A Family Affair

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I was once talking to my Mum when she turned with deadly seriousness and informed me that The Queen had ordered the hit on Princess Diana. I started to laugh because of how she'd delivered such conspiracy theorist bullshit with absolute certainty. Her eyes narrowed and, as if daring me to continue mocking, she asked “What, you don't think The Queen could have you killed?” After a pause, I took the dare and laughed even harder. Resigned to the fact that I wasn't going to indulge her paranoia, she delivered her final and most chilling warning. “Actually” she said quietly, “I wouldn't laugh about it if I were you”. What the fuck was she waffling on about? Usually my Mum is quite rational with her conversations, rarely venturing further than the subject of her two dogs or weekly caravan trips away. I never got to the bottom of why she was telling me this and it's now been so long that she claims not to remember it. In which case, all we can do is analyse what was said and try and work out what was really going on. Maybe she'd accidentally stumbled across clues as to our monarchy's murderous ways or perhaps it was something to do with the six cans of apple cider that she'd spent the night pouring down her throat. If we know what's good for us then I suppose we should never find out.

Spineless Swines, Cemented Minds

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When I was sixteen, my plans to have a Mohican hair style like DeNiro in Taxi Driver were scuppered by my Mum who decided it looked too much like “fanny pubes”. We compromised and decided I could have the Brazilian strip down the centre, but just short on the sides rather than bald to avoid any real resemblance to a vagina. So I went into the hairdressers where they did as I'd asked, I looked into the mirror and told them it was fine. I thought it looked good! I then got home and my Mum decided I should have had it slightly shorter on the sides and so dragged me back to get more shaved off. “Wait outside for a second” she said to me before going in on her own. She returned a minute later and said that they'd agreed to correct it for free. That was nice of them, I thought! I went in cheerful as ever and was greeted by the frostiest haircut I've ever had in my life. They didn't speak to me, they didn't look me in the eyes, they didn't smile… turns out that in an effort to save a few quid, my Mum had told them that I thought their original efforts were full-on shit and that I was fucking pissed off. Oblivious to this, I then re-entered like a smug little twat and tried to make casual small talk as though I hadn't just sent a banshee in to do my dirty work. That was the last haircut I ever went for. Even if being a skinhead would make me look like a massive racist thug, it's better than returning to that void of social awkwardness.

A Loose Bond

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So I went to see Roger Moore on stage recently and, as an obsessive Bond fan, I couldn't have been more excited. When I found out I had tickets, I was on the floor and wailing in the way that racists imagine foreign women do when their children are killed. I once applied for a Job at MI6 simply because of my love of the franchise and under the assumption that spies spend most of their time drinking, gambling and fucking women that have a history in the sex industry, or at the very least are a bit thick. Turns out they were looking for a person who was more into analysing data than ‘keeping the British end up’ which was a shame, and I'm sure it'll come as no surprise for you to learn that I didn't get the job. No idea how I didn't fulfil the criteria they were looking for though because I'm 6ft, British, slim, and even have the right coloured fucking hair. I mean, sure I probably failed every one of their online tests before blabbing to anyone who'd listen that I was applying for my licence to kill but fuck it, at least I'm not blonde!

Our Finest Gifts We Bring

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Personally, I've never learnt how to play a musical instrument but that's okay because people assume I have anyway. I'm scruffy, I have an eyebrow piercing and my hair hasn't been cut in years. If people aren't asking me if I've found somewhere safe to sleep for the night then they're asking if I'm in a band. Sadly the only thing I lack to be able to start a group is any musical talent whatsoever... Although when did that ever stop Nickelback from giving it a go? I tried to learn the ukulele a few years back but as I wasn't a master player straight from the beginning I threw the thing in the cupboard and haven't touched it since. Maybe I'd have had a chance when I was younger but fuck it, I've since been inflicted with a strong desire to not be arsed with anything that doesn't provide me with instant enjoyment. This is why my grandparents are in an old folk’s home, my ex-girlfriend is my ex-girlfriend and my Ukulele is currently gathering dust. If I did have the patience, I think I'd start by learning to play the drums. Not because I have any interest in the instrument but more because I can't fucking stand my next-door neighbours.