I’m more latte than man.
In the absence of a woman in my life, I live for the latte.
I’ve been aware of that for some time.
I’m walking towards my café every day and I’m thinking, ‘there’s got to be more to my life than this’.
But I’ve been wondering what.
What is there?
What is there beyond coffee?
How do I find a woman? While I have a brace.
Is love the only thing that can cancel out the latte?
I’m not a man easily pleased. My severely limited range of facial expressions means the smile does not come easy to me. I don’t give them away cheaply. My orthodontist says this time next year I’ll be smiling easily.
He doesn’t know me.
Up until the early eighties, I’d wanted to play for Liverpool and be a priest at the same time. It wasn’t because I sought two incomes. I was just in love with Liverpool and Jesus was a big figure in my young life. But I could never quite get my head around how that whole arrangement would work once they started to televise live league football on Sundays in late ’83. How could I have celebrated mass on the Sunday morning and still lined up alongside Kenny Dalglish, Ian Rush, Graeme Souness, Alan Hansen et al in the afternoons for Liverpool’s frequently televised matches?
I currently have 510 nectar points.
A couple of weeks back, I claimed 104 nectar points on a single Friday, after 4 bags of 500g of porridge contributed 60 points towards that total. It was possibly the greatest nectar points experience of my life to date.
My local store doesn’t stock my latest addiction, Lightly dusted river cobbler. A fish I’d never heard of at the start of the year.
Apparently, I’m reliably informed, the river cobbler is a dirty fish. I’m not inclined to research that.
As a rule, I don’t buy anything from extroverts. I don’t like show offs.
I don’t like guys that wear thumb rings. I take an instant dislike to them. Thumb rings are just ridiculous, especially on any man over 25.
I don’t like women that wear toe rings. I don’t understand why they’d want to draw attention to the feet, easily the ugliest part of the body.
Never reveal how many Nectar Points you have on a first date. Make sure girls like you for who you are and not your points.
“If you’re going to have hair on your back, make sure you have money too if you want to hang onto your girl,” dad used to say.
It’s always disappointed me that I’ve never been a light traveller. I go away for the weekend, and I’ll still have three bags on me.
From 2009 to ’12, I got used to the paleness of Basics Range eggs. When I finally had organic eggs again, their bright yellow nearly blinded me.
I’m not active enough to break or tear clothes. Even during my football days, I’d rarely break sweat, partly because I wanted to avoid the post-match communal showers. In 1990, when ripped jeans were at their peak, I tried everything I could to force a natural rip in my pair. In the end, I simply cut holes in the knees. They looked awful. It was one of the most disappointing moments of a life littered with them.
I don’t trust people with hotmail addresses.
Admin and cancer are my two biggest fears.
Admin can crush your dreams. And cancer, well cancer can kill you.
I take Batman over Superman any day.
In December 1981, I was floored by a snowball thrown by my dad outside Taste More Fish and Chips shop in Stockwell. I still walk past that spot most days and if I focus hard enough, can still see that snowball hurtling towards me.
I’ve been alive for approximately 14,000 days now.
Rather disappointingly, I won my only football medal about 10,220 days ago. They say the first trophy is the hardest to win. I thought it would usher in more medals.
Nothing.
I get easily addicted to stuff.
Cravendale. Hot chocolate. Porrdige. Actimel.
Some of these addictions kicked in during my hotel stay back in 2010.
That’s why I couldn’t get into drugs. I’m not the kind of person who’s ever going to earn a lot of money. My creative work’s not commercial enough. I go for integrity over sell out any day. Which means I could never fund a drug habit. Think of the effort involved in hustling, walking up and down the street all day, haranguing people for money, then having to build some sort of rapport with your dealer. It’s not me.
I’m no good with small talk. Plus I have too many OCDs. I imagine handgelling takes a back seat when you’re on drugs. I’d be mingling with people who aren’t as clean as what I’d like them to be. The whole thing is a mess. Whether it’s seeing the world or taking drugs, I’ve never had that curiosity in me.
Sometimes I don’t think I ever fully recovered from David Caruso leaving NYPD Blue. I think about that every day. I wonder if Caruso ever questions his decision to quit that greatest of show.
I’m obsessed with skin diseases. Some people get addicted to online porn. Not me. I just trawl the net for information and images of skin conditions. I’m such an expert now, I look at people’s skin in real life and can identify problematic blemishes straight away.
The amateur dermatologist in me knows that one day I’ll notice some worrying mole on my skin and immediately know I have something serious.
My dad had this set of medical books when I was a kid. One was on skin diseases. I got hooked on that. From the age of 7 or 8, I remember becoming fascinated with my own skin, studying each groove, each marking, wondering what was behind it all.
I read every Haruki Murakami book last year. ‘A Wild Sheep Chase’ is the best piece of modern fiction I’ve read in years. The last 100 pages are incredible. At night, I often close my eyes and think about that book.
I try to wear at least minimal clothing in bed, even on the hottest of summer nights, in case an intruder breaks in. I wouldn’t want to grapple with them naked. If I were to overpower them, and there’s a chance I might given I’m eating better this year, how can I find a way to put some clothes on before the police show up? And if did somehow manage to get dressed, would the intruder reveal to the police my state of undress?
Would it be something that I needed to reveal to the police?
I mean, does whether or not I was dressed impact on the outcome?
I’m no fan of emoticons. I’ve never used them. If you ever email, text or tweet me, please don’t use them. I’m an adult. And so are you. Walk away from the emoticon. If you need my help with that, I will help you. I’m good like that.
Life would’ve been easier if I’d known how to dance. But then I’d have had to make sure my facial expressions tallied with my moves and I don’t think they did. I have a very expressionless face.
I don’t like receiving mail. I’ve always struggled with having my own post box.
Hearing a post man come up to my door and push mail through, is something I can’t handle. I fare much better with the communal letter box. I’ve taken it one step further now and simply use a correspondence address that means I can pick up any post at my own leisure.
I don’t find it easy being me, but it’s much easier than it used to be.
Much easier.