me that was able to fly? Why not me?

I looked down at the trains which had all stopped. Overhead wire problems or something, I expect. No more of those for me. I have no wires overhead.

I have no string to cut me down.

And then I started to think about Pinocchio and Thunderbirds and all other puppets.

I started thinking not so much about the Why but about the How.

How was I flying?

I tried to think of all the things I had done recently that might have enabled me to fly.

Had I eaten something unusual? Had I been bitten by something, an insect either infused with a large amount of radiation or that had been genetically enhanced? Was I a super hero? Did I now have great responsibility? Sod that.

Had I been abducted, had I been experimented on?

I had been sleeping well recently. Perhaps I had been sedated and interfered with, scientifically?

And, that being the case, perhaps my progress was being filmed by spy cameras, fitted discreetly into the surrounding pigeons, tiny devices woven into their feathers. Which I wouldn’t have noticed, as I was rather too busy concentrating on the flying.

Except I hadn’t been concentrating on flying, I’d just been doing it.  So often in my life I effectively prevented myself from doing things because I was thinking too much and here I was just doing something naturally and not thinking about it at all.

Which was a problem: If I didn’t know how I was doing it, how would I be able to repeat it at any later stage?

Thoughts - 9

I was not very good at problem solving.  I had married a woman who made all the important decisions for me and I did not understand the decision making process at all, preferring to do nothing rather than make the wrong choice.

I had, like a massive great idiot (tut) (eye roll), become accidently airborne.  I therefore had no idea if I might be able to do it again. If I stopped flying, if I touched down and tried to start flying again I might be unable to do so and would presumably kill myself in the process of trying, which I now didn’t want to do because I liked flying quite a lot and wanted to do more of that.

My choice was severe and simple. Do I touch down, stop flying and trust that I will be able to do so again; or carry on flying, through fear of not being able to do so again, which, after all, I would rather like to do as it was the most life affirming thing I had ever done.

My level of comfort with decisions was ‘shall I put the milk in the tea, before or after the water?’

If I were to land and then attempt flight again by the same procedure, it would either be the bravest thing I had ever done or the stupidest, by some distance.

 I realised, however, that I was tired and that I would have to land somewhere, regardless of any future considerations or desires. Damn.

Thoughts - 10

Lost in my thoughts, I discovered that I had flown to London’s Southbank. This was an area I recognised well from my teens, as I had visited the National Film Theatre on several occasions in order to be able to see (then) rare showings of Doctor Who.

Instinct took over. I put my head down, and began to descend at what I thought a reasonable angle and velocity. Upon nearing my chosen spot, I flapped in order to control my descent and thought I was making a decent job of it, until the impact of the landing made me crash onto my shoulder in front of the Royal Festival Hall. My injuries were as nothing compared to my next realisation. Nobody had noticed. All the clever people on the bloody South Bank were so consumed with themselves and their intelligent conversations that they’d paid absolutely no heed to me, whatsoever. 

I was furious. Aching and absolutely incredulous that none of these chattering morons saw what I had just done.

‘Didn’t you see that?!’ I roared. ‘Didn’t you see where I just came from?!’

They looked at me, as usual, as if I were some sort of gibbering, lunatic prole.

‘I just landed right in front of you! How could none of you SEE that?’ Laughter arose, in small but annoying sections. I lost my temper and ran towards the end of the terrace, jumped over and…

Everything went black.

Thoughts - Concluding

I awoke later that day in this hospital bed.  In my haste to prove my superiority to the chattering disbelievers, I had not flown. I had crashed onto the ground beneath the terrace, breaking enough bones for me to justify a long period of convalescence and reflection, my ‘accident’ captured on the phone of an amused skateboarder.

As my longstanding emergency contact, Claire had been called in. I told her what had happened, about the flying and me having found my vocation.

Suffice to say, she did not believe me. And neither, for that matter, did anybody else.

There was talk that, upon my bones healing, I might have to be sectioned. So I stopped telling the truth. I instead told them that it was an accident. They didn’t appear to believe that either, but Claire somehow convinced them that whatever I had done was as a result of my outstanding health issues.

These notes remain an objective, accurate record of my experience and have been a great comfort to me in the face of the absolute disbelief of what is seen to be, ‘my story’.

Thoughts – Moving Forward

As soon as I am able and no longer have a two broken legs, tying me to this bed, I shall be jumping again and flying again.

I appreciate that this may end, next time, in my actual death.

I am resolved as to this possible conclusion. It is, however, I feel, preferrable to have the courage of my convictions and die in the process than to forever dwell on what might have been.  I’ve finally found something that I’m really good at and that I love and I will do it again in the face of all sense, and I will carry a large container of boiling water and pour it over those I feel deserving.

The Concise and Authoritative A - Z of Writing

Having ‘published’ several blog posts AND been paid £38.17 by the BBC for comedy sketches, I am, of course, now an expert on, and in, writing. I have therefore decided to ‘give back’ to the community of writing by sharing my wisdom on the craft, so that all you ‘would-be writers’ can do writing as well. Also, all you writers already doing writing, will be able to do better writing. This is, literally, a fact.

I will do this by using each letter of the alphabet to describe one word to do with writing. I then expand upon this in an educational manner. It is particularly useful if you are a writer of the 'fictional' mode of expression.

Here we go. No need to thank me.

A. Application.

The actual sitting down and doing it-ness of the writing is a vital aspect OF the writing. You would be surprised at how much writing simply does not get done because the writer has completely failed to understand this necessary attitude of appliance. They are destined to spend the rest of their life, eating jaffa cakes, self-abusing, and watching the film Green Street, every other week on ITV2, until two in the morning, for the rest of their silly existence.

B. Bullshit
This is what you are allowed to write in any first draft. In subsequent versions, however, it is best to reduce the amount of this. There, hopefully, being less, incrementally, per the increase of draft. You will probably write better things if you're not watching poor quality films about football hooligans until the early hours, idiot.

C. Character.
You'll need some of these if you’re doing or ‘writing’ a story. I usually find it best to just do some thinly disguised version of myself, only one that’s got a better face and who has really good stuff happening to me, I mean him, at the end. The average number of characters you'll need for a novel is seven.

 D. Decisions.
One of the most important things about the writing is deciding ‘What’ to write. This also includes 'Which' direction to take a story in. You might, for a completely random example, have written 124 pages of indulgent, semi-autobiographical horse-shit and decided that you took the wrong path in the story and have basically just wasted months on something that clearly doesn’t work! That's what you get for not reading all the nicely priced helpful fucking manuals about writing, you lightweight!

E. Excuses.

Excuses are the bed rock of the writing career. You must always have these to hand in order to justify why you haven’t done any, to yourself. Most of mine are to do with food. And the film Green Street. There are several moments during the writing where I ‘need’ to have a cup of tea. Or a cake. Or sausage roll and two packets of Jaffa cakes. Bag of Wotsits, banana. Mini Cheddars.  Excuses are an accepted practice in the art and craft of writing and are often MORE important than the writing itself. If you cannot come up with excuses you cannot be a writer. You just will never be good enough.

Somebody doing writing, to break up the text a bit.

F. Fiction.

Always remember that fiction is what you’re writing. It means you can write literally anything and people will believe it. Ignore all that cobblers about writing ‘what you know'. Just make stuff (ie. Fiction) up. Nobody cares about your life, about you getting the train every morning and going to work at the chimney factory. Or writing a novel about a writer who's trying to write a novel and can't because he's anguished. Just write something about a robot who eats cheese. Or an 8-part novel about some cats who run their own shop. Wizard cats. Or vampire cats. And one of them's a football hooligan cat, as well. Which causes conflict.

G. Grammar.
The correct usage of.  Not important. If it really is that bad, your publisher (yeah, right) will pay a far cleverer person to sort all this out for you. Thinking about this kind of thing, correct use of tenses and so on, is a drain on the creative heartbeat of writing.

H. Holes.
There will probably be some of these in your plot (see P). People expect these. It gives the book a talking point, which can only be a good thing.

I. Ideas
Nobody has had an original idea since the days of the Greek writers, so don’t worry too much about that. If you haven’t got an ‘idea’, simply take the story from your favourite book and change character names, place names and some of the words. Again, nobody will notice and the reader probably expects a certain amount of ‘this kind of thing’.

J. Jokes
Put some of these in. Otherwise your writing is going to be fucking dull.

K. Kipling’s
Afternoon writing sessions are best with cake.

Some exceedingly good writing cake.

L. Lies.

That’s what writing is. Lying.

M. Money.
I have done well just earning £38.17 from the BBC comedy department. Don't kid yourself that you're going to make a penny out of yours. Earning money from writing is for the chosen few, like Will Self, Dan Brown and Terrance Dicks.

N.Nap.
The kind of thinking that I do when I'm writing makes me sleepy and I need to have a lot of these. It isn't normal thinking and it makes me ill because I'm not that clever.

O.Other writers.
One of the biggest hindrances for the writer, are all the other bloody writers, and worrying about what they're getting up to. Thinking that they're better and more dedicated.  For example:

The writers, who really cock it up for the rest of us idle creatives, quite content to fart any actual or nascent ability up the wall, are those vicious bastards with ENERGY.

Annoying sods, who get up at five a.m.for a two hour commute, work from 7 to 5 because they're some kind of la-di-da manager. Train back.  Home at seven, dinner, probably got a couple of kids, so they have to help them build a pirate out of mecanno or sticklebricks or whatever unholy resources the young have these days.

And they still find time to write. Somehow, amidst their shattering routine, they produce words, they make them come out of their brains, into some coherent and entertaining shape, almost as though they know what they're doing. And then they get published and tell their story about how they would write on the bloody train,  just to piss off all the lazy bastards, ie.my people.

Look, this one's writing against a bloody tree! 

P. Plot
Always get confused with this one. Basically, another word for story, isn’t it? Dunno.

Q. Quickly.
Write the first draft of anything really quickly. Aways better to have a first thing full of crappy bits than an empty manuscript full of nothing. I keep telling myself. You can put in all the good writing subsequently. Probably.

R. Resolve.
This is what you need if you are a writer. The ability to ignore all common sense and to just carry on writing your offensive and badly thought out drivel.

S. Story.
See Plot.

T.Talent.
Not necessary. I have practically none. All you need is force of will. If you tell people that you're a brilliant writer, they will, eventually, come to embrace this as fact and not gruesomely mendacious.

U. Understand.
It's important that you understand what you are writing. Not all writers do. If, for example, you are pig shit thick, don't go using long words because you think that's what people want. You'll be found out and chastised. As, indeed, I was, for my entry in the 1997 Ezra Pound short story competition.

V. Visualise.
A useful technique, where you can literally visualise having written your book and have a copy of it in your hand. Use this to drive yourself on in times of writery crisis. Even though it, of course, is complete bollocks. I mean, really, what do you think is going to happen?

W. Writing.
Yes. This. Do this. Definitely. This is probably the best one. You probably only really need this one.

X. X-rated.
Most people don't seem to enjoy actually doing the sex, but they apparently do rather like reading about it. So if in doubt, put some filth in. Screwing, and that.

Y. Young Writers.
Bastards. Granta Young Writers lists. Just piss off.

Z. Young Writers.
I mean, what they fuck do they know about anything? Little shits. 'Ooh, I've written a novel based on when I went backpacking in Kurdistan and all the feelings I had from that and everything'. Nobody should even be allowed to write until they're 40. I mean, give me an award, just for having a go, against all judgement.  Come on Granta, where's mine? Shitbags. The little bastards have probably never even heard of Green Street!

In conclusion:
Remember, writing is like picking away at a scab. Eventually, with the more bad bits that come off, there'll be something fresh underneath that people will want to look at.

Thank you for learning.

Important Men In Nappies

I was on my typical post work journey, taking the No.73 along Pentonville Road toward King's Cross on a blinding summer's day in my big, beautiful London.

Standing next to me on the bus, by the exit at the middle, was a big man in a nappy. He wore socks, a pair of loafers and a pork pie hat. It was the nappy, certainly, that glued my eyes to him.  I'd heard about this kind of man, but thought this manner of attire was restricted to the bedrooms of very strict mistresses who would charge presumably large sums of money, to let these depraved individuals into their house of a weekend, to sleep in a big crib, wear a nappy and to mother them. And doubtless assist in the release of varying amounts of seminal fluid from their big baby ballsacks.

He was shouting into his phone, as though he was surrounded by no-one in particular, exuding a general air of vital, if menacing, importance.  I wondered if the poor sod at the other end of the abuse would have found him quite as domineering had they seen him, the offensive weirdo.

I was trying not to look, instead considering the optimum moment at which to press the bell that I was guarding by holding onto the pole into which it was embedded.  I was getting off at the next stop and had to yet to go ding, despite the bus nearing it and slowing down. I enjoyed this kind of responsibility. You couldn't always trust others.

'Oi, Prick, come on, fucking ding ding!'

It was the man in the nappy, having ended his long distance ranting.

'Oh, right, sorry.' I dinged the bell and the bus pulled into the stop which it would have done anyway as there were 7 people at the stop waiting to board it. I really didn't need any prompting from this colossal pervert.

'Thanks a fucking bundle, mate. Weren't that hard was it?'

We stepped off the bus, side by side, my eyes still set to his big baby knickers.

 What you fucking looking at?'

'Well, I was...admiring the nappy.'

Vague and not the truth but a reasonable and inoffensive answer, nonetheless, and at least I said something and didn't laugh which I wouldn't have done because he was a big surly man despite the comical pants.  He was a younger man, in his thirties and I estimated that, if pushed, he would quite cheerfully clump me one round the face hole.

Anyway.

'You little fascist bully boy. You fucking are'.

'What, I'm not...'

I didn't think I was but the man had just caught me staring at his nappy and inferred (correctly) my prejudice at such.

'I mean, you wouldn't take the piss out of a muslim woman for wearing one a them yasmakintoshes now would you, eh? No, 'cause you'd end up in fucking stir, you miserable cunt. You're quite happy to have a giggle at me, though, eh, you little fucking mope'.

As one of the most bleeding heart liberals to spring out of the loins of alternative 80's culture, I took the most severe grievance with this. Usually I would let such a matter lie but the opinions of the diapered man had become a nagging brain worm that would not wriggle off until I'd said my piece back at him.

'Look, I'm as free a thinker as you'll find, but the sight of a grown man in a nappy on a bus is out of the ordinary, I'm sure you'll agree and admit? I imagine if I saw you in the correct and proper context I'd think absolutely nothing of it. Not that I'm likely to see you in the correct and proper context'.

'Which is fucking what, exactly?'

'Well, I mean, presumably some kind of suburban whore house'.

'Open your eyes, mate!'  At this he pointed to his eyes, which was confusing. If he was talking about my eyes he should have pointed to mine, surely? Perhaps he was using his eyes as a metaphor for my own. It is a detail that I didn't pick up on at at the time or ask the man to elaborate on, but I wish I had have done that as I am now totally obsessed with this trivial detail (as most people seem to think it is).

'This is something that's happening, you small-minded little wanker. Look. Look over there...;

I looked over there. Over the road was another man, wearing a a rather smart high street suit, only with the trousers replaced by a rather larger nappy.

'And there..'

I did more looking when following the pointing finger, and there was another businessman wearing a nappy.

'This isn't about sexual perversion at the weekend, mate, this is about a life choice. Right? This is why I came to London, to escape this kind of hostility and bigotry. I thought, London? You can do what you like in London, you can walk around wearing a fucking lampshade on your head and nobody'll bat an eye lid. But you fucking battered yours you nosy twat!'

'I didn't batter them, It was just the context and you being out of it!'.

'Well nobody else seems bothered, do they? Nobody else is saying stuff or looking with daggers?'

'Yes, because Londoners are polite, that's why. We're educated to not be rude about people's differences and to accept them. It doesn't mean we don't think you're odd. We're not all free spirits, blindly accepting any difference. We'll pretend not to notice. That doesn't mean we actually accept you.'

I didn't mean the majority of my outbursted sentiments and they were, for the most part, contra to my ideals, but this man had really got up my fucking pipe.

I didn't like him and thought he was a dismal fucking pervert and would like to take away his right to do what he wanted just out of spite, the stinking fat fuck.With his fucking belly hanging over his nappy, and his belly hairs embedded with biscuit crumbs and dried spunk. Which is what happens when you go out with no shirt on and dress like a baby. At least the man over the road had considered the matter and had dressed correctly around his ludicrous knickers.

If I was a fascist bully boy it was only for this one revolting specimen.

And yet, nobody else seemed to be shaken out of their routine by this man and his kin. Was I that out of touch? Was this a 'thing' that was happening that everyone else knew about and had accepted?

My attention was then jolted back to the nappy man, as he was, all of a sudden, splayed on the pavement, throwing his arms and legs in the air, having a proper infantile tantrum, and screaming:

'Nasty man made me do pee pee in my pant pant!' And then, screaming at the top of his voice, which gathered the attention that I felt he had been previously (and undeservedly) lacking.

'Ah, what's up with poor baby! What did the nasty man do to you?' whimpered a concerned old fuckwit.

A crowd had gathered around us, deep enough that those second or third back were standing on tiptoes to see the big baby on the floor.

He spoke, sobbing for effect: 'Nasty man's opressing me. Says I'm a pervert and shouldn't be allowed to wear my nappy and he said, he said he'd get me, without specifying any details'.

The crowd in that instant became a threatening mob, words from individual mouths joining into one aggressive, unforgiving murmur.

'What's wrong with you? Why can't you just let him be what he wants to be? What's it got to do with you? A young woman, wearing a badge that said 'Intern' in bold lettering with her name underneath, voiced clearly and loudly the opinion that the entire crowd evidentally wanted to make.

The Intern stepped out of the crowd and spoke to me directly. She was, I guessed, twenty-two years of age, and had never had her arm up a U-bend.

'Are you so jaded and corporate that you must take out your insecurities on an innocent baby-man? Such a concrete thinker that you do not recognise the choice of the individual to do as they please? You have created the conditions whereby a mob has formed and wish to do you physical harm. In order to prevent this I suggest you apologise to baby-man, shake his hand and accept, with love, his right to wear a massive nappy, as everybody else has. Well?'

This mob, that I had created, the only thing I had given any form to that day, seemed to lean in toward me as one unspeaking, threatening malignant mass.

'I'm sorry, I didn't realise that it was a thing. I'm such a bleeding heart liberal that I'm usually on the ball with these issues. Sorry everybody.'

They told me, variously, that I was a fascist bully boy and a cretin and that I didn't belong in or deserve to be in London. I perservered with my protestations of being a right thinking liberal, not generally given to prejudice, but they were not receptive. They fucking hated me, as Londoners always had, but this time with reason.

They helped the big baby man back to his feet, men wiping the tears from his face and women asking him back to their places to have sex, at least that is what I think was going on.  Certainly, one of them stuck a business card down the front of his, by now slightly yellowing, bum napkin.

I was encouraged to apologise and shake his hand, which I did out of confusion and the need for these people to cease castigating me.

'Sorry about that. I didn't know it was a thing. It's nice, really, I like it'.

The crowd dispersed, all parts of it agreeing that I had done the right thing. The nappyman just went about his business, disappearing into King's Cross Underground station, once again shouting important things into his phone as though nothing that had happened, had happened.

And what exactly had happened?

In the course of minding my own business, I had, once again, had my preconceptions challenged. Of course he had the perfect right to wear a nappy on a bus, out of the sexualised context of the suburban bawdy house. Even if he did appear to be nothing more than a corporate thug. Surely they have as perfect a right to express themselves as the leftist Hoxton arty twat? Of course he did.

I realised that I would once again need several years worth of therapy in order to correct my bad thoughts.

I then noticed, that where a luggage shop had once been (I'm sure just the day before) was a gentleman's ouffitters. At the front of the shop were diapers of all shapes and sizes, displayed in special arse shaped mannequins, and men standing in front of full length mirrors, with a woman at his side to either shake or nod.

A sudden feeling of sadness then descended, and an infantile longing for the past and I knew, at that exact moment, that I would soon be entering the shop and having a tape measure rolled around my groin.

The Indulgent Writing Diary. Part 1.

MONDAY, 11th FEBRUARY

It is Monday night at 10.30pm. I have just watched what is, apparently, the last episode of Lewis. I have 'all the feels' for Lewis. I'm sitting in my pants, in my big new room, listening to music that would, in the popular view, be regarded as an unmitigated racket.

I no longer live in the child's room, as I thought of it, in Streatham. This was the flat where I was bitten by a dog in the third in this series of blogs. If you recall I was bitten in the hand, in the hallway, by a Jack Russell, bearing the stupid name 'Tarzan'.

I now live in a large room, that I cannot afford, in Herne Hill. Or North Dulwich. Whichever you think sounds poshest. I've never lived in a room of this size and don't really know what I'm supposed to do with it. One thing I certainly have to do is to keep the door shut, otherwise the cats will, as the landlady helpfully informed me, 'piss on the bed'. Noted. The last thing I want is soggy bye-byes.

On 1st January this year, I started writing a novel, the date chosen specifically as a symbol of my  renewed creative intentions.

I did the exact same thing 10 years ago. That enterprise was begun, developed but not concluded. Abandoned, as real life issues took precedence, the rotten bastards.

There were, anyway, indulgences within that particular project, which would, upon any kind of completion, have led irrevocably and ultimately toward disappointment.

In the intervening 10 years, I have read some books. This has been useful and informative. And enjoyable, of course. I have discovered Orwell, Auster, Ishiguro, Lodge, Ballard, Wodehouse, Dickens. Proper writers, as some might think. I know this because somebody said it to me. I was reading an Orwell, Coming Up For Air, I think, in a rest room at one of my many proper jobs.

'What's that you're reading?' Enquired my colleague.

I showed her the cover.

'Oh', she said. 'Proper book'.



A Proper Book. Monday.

I have thought about that remark a lot since and have had two, simultaneous, considerations in regard to it. The first is that one must endeavour to rid oneself of the notion that there are proper books and otherwise. That we should consider instead, perhaps, that there are books with which we relate and those with which we simply fail to connect.  The other consideration was that I was actually quite glad to be thought of as the kind of person who might be reading 'proper' books. What a snooty, uppity bastard.


TUESDAY, 12 FEBRUARY

It is ten minutes to 11pm, and I have prevented myself from doing anything remotely creative (such as writing the novel I mentioned), instead watching 2 episodes of Doctor Who and also watching the start of Nathan Barley episode 1 on YouTube, which somebody carelessly tweeted a link to earlier.

Last night I made the mistake of trying to write as soon as I got in from the day job. As much I want to be disciplined and dedicated to this new cause of mine, I have to appreciate that sometimes I want two sausage rolls and a yoghurt and Wispa bar just that little bit more. And then a nap. These aren't displacement activites, they are necessary to my functioning as a sane, cognitively useful man. I did, however, make the attempt and managed two sentences, both of poor quality. Not the thousand words per sitting which I favour. They were the kind of sentences, which, had this been the 1970's, and a Cub Scout came round doing bob-a-job, and you asked him to do a bit of writing as his 'bobbed job', he would probably have written something of comparable quality, if not slightly more erudite and interesting:

'The helplesness of this individual is sickening, subbing out his authorial voice to myself, a simple minor. What am I to know of the mind and pretences of a lazy 45 year old tosspot. I doubt he'll pay me per sentence, as promised at the door. Pah, how I regret crossing that threshhold'.

 

I believe this is how the writer Terrance Dicks completed many of his Doctor Who adaptations during the 1970's. I have it on good authority that his 'Planet of the Daleks' was written, by committee, over a weekend's camping. Dib dib dib, Exterminate!

It's been a long time since I had the luxury of being able to write, fresh of mind, during the week day. There are challenges for the novelist, working around the day job, the tiredness and the inevitable desire to relax and be the recipient of pleasure.  These are to take it the project seriously and to apply oneself with a degree of discipline, without it becoming an unpleasant chore. To effect some kind of routine, without it becoming routine.

There must always exist the element of play, I keep reminding myself. Otherwise I might as well just punch in when I sit down at this laptop, because, before you know it, it is, as now, time to clean my teeth, put on my nightie and go to cat piss-free bye byes.

To be continued.

Not tomorrow, though, I'm going to see Kraftwerk.

3. Where Quigley is bitten by a dog, called Tarzan.

I used to be a dog man.

This is to say, that I was, formerly, a lover of man’s best friend and not that I was some bizarre (and now cured) semi-canine creature, given to such unfortunate, if not to say rather pointless, transformation. 

This changed, at 7pm on Tuesday, October 23rd, when I was bitten by a Jack Russell, whose name happens to be ‘Tarzan’.  Very close to the top of the list of things from which pet owners should be excluded, is the ironic naming of their unfortunate animals. Big dogs called ‘Tiny’ and  small dogs, laden with the epithet ‘Killer’, for example, may be the cause of some immediate, short term amusement for the owner, but this is, ultimately, an entirely shameful and useless exercise. Keep the naming literal or abstract, or take it back to the kennel, would be my heartfelt (and correct) advice.

At the time, I was living in a first floor flat, sharing a communal entrance hallway with the ground floor neighbours. I was taking a bag of rubbish through this passage, when the main street door opened, whereupon I greeted and exchanged pleasantries with the old lady from the downstairs flat. This was a sweet little old lady, whose remaining years can surely not be plentiful, and with whom I was never less than charming and amenable even though she had nothing of any value to offer, which I thought rather charitable of me.  My point being, that I provided no discernible threat to her.

Subsequent to this dutiful exchange, I proceeded outside to place my rubbish in the bin, like a good boy, and not like what most folk seem to do these days, which is to try and force it all through the letter box of the local Oxfam shop.

It had, however, been raining, and my feet were clad in the merest of coverings, my faithful, but not yet waterproof, socks. I therefore, understandably, returned indoors, in order to place my size nines in my sturdy Docs.

In the interim, however, she had, not unreasonably, opened the door to her flat.

 

 

 

I shall mention the hallway light, which is of singular importance in this episode. This light is set on a timer. Pressing it in with minimum force, the light will remain on for 20/30 seconds and then return the hall to the previous darkness.

The dog, Tarzan, came out to greet her, the light went out, I walked up to my door, at which point this pint sized Zoltan, growled and jumped up at my groin. He bit into my trousers, just at the left of the zip.

Instinctively, neither wanting a gnawed teste nor for a section of my penis to be removed, I put out my left hand, to protect that which is delicate from this insane fucking midget. At this point, he bit into me, in the fleshy bit where the thumb adjoins the forefinger.

I bled and I swore, a commensurate response, given that I’d just been bitten by a fucking dog!  Not something I’d had down on that day’s itinerary, as such. Cup of tea, episode of Breaking Bad, that kind of thing. Certainly nothing about my flesh providing lunch for a deranged and vicious pooch.

The neighbour was, rightly, horrified by this. Her concern for me, however, was slightly outweighed by that idea that her dog would have to be put down.

‘He was protecting me!’ she defended.

And so it was that as she reprimanded Tarzan (Bad dog! Mummy’s very cross. Don’t do it again. He’s a nice man!), I made my way to the A&E department of St. George’s in Tooting. Here I was tetanus jabbed, had my wound cleaned with a large squirty bag of iodine, plastered, bandaged and put in a sling. ‘Dog bites are very infectious’, I was informed, by a charming Doctor, ‘we sometimes keep dog bite victims in overnight, put them on an IV, get the antibiotics straight in’. I declined this kind offer, as it was not presented as an absolute.

I returned home, treading cautiously, but quickly through the passage of doom, to spend a sleepless night, mostly due to not having been provided any guidance on how to comfortably sleep with one arm in a sling.

 

 

The Aftermath.

From this point on, I acquire the, mostly unwanted, attention of a building’s worth of work colleagues, providing a variety of viewpoints and opinions, which I shall appraise:

1)  That I should sue. Give the dog a fucking good kicking, and sue. Give the old woman a fucking good kicking and sue her arse off. Take them for everything they’ve got. Kicking. Sue. Court. Kill the dog. Admittedly, only one individual was quite this litigious/violent in his response, but I thought it worth noting.

2) ‘What did you do to it?’ This was the most popular response, to see things from the dog’s point of view.  Not quite sure what these people thought I might have done. Bad mouthed it in front of other (better) dogs? Stolen its fucking bone? No. I merely existed in the same space as him, at a point in time when he was, apparently, ‘frightened’.

3) At least one wag did not believe it was a dog bite, as though those kinds of things simply do not happen. ‘No, what really happened?’ the giggling implying that the injury was somehow the result of excessive self-abuse or bizarre sexual injury.

4) That I should, rightfully, have been embarrassed to have been bitten by such a small dog, and that if I was to have been bitten by a dog, it should have been a much better and manlier dog.

‘Ere, lads, Quiggers got bit by a dog. I heard it was one inch tall and fucking bent!’

‘We fucking hate you, Quigley, you effeminate little ponce, and we’re going to stamp on you until you’ve been bitten by the Hound of the facking Baskervilles, you piece of shit!’

‘My Granddad got bit by a dog every day of his life and it never did ‘im no ‘arm. ‘

 

So, yes, I did used to be a dog lover. Over the years my family home had a procession of unloved dogs from the local pound, which we saved from extinction, loved and cared for.

Now I cross the street to avoid them. They know that I’ve been marked for life. One of them has tasted my blood, and he liked it. They somehow understand that my blood, flesh and, probably, balls, are theirs to devour.

Yes, a dog may be man’s best friend, but it’s worth considering, I think, that they don’t always share this point of view.

(And for future reference, it’s my right hand where I sustained my wanking injury).

2. How to write a suicide note.

Well we've all done it, haven't we. Toyed with the idea of ending it all. Popping one's own clogs, as it were. At least anybody with any notable sense has. And I'm not talking about actually or nearly going ahead and doing it, but just the mere inkling of a consideration that it might be an option. Obviously, I have not taken it that seriously, or I would not be here writing this kindly and informative blog entry.

One reason why I have not bothered the local sub-editors with my untimely departure is due to my failings as a writer. I would want to do 'it' properly and leave a top range, properly hand-written, suicide note. This, in itself, is a problem. We don't really write notes or letters these days, do we. It's all emails, Facebook updates and tweets, all lending themselves to the most basic of spelling and grammatical errors, not to mention incredible flippancy of content and expression. You know the kind of babble I'm talking about. I'm not going to waste my time satirising the content of Facebook or Twitter. Do it your bloody self. You're probably all busy self-satirising, as I type.

Suffice to say, nobody's life is so bad, surely, that they could fit all they want to say, as their last message to the world, in a 140 character tweet. Imagine the number of times you'd have to edit and rewrite that in order to fit in all the important facts, sentiments and people. Wouldn't be a terribly appropriate form, would it? eg. 'U all 8 me. I can't s& it ne mor'. Lacks the kind of warmth and sincerity that you should be looking to convey.

Plenty of guff out there about how to actually do yourself in, as such, but precious little about this important aspect of your self-aggrandising demise - your last message, not just to your loved ones, but the world at large. You are your brand and, as such, your last missive should be commensurate with this. In the absence of any official courses on the writing of suicide notes (and I shouldn't be surprised if there are some - there are, after all, courses available on blog writing. For fucks sake!), I thought I might detail a few well-meaning suggestions.

So, here is my advice, on the off chance that you should need to opt out in this regrettable manner. You may be too old and knackered to leave a beautiful corpse, but at least you can finally get things off your chest and, for once, get it right, despatching a curt, informative and amusing suicide note.

1) Please handwrite it. Your loved ones, such as they are, need to know that you mean it. Shaky (but still decipherable) handwriting on a tear stained sheet of thinly lined A4 is more likely to have the desired effect than a spell-checked word document. Besides which, a suicide note written on your computer would surely give rise to far too many confusing and unwanted decisions: What kind of font are you going to use? What size font? Do you emphasis by using Italics or underlining? And what if the printer runs out of ink, what are you going to do then? Suddenly cheer up and pop down to fucking Rymans? If you're going to do that you might as well just do a Powerpoint presentation, with graphs and pie-charts and whatever other bullshit you get on that. No. Just keep it 'old school', otherwise you'll lose focus and carry on living, like a berk.

2) Please use your best shaky handwriting. Whilst loved ones will eventually come to understand your despicable and selfish act, one thing they will not forgive is not actually being able to read your last words. You don't want people staring at your note with squinted eyes, saying 'What does "it all got too munch" mean?'

3) If in doubt, get it proofread. There are people you can pay to do this, unbelievably. (I should know, I once paid to go on a course. Not really much of a course, mind. All you get is a big book with their mysterious, and expensive, hieroglyphics explained, and their good wishes.)  It might be instructive to have an objective eye cast over the thing, just to make sure. The last thing you really want is to spoil the effect by putting in too many commas and them all tutting like a herd of grieving Trusses (Trussi?) This is your definitive life end statement and you don't want a load of moaning grammar heads picking little pissy holes.

4) At its best, a good suicide note should read like a disturbing version of a BAFTA award winning speech. Try and remember to include all the important and relevant people. You want folk to be sad, not merely pissed off.

And, finally, 5) Jokes. Any decent piece of writing is all about contrast. So at least one well-meaning and heartfelt quip would be appreciated. It doesn't have to be all doom and gloom. You should aim to leave the bastards crying and laughing and wanting more, and regretting that they ever spoke to you like such an unmitigated plop of putrefied excrement.

And before you all sit there, judgementally thinking how flippant I'm being, remember I have considered this course of action myself. Although to be fair, the furthest I got with this largely involved having a strop at teatime and trying to stab myself. The only effect this achieved was to cover my shirt in baked beans and make my dad refer to me as a 'daydreaming little prick'.

There are, ultimately, many reasons as to why I've never removed myself from this mortal plane: laziness, indecisiveness, poor planning. Dare I say, even being able to see a speck of hope in the distance.

The main reason, however, is the fear that I'd never be able to leave a definitive suicide note.

And this is why writing, writing anything, is so hard for me. Everything that I write is an aspect of myself, an endorsement of my brand and it has to stand for something.

And I'd just hate to be on my deathbed, drifting away, and think of a better definition or a more appropriate synonym. I'd never forgive myself.