Monday, May 1

I Dreamt About 1987 Last Night

I dreamt about 1987 last night. What a year that was. Mum and dad had the second of their ‘trial marriages in February – March of that year. It works like a trial separation, only it involved them acting like a married couple rather than rowing all the time. It was painful to watch and like their previous effort of August to September 1981, it ended quickly and predictably. My sister and I were relieved once they started arguing again.

I bought two Five Star albums that year, the first on the day I began my seminal Saturday job at Woolworths in Clapham Junction [25th April 1987], a place I still have fond memories of. Mind you, getting stuck in a lift full of bedding plants for four hours on your first Saturday wasn’t the best way to start a job.

1987 also saw me suspended from school a couple of times and I was threatened with expulsion from the Spanish Consulate classes I attended three evenings a week after ‘normal’ school. In the event, my mum cut a deal with the Consulate that saw them merely hold me back a year. It was rather embarrassing to have to join up with my younger sister’s class, and I don’t think the guys there took to my pink coloured Avanti cardigan from C & A.

I also went to Spain in the summer for almost two months, winning my only fight in seventeen attempts against my older cousin [I think I head butted him]. That holiday was special. Not for the fight. It was to be the last time everyone was together. I never went to Spain again with my mum and never again visited my uncle’s house. My gran also died earlier that year. She was in pretty bad shape so it came as something of a relief that we didn’t have to visit her house. I did hate going there.

I had another uncle who lived next door to my other uncle [stay with me here] and he had some terminal illness. I am ashamed to admit I was probably more concerned that my Terence Trent D’Arby tape had been chewed up on the flight over than with my uncle’s predicament, but I do remember one incident vividly; a guy kept racing through the street on his moped with his girlfriend on the back, and my uncle was furious that his sick brother was unable to sleep because of this guy’s scooter.

My uncle rose from his siesta still in his tangas, stormed outside and standing in the middle of the road with a large stick, brought the scooter rider to a halt and proceeded to give him quite a hiding.

My time at my uncle’s was largely fraught. I think he suspected, rightly, that I was sneaking a tug here and there when he was having his siesta. [Realistically, you invite someone to your place for two months, you've got to accept they're going to be knocking one out here and there.] He was determined to put a stop to all this and demanded that all bedroom doors were left open. It was a real battle of wits and one which I think ended in a draw.

He also tired of my insomnia and banned me from putting any lights on at night, including those in the bathroom. One evening, he switched off all the lights whilst everyone was still awake, to demonstrate to us that it was possible to urinate into the bowl with the lights off. [He was very grouchy and I often wondered why he had guests over] One night, unable to sleep, I got up to go to the loo. Mum had by then brought me a little torch to help me get through the house at night. I held Junior in one hand and my torch in the other, only for the biggest moth I have ever seen in my life to land on Junior, at which point I pissed everywhere apart from the bowl. I had honestly thought this thing was going to carry me off somewhere and feed me to its young. I’ll never forget my uncle’s cursing in the morning, and I think the ban on the bathroom lights at night was rescinded.

Anyway, there was an air traffic strike at the start of September in Gibraltar, and so we were unable to get back. We were offered a hundred pounds a night cash to stay at the four star Gibraltar Rock Hotel until a flight back to Gatwick became available.

My cousin and I ended up staying quite a few nights, to the point where we discussed getting a brief case to carry our cash back. We also ran through the merits of one of us being handcuffed to the case. I argued I had sensitive skin and that he, with the hairier wrists, would be better suited to such a task.

Going back to school for the fifth and final year was something of an anti climax after all that. I did buy myself a £300 stereo from Dixons for Christmas that year with all the money I’d saved from my Saturday job [Buying a video recorder, the holy grail, was still two years away]. That was good. And I enjoyed the Little and Large Christmas Special on Christmas Eve.

1988 proved largely crap. I may talk about that some day.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Friday, April 28

Saving a Man from the Future

I was walking through Wardour Street last night, on my way to a comedy gig, when I happened upon a man standing outside the Ship wearing outsized white framed sunglasses, the type Elton John was prone to wearing in the seventies. The man was obviously making an ass of himself, more so given the sun wasn't out. I needed to have a word with him, so I crossed the road and fixed him with the most contemptuous look imaginable.

"I don't see a sun," I said.
He looked me up and down, and took a drag of his poncy cafe creme.
"Are you a migraine sufferer?"
"Who are you?" He sneered, straightening the shoulders of his white linen suit.
"I am what stands between you and a conversation in thirty years time where you have to confess to your grandchildren that you were once a pretentious cunt."

I pulled out my map which showed the location of all eight pretentious garments amnesty drop off points.

"You will finish your drink now, and you will walk around the corner where you will get a number 24 bus all the way down to Warren Street Station. From there, you will turn left and walk to the end of Warren Street, at which point you will turn left again, this time into Great Portland Street. You will walk some thirty yards before swinging another left at Fitzroy Mews, where you will proceed to dump these glasses and your linen jacket at that drop off point.

"A small man, slightly fey, with a wonky shoulder, will meet you after you have deposited your ridiculous garments. He will present you with a bodywarmer from The Officers Club, to ensure you remain warm during your journey home. You will go now."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Thursday, April 27

A Warning

Kigaloo and I sat by the camp fire, desperately trying to stay warm high up in the Himalayas.

“Disappointed,” said Kigaloo, “I’m going to tell you a story, because I like you. It’s a story about what women can do to men.

“A soppy man had fallen in love with a peasant girl. He began to write her love poems and would open doors for her and all that kind of nonsense.

“Me and some men from the village kidnapped him for his own good. We beat the soles of his feet with bamboo sticks and urinated on a still to be completed poem to the peasant girl. We then showed him a Powerpoint presentation highlighting just what mental damage women can do to men, before returning him to his village.”

“Kigaloo, what happened to the man?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I did take the peasant woman as my fourth wife. She isn’t the best in the bedroom, but she is a good cook, and she is cleaner than my second and third wives. She will keep you warm tonight, Disappointed.”

With that, he got up and went into his tent.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Wednesday, April 26

Woman, who are you?

"She told me where to touch her. I said, "Woman, who are you to tell me where to touch you? I shall touch you where I wish to touch you and you shall be pleased. And when your parents ask you if you are happy, you will answer in the affirmative."

- Kigaloo, 27th November 2005

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Kigaloo the philosopher

"A woman that spits is a woman that cannot be trusted. A woman that tells you where to place your hands when you are giving her a baby is a woman that cannot be trusted. Where has she been before she met you?

"But the woman that swallows shall be the mother of your first, third and seventh child."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Tuesday, April 25

I'm Not

Hello reader,
Are you okay?
I'm not.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Sunday, April 23

More From The Tibetan Master


Shortly before I left Tibet to make my journey back to Stockwell, Kigaloo came to me with a warning.

"Always remember," he said, in that throaty voice of his; "The woman that believes the female orgasm is a possibility, is the same woman that will leave you to pursue this myth, and when she has left you, what will become of the dishes?"

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Saturday, April 22

The Wax Free Way


My Tibetan guide, Kigaloo, is a man I came to admire greatly during my seven months in the wretched east. He was a man who didn't favour any of his five hirsute wives over the other and treated all of them equally badly.

"You do not need to see the face of a woman when you are giving her a baby," he once told me. "But be sure she makes the bed afterwards."

He knew all the mountain roads and we enjoyed many a late night discussing the merits of the great Liverpool sides of the late seventies and eighties. Kigaloo is a great man. But his greatest achievement is that he lives his life without hair wax. An inspiring character. If only I were as brave as him.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Leading by Example


Upon my return from the east a couple of days ago, I implored those readers of a pretentious bent to rid themselves of any poncy garments they might have procured over the years in an effort to be 'cool'. 'Cool' by the way is my least favourite word in the English language. I despise it. For me, it's up there with the mwah-mwah kiss on either cheek nonsense, which of course isn't a word. That's just an unecessary sickly action.

Anyway, one reader, a Mr Dennis Fortescue of Battersea, South London, has decided to send in his white belt, writing:

Dear Disappointed,

Your blog the other day forced me to take a long hard look at myself. I realised that I was one of these cunts [See 'Back']you speak of. My girlfriend is seven months pregnant [the child is not mine but I shall stand by her and the bastard] and I thought, "Isn't it about time I stopped being a fashion victim? Where has it got me?" It is with this realisation that I hereby send you my white belt, which makes one look awfully gay, though I'm not gay at all, and haven't been since a brief attraction to Paul Davies in 4TU.

Kind regards,

Dennis Fortescue


It takes a big man to admit he has been wrong Dennis, and you are to be applauded for your actions. I hope others will be inspired by the route you have taken. Might I just take this opportunity to add that there is no way on this earth that I would ever bring up another man's child.

Now I don't want you all sending me your pretentious garments, so what I have done is set up a series of pretentious amnesty drop off points where you can go and bin those tan-coloured shoes you thought looked good with your French Connection jeans, or that cropped top that shows off that tattoo just above your crack.

Together we can make the world pretentious free. Together we can do it.

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Dead Arms Again

Matt held my arms up so the blood and feeling would rush back into them.
"Oh man, I can't believe I'm doing this."
"Quit bitching," I told him.
"What did I tell you?" Said Matt, getting increasingly flustered. "If you want to stay here, you wear some pants in bed. I mean, I can see your arse."
"Pull the duvet up then."
Matt pulled the duvet up gingerly, bringing it halfway up my back.
"That's too much," I yelled. "I get hot."
Reluctantly, he pulled the duvet back down a little, so it was just above my waist.
"That's better," I said.
"Are your arms getting any feeling?"
"Pins and needles. You know Matt, you really need to hoover around the corners a bit better. There's so much dust around in this room..."

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

Dead Arms Since '95

Ever since the summer of ’95, I’ve been in the habit of sleeping on my front with my arms under my pillow. The consequence of this has been many a night where my arms go completely dead, and these days my elbows are prone to clicking.

The whole dead arms thing came about because around that time I started suffering black outs, usually in bed. The room would spin, I’d black out and be left with this ridiculous feeling of nausea for the rest of the day, and in one case, a fortnight.

The black outs are under control now thankfully, but I never sleep on my back, and the arms remain tucked under the pillow. It’s as if I’m holding on for dear life.

There have been too many nights now where I’ve woken up unable to move, all feeling from my shoulders down to my hands lost.

I’m currently staying at my mate’s in South East London and concerned by the latest dead arm incident, I set up my voice active settings on the mobile and decided I would leave it switched on during the nights from now on. Boy am I glad I did.

The time on my radio alarm clock said 4.32am. I couldn’t feel my arms. There was no way I could make even the slightest movement. I turned my head to the side, and facing my mobile, said “Matt – mobile.”

The call wasn’t accepted. My host obviously had his mobile off. Time for plan b.

“Matt – landline.”

I heard the landline ringing. Moments later, I heard Matt struggling out of bed. He took the call but I couldn’t answer it. I heard him hanging up in the next room and I knew he’d be doing a 1471.

Moments later, he rushed into my room and switched the light on.
“Disappointed, what’s up?”

He stopped. I’d never told him I slept in the buff.

“Jesus, fuck. Oh man. That’s disgusting.”
”Help me Matt. I – I can’t feel my arms.”
“What?”
“My arms are dead.”
“Can’t you put some boxers on?”
”How? With my feet? Come on, help me get my arms out from under the pillow.”

Things were understandably awkward in the kitchen at breakfast time. Not for me. I don’t mind being naked, but I could tell it was a problem for Matt. And given that I am staying at his place, it’s a problem for me.

Matt wasn’t getting very far with his bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes.

“Look Dis…” he started. “I need…I need some sort of guarantee this isn’t going to happen again.”

I tried to explain I couldn’t sleep with anything on.

”You’re just going to have to try mate,” he said.
He couldn’t eat any more and pushed his bowl of cereal to one side. “I mean, you just looked so fucking gay when I found you.”
I tried to reassure him. ”I’m not gay.”
“I know. I’m just saying you looked really gay.”
”Hey, you’re the one who’s never had a girlfriend,” I said.
There was a long pause.
”What are you saying?”
“Let’s not argue Matt.”
“I’m not gay.”
”Okay.”
”I can show you my internet history if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“What I need from you,” he said rising from the table, “is an assurance that whilst you’re here, under my roof, you’ll respect my wishes and not sleep naked.”
“Okay.”
“What’s with sticking your arms under your pillow anyway?”
“That pillow you gave me is so flat. I feel dizzy if I don’t have my arms under there.”
”I’ll give you another one.”
“I can’t sleep with two. Hurts my neck.”
“Well look, just know from now on I’m disconnecting the landline overnight, so you better work something out with your arms.”

He made to leave the kitchen, only to stop in the doorway and turn around.

“You’re sure you don’t want to see my internet history?”
“I’m sure.”

© Disappointed of West Egg 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.