back up blog

Somebody I care about a lot, a lot, a lot, is going through a rough time lately. I found myself saying the words: ‘You know what? It’s like before the caterpillar becomes a butterfly. When the caterpillar is doing all that awkward chrysalis cocoon shit, it has to be goo-ey, unidentifiable mush so it can eventually become the beautiful being the Universe intended. That’s all that’s happening to you right now- that awkward chrysalis cocoon shit. It’s a process.” Creepy extended metaphors for the broken-hearted? I haz ‘em. I’m a narcissist, so this discussion, obviously, led me to think about how that sentiment also applies to me- all advice being autobiographical etc. I’m no dummy: maybe I’m doing my own awkward chrysalis cocoon shit right now. In fact, a quick scout over the last few entries of this blog makes that painfully apparent, to the extent that wow, guys. How have you not Tweeted me the name of your best therapist yet? Y’all knew I was dealing with some “stuff” before I did, di

‘You know that wearing extra eyeliner isn’t actually flirting, don’t you?’ she said to me. ‘I… that’s not… Of course. I mean…’ I was stuttering. ‘And that you’re not in a relationship with a guy simply because you’ve told me you fancy him?’ I hung my head in shame. This, Internet, is a romance intervention. Those who love me have taken a vote: I need to get laid, and by somebody I actually like . They’ve qualified that vote with a clause stating that if I won’t grow some vagina and actually demonstrate affection for boys I might already know (because, OBVIOUSLY that’s impossible. Vulnerability and possible rejection and hey-I-was-totally-just-kidding-hahahaha awkwardness that ruins homework club/supper club/book club/Power ballad appreciation club? NOPE.) then I must meet new boys, who I’m to deliberately approach with L-word potential in mind. Basically I’ve been condemned to online dating. I’ve been thinking a lot about getting older, apparently wiser , and with the help of my girlfr

Laura, Today is the only day of your life where you will wake up to being twenty-seven years old for the first time. TWENTY-SEVEN.YEARS. OLD. There was a time not so long ago when you thought you’d be married by this age, planning a family and working a job that meant money in the bank and a steady route to a nice management position. There are two things to say about this. One: PAHAHAHAHAHA! And two: that sixteen-year old version of yourself way prefers the person you’ve become instead. That sixteen year-old had no idea at the adventure that lay before her. She couldn’t comprehend the kind of life being brave and scared and excited means. It takes a certain type of courage to be damn well unaccepting of what everyone else might do. To understand implicitly that it’s what you want that matters. And if you want the brown baked cheese on the bottom of the baking tray it ain’t no use going through the motions of making cheddar nachos simply because that’s how you think it should be done.

I think I’d been crying for a good five minutes before I realised. I wiped away a stray tickle on my cheek, and the sleeve of my jumper came away damp. I looked down to see my friend’s hand on my arm. Are you okay? she whispered. I shook my head. I wasn’t. I felt sick, and dizzy. She took me by the wrist to lead me up the stairs as I kept my head bowed low, eyes fixed to the ground, tears now freely gushing. We pushed past the crowds and crossed the road, nearly walking into the path of a black cab in our hurry. In an alleyway I threw my coat and bag and glasses down onto a plant pot, and let out a yelp, a huge gasp for air, for relief. My friend rubbed my back and told me I’d be okay as I stared at the sky and willed myself to stop sobbing. It didn’t work. Dramatic is my middle name- after verbose and attention-hungry- and I know how it sounds to say that this, but the sobbing and the hiccups and the inability to breathe? It happened at the theatre.   Passion Play at the Duke of York

Folks keep asking me how the new job is going. And every time they do I get shy. Embarrassed. Tongue-tied and flustered. “How’s work?” is one of those questions we ask each that’s mostly formality, salutation even. How’s work? You alright? Are your boobs real? I get timid at the question because where I know I’m supposed to smile politely and say great thanks, yes. Still getting used to it all- haven’t buggered up yet, though! Ha, ha! I never have been a very good liar. Or adept at being polite. An internal alarm goes off when I open my mouth to answer. Don’t seem too smug. Don’t exaggerate. Find something bad to balance out the good. For godssake don’t mention the manicures. I’m not sure when it became A Thing to play down being so effin’ content. It’s like being coaxed into orgasm by Shia Labeouf after he invites you lie down on a bed of French lavender and hand-feeds you brie, only to then tell your girlfriends, oh dat? Dat ain’t no thang but a chicken wing. So Imma just go on ahe

Darby & Joan  are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby and Joan are, in fact,  @calummcswiggan  and me. Read the Darby and Joan back catalogue  here . Dear Darby, This past six weeks is the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking, and it’s killing me softly. You called me almost a year back, when I lived in Rome - which is to say a lifetime ago- and said, Hiya, will you be a reference on my application to work at a tiger sanctuary run by monks in Thailand? Sure, I said. What do I have to do? Just say that it’s true I’ve helped birth lambs on rural Derbyshire farms for the past six seasons, you responded. You know. If they ask. Now you’re out there, hidden away in Thai hills and bottle-feeding cubs, and there’s probably some really pissed off shaven-haired man swathed in orange, wondering who on earth vouched for your ability to deal with amniotic fluids. To him I say: H

I’m terrified that I’m a dickhead. That I’m hurtling towards absolute confirmation that I’m beyond a simple bit of a nob. I’m feeling anxious, because I’ve made a declaration to those closest to me, and now you, Internet, that will possibly remove all doubt as to where, exactly, I place on the international scale of all right to Kayne West. I’ve given up drinking. Like, forever. I KNOW. I just… I know. I know how it sounds. First I kicked the fags , then I dabbled in celibacy , and then I went to Atheist Church . Is it any coincidence, I ask myself, that now I’m looking to ditch the booze? I know not the answer. (probably not.)   But, what I do know is that last Friday I had a bloody brilliant day- the kind of day where you spend half the time having the brilliant day, and the rest of it running an internal monologue that goes, Phwoar. This is a bit brill. It’s dead good. I like this. I feel proper happy. Yeah, belter. FUCK YES! I LOVE BEING ALIVE! !!!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!! !!!!!! I fel

At 11 o’clock yesterday morning I stood in a dusty but sunny hall with 300 strangers and my brother, screaming the words to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun with a live band. A man who looked not dissimilar to Jesus, but with a fiercer beard, pranced about in a vintage, jewelled red jumper, encouraging us to clap and foot tap to the beat whilst commanding in the lyric lulls to sing ‘louder! LOUDER, PEOPLE!’ It’s funny how sometimes the universe allows you to find the most perfect Sunday solution to Life As We Know It, right when you’ve been trying to figure out what all this being human malarkey is all about. WHAT THIS HUMAN MALARKEY IS ALL ABOUT. God, I really did just type that. But sod it; I’m not sorry. You’re either into this kind of shit, or you’re not. Unsurprisingly I totally am, because I live for angels , and Whitney Houston, and being nice and cake and fun and purposefulness and shut up, okay? Shut up. I don’t mean it in an eat-brown-rice-and-wear-socks-with-your-s