Love, Love.

One day I'll be in love again.

Like, stupid love.

The real deal as captured in D:Reams - UR the best thing...The kind of love that makes me want to post pictures - all the time - of us looking cute together; in hats, over cocktails, in front of hilarious signage as 'Twatt'.

There'll be so many reciprocal thumbs and hugs and huns we'll end obesity through sheer nausea.

But that day isn't here yet, so you'll have to crack on with your type 2s safe in the knowledge my beloved best friend is on his way.

And he's ace. Thumbs.

Absolute Balloons

- There's a bear over there.

- Where?

- There, over there! With dark brown hair; a dancing bear!

- Where are you looking?!

- THERE!

- Where?

- There! THERE! Oh my god, are you blind?

- I can't see where you mean.

- Oh for fucks sake....

(Exit)

That poem, Ladies and Gentlemen, was titled 'The Bear, Who Wasn't There, With The Dark Brown Hair'.

Well firstly, hello! How have you been?

I hope November was amazing. My November was absolute bricks; a mixture of everything. Seriously everything. Name it, it was in it.

- Had a car accident.

- Managing to climb - with stealth - over a 6ft fence (risked ripped gibs and a broken leg).

- Got drilled by a hefty dose of rejection.

- Did business I can't talk about. But it was a bit serious.

- Got hit 7 times.

This was most unsettling as I haven't been hit by anyone since I revolted against my mother at the age of 15. She was in a stage of slippering me. I was raised in the Victorian era.

In short, I could deffo have been a plain clothes detective who slippers criminals into submission.

And I've been questioning so much. It's been exhilarating and intense but also contained my shittest week of the year. I'm not being dramatic. It was. See prior.

Firstly, social networking. I've detached from it for the month of November. I called it #nosocialnetworknovember with the pluckiness of an ecstatic wasp. Needless to say it took off and became somewhat of a phenomena - and has raised 15 bazillion pounds for the charity 'Clogs for Cancer'.

Let's first acknowledge that we connect with social networking in different way. I predominantly use Twitter for news, but sometimes as a toy.

Facebook is a more private affair. I don't have too many friends on there. I like it that way.

So the findings.

It's strange. I genuinely had withdrawal from Twitter. I wasn't having the quivers or owt, just consciously thinking and searching for a Twitter vox; A balloon of thought which is pumped full of guff. It faded after 5 days. By then, I'd streamlined my flow, focused elsewhere and retrained my brain. Some people are better at focus than me. Certainly some people on Twitter seem to be stupidly high functioning...they tweet an awful lot - to the point of making me consider calling Social Services; Are they able to juggle kids, careers, all the while maintaining sanity...(?)

Facebook - not arsed. Good for close mates, but too hefty on the old 'your my favourite waste of time'. For me anyway. I also noticed an increase in phone calls received during the social opt out. I even got an actual posted letter. I'm playing hard to get and they bloody love it.

Talking of bollocks (we were) I've been having a play with divination this month. I can read Tarot Cards quite well now. I have had a look at runes, followed astrological transitions, AND been open to the guidance of a psychic...

I can confirm after initial head-fuckery I'm beginning to understand it a bit, and must maintain the importance of *for entertainment purposes only* in approaching enchantments.

What I understand about divination is currently marked under 'X'. Oh and the understanding I alluded to actually doesn't exist.



To hark back to the now infamous 'The Bear, Who Wasn't There, With The Dark Brown Hair' poem, I met the bear. The psychic told me about the bear.

I met the bear. I liked the bear. I stroked the Bear.

It didn't quite work out how she had confidently said: "This (example of ultimate destiny) will happen...",

Psychic badness. Dangerous practice! Don't define life in absolutes, you wench. Don't plant seeds of finity.

But there were specifics in the Bears description that floored me and contributed to said head-fuckery when I appeared to meet him a week after the reading.

She was clearly a witch - I'm going to burn her for messing with my shit.


As I wasn't able to vomit into Twitter at irregular intervals, I made notes about this month. I'm going to attempt to fill you in what was achieved whilst not being so fixated on the ether:

- Discoveries. I'm looking into applying for a pyrotechnics license. As in setting stuff on fire in staged areas. I'd like to reenact a the burning of a witch.

- I've been thinking about death - in a good way................................

- A dog stared at me for half an hour. From a window. With a knife. Just eyes on me for half an hour whilst I waited for a bus that never came. It would have been creepy but for his ridiculous jaw jut.

- My favourite moment of the month goes to a small child of indeterminate gender...well done small child.

This kid buzzed.

Myself and my friend 'Mr Stevie Shitcad', had opted to go yomping in Crystal Palace. He likes the dinosaurs.

Whilst eyeing up the factoids, a child of around six starts reeling off the most amazing dinosaur knowledge I've ever witnessed. Admittedly I don't hang around with Dinosaur fans over the age of 6, but I was amazed. I thought I'd seen Jesus.

Then we went to see the ducks.

The small child of indeterminate gender approached me and asked if I'd like a piece of bread. No prompt, just bosh. In.

This was Jesus!

I took the piece of bread, and cried at such a heart-warming moment. Possibly also crying for my unserviced womb in a heady mix of duality.

Finally this month has made me realise I don't dream very often at all. That's a bit rubbish.

But I had one dream this month. A crying dream. Wizard!

My ex husband. We had decided to re-marry and on our second wedding day morning I caught him in bed with another woman! I went to slap him and missed. I was annoyed I missed. You'd think in your dreams you'd manage it? This missed-slap annoyed me more than the act of finding my beloved rutting some bronzed blonde student who was dead fit. I woke up annoyed. Nice one.

I've got the subtext of the dream. S'cool.

What have I learnt this month? For one, my ego is still alive.

But the good stuff, empowering stuff. Not the stuff that a bad divinator can plant and dazzle you with. Real stuff. The stuff I don't have to mark under 'X'. The small child. The aliveness I felt when having to scale the fence. Dogs with jaw jut. And thinking about bigger stuff than just balloons.

My social networking world being on pause has been a good cleanse, the amount of other stuff I've learnt, and the engagement in real life I've experienced has felt really involved, grounded and present. I've practised patience, spent time with my bloody good pals. And I've got a new qualification - BSc (Hons) Shitstorm with Possibilities.

Some people think and think and think and think and think and think and think and think and try and decipher and make sense of such things as love, life, religion, and why the way people are and what they do and what can we learn. And why am I away with the fairies, looking at the sky, living in a bubble, not being here, but up there?

Perhaps we shouldn't think so much about thinking too much...think about that one! Try not to rationalise everything, allow the irrational to just exist. Mark it under 'X' and crack on with being here, now, not there.

Because though balloons are good value, in many contexts, they've got nothing to say.

Follow me on Twitter for further proof.

X

Faith, The Lone Wolf, and the Marmite Indifference.

I know I'm a bit nuts. I don't mind, in fact I like this about myself. I like the fact I don't seem to conform; that I *think* I see things differently. That's the thing about maturity - you give less of a toss about what people think of you. Now, I will not allow myself to be oppressed by normalcy. I will not be swayed by popular opinion. Just because what I believe is right doesn't mean it is right. I'll just do my own thing, thanks. If you don't like me, don't worry, I don't subscribe to universal approval; You crack on, love. 

I have a new friend.

I liked her straight away. 

Let's call her The Firecracker, and you can make your own image. 

I felt an instant connection to her, in fact she bowled me over with her intensity when we first met, but I could sense an innate goodness about her that didn't make me file her in the 'Whoa There!' cabinet. Fortunately I've been proved right; she's a solid good egg. She's ace.

Slightly younger than me, and newly single, The 'Cracker is naturally addressing and dissecting the 'what-went-wrongs' of her past relationship in order to conclude the lesson. BUT one striking comment she made, that got a rise out of me, was that she felt her poor record in love was her personality/attitude. I up-ended the table there and then (in my mind). Again, she's ace.

The thing is, I'd had this very conversation with myself but 2 months ago. I'm sure many of us - as singletons - have looked in the mirror and thought "What is WRONG with me?". "Why aren't people tripping over themselves to bag a piece of this tasty carcass?", and on special occasions, "I'm so fucking lonely!!!".

And what does your average independent, assertive 36 year old do in the circumstances? They email their Mam of course:

Vic McGlynn <vixmcglynn@googlemail.com> to Avril Helloooo Mummington                                                                                                        Got a bit of time off this week, looking forward to sorting out a few things in the move. But I’m feeling a bit down that there’s something wrong with me  that I can’t attract a man. I don’t think my new BBC Sheffield picture has  helped me feel good – it’s horrible. But I just don’t know what it is about me..? Anyway, time to put a smile on. Let me know what you’ve been up to. X ------------------------------------------------------------ avril*******@gmail.com to me I knew you were down, after all the excitement and effort of moving etc it's  only to be expected. You are looking through critical eyes at present. You  are very attractive, and your eyes are beautiful. I think the man who will be  attracted to you will be looking for someone very different. In the same way  as you won't want a boring bloke. You are quite a challenge, most blokes  want someone they can feel just a bit more superior to, no chance of that  with you. You want someone who is an equal to you, so that you can bounce  off each other, have intellectual chats and a laugh. You know all this but if he  has to be special to be right he's worth waiting for.  As you say slap on a smile and keep going. Love you so much and want you  to find someone special, just like you. Take care of yourself, Mum XXXXX Sent from my iPad --------------------------------------------------------- Vic McGlynn <vixmcglynn@googlemail.com> to Avril That was a lovely and much needed and enjoyed message. Love you Mum x ---------------------------------------------------------

Shortly thereafter I met someone under rather unorthodox circumstances, and to be fair to that person/victim, I'm going to keep it as vague as possible. 

(cue dry ice) 

Though a brief meeting, there was something to this chap I liked. Perhaps I felt a connection? A mirroring? I did find him attractive; there was an internal, I-think-you-might-be-ace resonance that I *felt* exceeded the connection I apply to friendly acquaintances; you know, the stuff surpassing a light friendship that triggers YES I could possibly be thinking about being willing to perhaps handle your fluids. But more importantly I was very aware of my attitude at the time, and that I felt I could be myself. As crazy, as loud, as opinionated as that *can* be, young Firecracker. And this fella didn't seem perturbed.............

Our meeting gave me faith.

I'm about to talk about pedestrian feminism - Brace! Brace!

I'm gifted with some amazing best friends. One is Nick, who is not only funny, but also incredibly insightful and wise. Thankfully he offers up a token male perspective with regards to the said dilemma I had. I offered that wimmin are still expected to be passive, or a lesser intellectual companion to aid their male counterpart in not only archetypal paternal dominance, but also to aid their need to be 'protectors'. Welllllllll, he called me out straight away, yelling about 'female castrates' and how he preferred his relations with the laydees to be cerebrally challenging and rife with assertion. 

Ok, ok I get it, you like a strong woman. Oh, yes, of course, that's why we're friends. Well, he is ace.

We are all ace. Even the shits. Because someone, somewhere will think so. Keep the faith. Be open to the fact that you are great - for all your freakish foibles - and when you see a special greatness in someone else reflecting right back at you, that's when the magic might happen...  

(Excuse me, I need to dial-a-cliché...)

Jon Brion - Here We Go

You've gotta hope that there's someone for you

As strange as you are

Who can cope with the things that you do

Without trying too hard

Because you can bend the truth

Until it's soothing you

These things that you're wrapping all around you

You never know what they will amount to

And your life is just going on without you

It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

You've gotta know that there's more to this world

Than what you have seen

Because we all have a limited view of what we can be

As we move along

With our blinders on

Each one of us feels a little stranded

And you can't explain or understand it

Each one of us on a different planet

And admist all the to and fro

Someone can say "Hello,

Here we go"

The feeling that someone really gets you

It's something that no one should object to

It could happen today so I suggest you

Skip your habit of laying low

It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

I met a woman who didn't wear shoes...

(There is further academic reading you may wish to view below).

Hullo.

Please note that the theories I present are birthed from evidence-in-practice, chatting to infinitely clever trousered types - with letters - than myself, work-in-progress observations and common - fucking - sense. I am not a scientist but I am equipped with logic, curiosity and - perhaps paradoxically - a wonderment and appreciation of the esoteric.

Let us begin...

Dementia and Alzheimer's, they say, is on the increase. It is. Statistics for how many of us will be effected by 2050 are terrifying. On the plus side, the Daily Mail have their top story sorted for the next 36 years. What a relief.

Dementia - well, it's just the aging process isn't it? Let's just draw a line under that and let people's loved ones dissolve into the 'living death' in front of their eyes; robbing them and loved ones of their memories, their purpose, their 'being'.

Well no actually, I'm not really down with that retired defeat especially when I (and you) can see obvious opportunities to reverse signs of dementia that we can apply to our lives NOW.

I don't know how you feel about pharmaceutical companies, but for the most part I find them to be opportunistic vultures keen on sedating a problem (plugging a dam with a finger) rather than allowing practical therapies to reign; particularly within mental health - because they're all about the dollar dollar bill ya'll. Helping people?! Pffffffft. Let's not be naive.

But guess what Glaxo-bastards? We already have the power to heal ourselves through common sense and a pinch of the primitive. And you can't own it, you leeches. Ha. In your (tested-on-animals) faces!

Work is hard isn't it? Dependent on role, naturally, but for the purpose of this argument, let's look at a sedentary role, or a habitual action...doing the same task(s) over and over again. Initially this might have been a challenge with frontal lobe growth inevitable whilst learning the new, but now learnt, and autonomous; where's the challenge in that?!

Let's now include prolonged mental stress, perhaps in an occupational sense (overworked/underpaid normality) or lengthy emotional strain - could this contribute to a metaphorical RSI of the brain? Well yes, it does. Them lot have proved it.

A habitually functioning brain is likely to be strong in parts, overused in areas, weak and neglected in others. Ah well, nevermind, retirement isn't long off, and then I can do nothing............

Nothing.

We all know brain training is proven to be beneficial not only to the young but also the Countdown brigade, in fact scrap that, it's fundamentally beneficial to all isn't it? Because learning is fun isn't it? Challenging our - constantly evolving - perceptions aids us in developing broadminded and newly informed approaches and responses. We should do that, that sounds bloody marvellous.

Listening to music is fantastic isn't it? All of it. Challenging, soothing, mood altering - and not only is it the most responsive and favoured form of therapy, it's proven to exercise ALL the brain. We've all seen the clips of the old fella with Dementia listening to his old time favourites? For a period his clarity is restored; his thoughts and language coherent. Yep, that, that's how powerful that stuff is! We should listen to that loads!

Exercise is good isn't it? Not only does it keep us fit but also reduces anxiety and allows us to organise our thoughts. We should mix it up as well, so we're exercising different parts of our body and brain. We should definitely do that a lot. And dancing! It's amazing isn't it? It enables us to live in the moment; carefree, experiencing lightness and spontaneity. Dancing - we should never stop doing that, and even if we don't think we can dance, we should definitely do it on the sly. Yes, that's a triffic idea.

Eating right is good isn't it? All those nutrients. Yum. Processed foods are well shady aren't they? I mean, just what the bejesus is in some of those synthetic sugary treats that in no way are contributing to obesity and cancer and chronic sads........we should definitely eat as close to nature intended as possible. Yes, that's a great idea.

Nature is wonderful isn't it? Being in it, meditating within it, enjoying the tranquility, exploration and the inspiration of worldly delights that are bigger than ourselves; a roofless space of infinite growth we take for granted. Yes, let's do that. And it's e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e.

...But let's go one step further, let's do it barefoot!

-"You're fuckin mad you! Why aren't you wearing shoes?!".


-"Erm, well it helps me feel grounded to the earth. It also keeps me sharp as I have many different types of terrain to handle. I am forced to live in the moment when I walk. It's quite good, you should try it".

-"Weirdo".


This was a conversation I had, where I momentarily took the stance of a conditioned Western society in judging this 'eccentric'. My actual response was:

-"Yeah, good point (weirdo)".

See here for information on the importance of 'grounding'.

What many of us forget is the unexplainable - the spirit, our spirit, the God in us: the thing that exudes from your face when experiencing joy, the stuff that shoots into your fingers when you're touching something pleasing, the warmth of heart when you encounter delight, the shine you radiate when revelling in the child-like. This unquantifiable substance you can't bottle, nor commercialise, but you can find it, seek it, and enjoy it all in the simplest of ways, you just have to allow and remind yourself of its importance regardless if it might make you a weirdo. Because without the spirit, too many doors stay closed and contain nothing.

Faith, spirit and openness is the magical fluid that keeps everything else afloat and 'lubricated'.

So kick off your shoes, mix it up, open your doors, and keep on keeping on!





Further reading:

The inspirational Barbara Arrowsmith Young

Alzheimer's reversal success

You are what you eat

Thank you to Dr. Garuth Chalfont

Hate Mail to Lancaster

I was going to title this entry as  'Love Letter to Lancaster', but there wouldn't have been too much affection evident, and this split certainly isn't amicable.

I made Lancaster my home for the best part of the last 3 years, and to offer some light to this outpouring of frustration about to unfold, it served me well for a time; approximately 18 months. Then came the turning point when I realised I wasn't just bored, I was numb.

For those unfamiliar with the red rose capital, it's an affluent market city of sorts - perched perfectly between the kitsch coast of it's rough arse cousin 'Morecambe' and it's spectacular views out across the bay (well, you don't look at the mantle-piece whilst you're poking the fire), and acts as a 'Gateway to the Lakes', which though sounds desirable could also be interpreted as 'Doormat to Infinitely Better Stuff '.

I sense the legendary traffic flow of this City-Village lends itself to an Island mentality within it's folk; the City Centre being circled by a one-way system that comes to a standstill if someone drops a crisp packet in the road. You are guaranteed to be caught up in such gridlocked frustrations on numerous occasions. On an annual basis you will piss yourself in your vehicle, thrice. If you'd like to read just how bad the traffic is for this City of 137,385 people, then in a recent poll Lancaster came 2nd only to Westminster (!!!) as a 'nightmare' rush-hour hell-hole. And I didn't even make that up.

This Island mentality is evident in the tittle-tattle of the locals. In a very short space of time, it was apparent that though I might be an ardent London hater, sometimes the sense of anonymity in its stinky, disinterested ginnel's proves advantageous when you just wanted to be left the fuck alone. In Lancaster, I would not be surprised if in the homogeneous boozers of yore, fishwives of all genders are discussing your Experian Credit Report. Everyone knows your business; it's so claustrophobic and intrusive on this Island of Vanilla.

But surely there's entertainment? A chance to mingle with new faces, and expand horizons? If you're looking for something to do of an evening, and childless, why not consider alcoholism? Because there's nothing happening except endless folk music piping from pubs where you'll see the same faces, but on rotation, accompanied by a different flavour of Seabrook crisps.

In a bid to add a bit of texture to this apathetically Liberal area, I aired my frustrations at there being no viable place to go and dance for those that don't want to get their junk out for a free shot as David Guetta's formulaic climaxes scream at a palpitating BPM, so I donned my action trousers, and set about trying to establish a night at a venue.

After casing several joints, it turns out the best options were owned by the same person who revelled in stocking over-priced wank beers infused with caribou glands, and liquors exported from exotic locales as Chernobyl and the Moon. Though he showed repeated interest to establish a 'meet', communicating with this narrow-sighted-status-hungry-pretentious-lizard was painful. There's only so many times you can promise to meet with someone to discuss their ideas before realising you're being brushed off as they're completely full of shit and have no interest in making something special that would benefit THEIR market. I can only assume his lack of integrity is necessary to encourage his inevitable business failings.

Good luck to him and his contribution to the community. YES I AM FUCKING BITTER!

Enjoying such cities as Liverpool, Glasgow, and Sheffield - with their secure pride and regular roster of binding spectacles that attract many outsiders - just leaves Lancaster eyeing up which shade of magnolia it should get to keep itself looking pretty. Its Governors should be embarrassed at not even trying to create a sense of identity that encourages ambition, growth, and - ultimately - financial gains through providing something different to the onlookers to attract them and their pretty purses.

Lancaster doesn't just need an aesthetic revolution, its kinsmen need a mindset shift that involves progress; acknowledging the present and the future instead of treading water. But its council are simply not interested in creating an innovative series of happenings to aid its 'safe' status as a tax cow. 'Suits' inevitably make creative decisions based on the most basic of plebeian requirements that were seen as spectacles in the 1950's. I imagine there isn't a single creative working at the Town Hall, and if there were, they, their blue hair and elaborate wooden jewellery would be frogmarched to the nearest ducking stool, as is the true Lancaster tradition.

Let's add some token balance because Lancaster does have a few high points: Williamson Park is a glorious ramble, pinnacled by the Ashton Memorial which is one of my favourite buildings in the country; there's a Top Ten University that provides a healthy influx of maverick haircuts and awkward intelligence founded on no-street-skills-whatsoever; and a River called 'The Lune' - that's quite funny, I 'spose.

Any enthusiasm I had for contributing to a 'scene' - attempting to offer a slither of diversity - amongst this sea of biege, has been punched out of me as I continue to observe the lacklustre choices and the narrow mindedness displayed by most of its inhabitants who appear to lack the foresight necessary for sociological and cultural advancement. An ineffectual council set the bar for an unambitious people. The suits should get off their calculators and start contributing in more ways than balancing books and keeping things steady - add to the pot, instead of just giving it a stir, you shits!

My enthusiasm for Lancaster and its huge potential has simply gone with the wind. As I move to Sheffield with its pride, its happenings and its involved community, frankly my Lancaster, I don't give a shit. And likely it is this very sentiment of established apathy that means Lancaster will always just be a boring City with huge potential that nobody will mine because they simply can't be arsed.

Apologies to my Lancaster based friends. This post says nothing about how bloody great you all are, and I look forward to popping over to say 'how are we?'. Dead arms are permitted should I get a case of the negs whilst visiting. 

Whips and Chains - The End.

I would like to dedicate this post to my friend, Discordian High Priest Nick Margerrison: "The critique says more about the critic than the criticised", and to you for tolerating such indulgence.

Like all good intentions my goal to be more attentive with this blog fell to shit midway through last year, when I was side-tracked by a relationship. As I swore off relationships, I unintentionally ended up in one. An actual relationship. An almost-in-love-but-not-quite relationship. My first in five years.

He was intelligent, sincere, eccentric, charming; a big character. One who would call me out for being a gobshite. I liked this fella; he clearly liked me, to the extent where there was some imbalance, but I was complemented and gifted with generous tokens endlessly and this was new to me. He thought me sexy, talented, funny, and many other adjectives that meant I'd allow him into my 'den of sin' with ease. I felt like a Queen. 

Being fully aware of my nuclear-like intensity that has been my undoing many times prior, it became apparent early on I was now on the receiving end of an individual who was too much. I was experiencing me, and how I'd behaved with people I've 'cared' about, when in reality I'd been sabotaging any chance of cohesion. Enjoyable at first, his demands for my attention and the frequency with which we were in each others company was beginning to choke me. 

My career means an awful lot to me; I love my work and entertaining people, and his lack of understanding about how as a 'radio personality' and performer my ego or 'extended character' is integral to how I earn a living caused a big rift. He accused me of being self-centred, selfish, egotistical, ungrateful - accusations I don't deny. I AM self-centred. At this stage in my life I have no responsibilities. I only have to look after myself; I am and have always been self-employed, and the ungratefulness I can only attribute to his insistence in doing an awful lot for me, and when I rejected him - as you might expect - you will be called ungrateful for not reciprocating such attentions. For all my 'faults' I am fully aware of my self-contained attitude, and this may cause friction when attempting to include someone in your life who doesn't really get 'it'. Finally, when I felt my independence was being infringed, and that couple-morphing was occurring - he pushed, I pulled - I couldn't do it anymore; it was making me ill. I had to 'call time'. 

An unfortunate choice of words in hindsight. 

But of course, there's more to it than that...

I haven't really discussed my addictive/obsessive personality in the past. It exists within the family. My dead dad had a plethora of excesses. My brother is a sugar fiend; my sister a bread junkie, and me, well add the two and multiply by everything else. My self-control is pitiful. Fortunately I have been able to exercise innate sensibility with regards to avoiding wholly destructive temptations where others have failed, and sadly lost. 

I may have alluded to a particular 'acceptable' addiction through the stream of naive poetry that was pouring out of me during December 2011, but I've never been direct about it. Stigma's linger and damage reputations and credibility; they hurt. First hand, I know this is fact.

So let me tell you a story. And it is a story. The entire experience felt and still feels filmic. 

I was very ill over two years ago, when depression visited me for a lengthier period than I was able to recognise, and it finally culminated in a mighty crash. I'd encountered the black dog on two other occasions, but never with the severity of the bleakness leading up to the events of 2011 that I believe had been building for around 3 years. Awful. This hadn't been aided by my GP at the time, (and yes, this did actually happen) telling me to "pull yourself together". I attempted to, but in flailing for clarity I opted to ignore myself through self-medication. In addition, I hadn't helped matters by enduring (and not seeking help) and suppressing, via illicit means, a physiological illness due to my absolute necessity to continue funding myself (via my self-employed means) to remain in education. Taking time out was an inconceivable idea. Additionally my family weren't close by to realise how thin and crazy I was getting. And I was clearly sedated 'elsewhere' not to give a flying shit.

To two years later and following a continuance of prior habits - to a lesser degree - it finally took this relationship to realise it was only me who could rebuild myself. And for that insight I have to say this is the best relationship I have ever had. 

Observing my former mate, I saw myself in him; mirrored in his behaviour. His actions and the excess he embraced left me in disbelief. It became evident that his indulgence was not only disrupting his life, but also holding him back and making him ill. Of course, at first I chose to ignore it, and believe his tales of shaking hands were due to medication, but it was staring me in the face, and blinkers on, I chose not to question. This guy had a problem. Subtly, in companionship I began to drink a little more than I was used to, disguised as the quaffing of quality wines; smoking more fags to accompany the drinking, and dabbling in recreations of the past when stress reared its fearful head. This was becoming unhealthy. I'd been here before. But the turning point wasn't too far off...

When I returned from a very intense day in rehearsal, I dropped by his house as I hadn't heard from him regarding prior arrangements. What I found was arresting. When he failed to answer the door, I shouted through the letter box. It was then I heard the sound of rain coming from inside the house. I tried the front door, it was open. Diving in, I shouted his name. He, thankfully, responded. As I discovered, four hours prior he'd returned from a bender to take a bath, but instead, having ran the bath, got into bed for several hours of slumber. The house was shitting water. 

Calmly, during the clean up of Operation 'My-House-is-Fucked', he remarked it wasn't the first time this had happened. Nor the second.

I was speechless.

How can you live like this and think it normal, or acceptable? And why - after the first time - would a massive alarm not go off, "Oh I dropped a bollock there, mustn't let that happen again."

Shortly thereafter I ended the relationship. I'd been lucky, my by-proxy warning flare had been fired. 

Since January 1st 2014 I have been sober and I haven't touched a cigarette or any other 'herbal' relief. And I hope I remain strong enough for it to stay that way. I now run to relieve the stress, and I'm losing weight and feeling reborn almost.

My new life begins this year. I can only hope that my rediscovered clarity, focus, fitness and happiness continues. I have never felt stronger in recognising my faults and taking responsibility for them and in doing so, looking after myself and being a 'good' selfish. 

Changes will be made. I can't drink, because I will smoke, I will become sluttish - and that's not me. I have to socialise in other ways and I have to develop relationships that don't involve talking shite down the pub; friendships with real depth. 

I'm becoming someone else without a glazed outlook blurring those sharp edges of experience. I don't know quite - fully - what she's about yet, but I'm willing to have a craic. And it feels fucking fantastic. I'm finally free! This car crash of a woman was not a write off, and I hope that others who too fight their own demons through excess can see that truth isn't that scary. But it is down to yourself. Be selfish; be self-centred, be interested in you.

For me, it's early days, but I'm so proud of myself for finally getting on track.

This will likely be my last blog post. Thank you to all for the attention, particularly my plethora of amazing friends - I love you all so much, without you I am nothing.

Got to go, this big (baby) bird has got to fly...

Blackpool

It's folds they unfurl in a jaded golden mile

As real as a whore with a welcoming smile

For it'll take your wallet and then open wide

Come to Blackpool - try and find the pride!

They shit and they piss without a second thought

The council make decisions that must have been bought

For the triffids you see erect in the square

Are brutal and dominant, designed for a dare?

This Victorian seaside town that once was the place

Rattles and creaks; crime stats disgrace

So how do you scrub up these decades of faeces?

When they're all boarded up, advertising leases

The glass on the beach, the pregnant fights

20 watt bulbs make up a string of 'lights'

They burnt the fun house - the corrupt at the pleasure 

Bullying their all, no longer selling heather

And to polish this turd, you'd need a buffer made of mallows

No vision, no future, it's detritus in the shallows

What the landlady needs is someone with vision

To prevent the corrosion and decorate the fission

Someone! Rescue the Golden Smile with class

Bring the creatives to attract those with brass

Change the game, invent a hatch

Or just burn the fucker and start from scratch

.

Dear Deidre, my arms are too long.

Hold up there, love.

I've been a sporadic user of dating websites over the past 5 years. I take my time, drop by, see if there's anything a little bit different out there, maybe drop someone a line. But I largely lurk like a Victorian prostitute in Whitechapel.

I've physcially met around 8 people via websites. 3 of them I'm still in contact with. 1 of them is one of my best friends.

Two people I've REALLY liked who I met to the extent of being obsessively lustful and envisaging all manner of possibilities but then it becomes weird. Ah lust - and it's mechanics of chemical business, blood flow, touching, giggling and voodoo.

I like touching things. Not to the extent where I develop callouses from the endless friction, but, certainly erring on the 'she-touches-too-much-stuff' side. Damn me and my stupid hands, because they get me into head trouble when that happens within intimacy and I shift into a dribbling spaniel with the infinitely wagging tail.

Uncool dribbling spaniel.

And I can't play games, because I'm rubbish at them. If I wanted to play psychological manipulation, I'd have to go out with someone who I didn't like that much, and keep their interest by simply not being that interested. True love.

As a romantic, I'm destined to die broken-hearted. The melancholy that plagues the romantic is the downside of the cosy ideal. I feel sad and heavy hearted that I'm single, as it'd be nice to have fun with someone who was quite cool a bit more often, but here's the problem - the cool never have time for the uncool. Phil Cool is the exception. Tragically, Phil, 56, has no friends because he has a tendency to 'anaconda' them whilst doing an impression of a swamp creature in social settings.

Uncool anaconda-juice corroded dribbling spaniel. Wow, metaphoric.

It's time to be as honest as - someone who works in bullshit - can be. I'm going to drop the 'spin' on my dating profile. I'm going to lose the bullshit. And I'm going to be as unromantic as possible.

No of course, that'd be stupid. I'll die from choking on a hair ball having never loved again.

This is clearly another work-in-progress, but for now I need to sit on my hands and work out this Mr Tickle-sized-knot.

Fact you (1/30)

The first challenge is to give you, dear penis-cream-robot, more insight into who I am by bringing you 20 facts about me.

Let's go:

I have only been in love once.
I didn't vote in the last election, and likely won't in 2015.
I have licked Billy Corgan.
I have been caught up in an armed siege.
I've performed the Heimlich on a stranger.

I have a recurring dream about flying in a yellow Volvo.
I'm not a real ginger.
I have had a relationship with a feeder.
I am an uncontrollable blusher.
I have a baffling crush on the bald bloke from 'Aqua'.
When I was 8, I really, really wanted to be a pathologist.
I am the youngest of three.
I had a fling with someone who dumped me a month before winning the Perrier in Edinburgh.
I was a qualified cycling proficiency teacher.
My favourite colour is orange, but sometimes turquoise.
Though 'Northern' I was born in the South.
In Primary school, I once pooed my pants 7 times in one day.
I'm a thumbsucker.
I have lived in 4 different countries.
I tell people I've punched a horse. I haven't.