Blog Off

Well, shit my arse and call me a cunt.

I've decided to write me a blog. Why? In the words of the immortal B. Piper "Because We (I) Want To." No greater reason than that.

Also, the interweb is a barren and faceless place. Heck you're more likely to see an extreme closeup of someone's uterus than you are of having a good face-to-face with them and finding out what makes them tick.

This is my little bit of the web. Welcome. It has a face. Not a particularly inspiring one, but a face nonetheless. Perhaps you'd like to give it a little kiss. Or a lick. Just around the nostrils. But first take your shoes off. And wash your hands. I don't know what or who you've been fiddling with.

So here I am, a reasonably unremarkable individual babbling into the void. Still listening? Fair enough.

I am writing this epistle from the bowels of the Royal Free Hospital. This is where I spend 8 hours a day. For those who may not know, the Royal Free Hospital is an ugly squat concrete bastard located in North London. It sucks in death and shits out birth. Saline fluid and piss run through its veins. It's a hospital.

The corridors are labyrinthine and dark. And some people have been down here for upwards of twenty years. Their eyesight has dimmed and I fear that will soon begin to bio-luminesce. Happily I have only been stuck here for a little under 3 years, so my genome structure remains unaltered.

You may think that a hospital would be a fascinating place to work. You may think that it would represent a microcosm of society at large, all differences cast aside, all imbued with a wartime spirit - united under the common enemy of disease. A place where altruism is a way of life. This may well be the case in most of the hospital. But I work in the admin department.

My suture is the stapler, my scalpel a pair of blunt-ended safety scissors. I spend my days not on the cutting edge of medicine but in the cluttered backwaters of bureaucracy, supping droplets of data from spreadsheets and chewing on the occasional e-mail. Stuck to my desk like a battery chicken in an iron lung.

But, hey....it's a living. Could be worse. I could be scraping dried skin from the corners of a tramp's mouth, collecting it into tobacco tins and selling it to Nazis. Or I could be in marketing.

I do have pleasures in life, though. I enjoy biscuits. Biscuits with creamy fillings. But not custard cream or bourbons. They can get to fuck. Boring.

So this isn't necessarily a place for me to shower an anonymous audience with spleen and spittle. I'm not going to bark futile bile like a hairy mental shouting at a bus queue. This is no place for that sort of shite. This is not Loose Women.

I shall merely endeavour to shower you all with golden observations on day-to-day shit that interests me. Telly. Films. Games. Animals. Politics. Hopefully there'll be some laughs, there'll be some tears. Maybe even, if there's time, some good hard sex.

JOIN me.