"Hooray! It's your Year-Closer-to-Death Day!"

Welcome along!

I'd like to thank Gem, Adam, Justin, Weanie and Fi for turning up for birthday drinks on Saturday. The rest of you are rubbish EVEN IF YOU DON'T LIVE NEAR COLCHESTER!

Auntie Gill and Uncle Martin also popped by on Sunday with a birthday picnic, which was nomtastic. It's always good to see my favourite Auntie and Uncle. And me Dad popped down with Lou and two of the Brood (read: my little brother and sister) to drop off my pressies and wish me a happy birthday last weekend, which was actually fun.

So all in all I had a great birthday and most importantly of all I was lavished with appropriate tribute,thusly:

From my Father and his Brood, most notably, a tea mug featuring a piece of Paul Kidby artwork, a t-shirt decorated with the Josh Kirby (R.I.P., legend) cover of Terry Pratchett's Pyramids, a new jigsaw puzzle depicting Josh Kirby's artwork for Terry Pratchett's Soul Music, and a string of plastic skulls with flashing, multi-coloured lights!

From Auntie Gill and Uncle Martin, a lavish birthday picnic, a generous monetary tribute and the pleasure of their company on Recovery Sunday.

From Gem, most notably, a copy of Disney's The Sword in The Stone on DVD, six glow-in-the-dark fingerbobs (one of which is the most enthusiastic-looking toy I've EVER seen) and a bag of birthday Twiglets OM NOM NOM NOM.

From Justin, a genuine Guitar Hero action figure blister featuring the legendary Lars Umlaut, probably my favourite and definitely the most metal of Guitar Hero's (human) characters!

From Fi, one of the most thoughtful presents I've gotten in a while, an origami P-Chan, complete with origami bandana! It sits upon my bookcase with an aura of stubborn pride and it is byootifull.

The regards and birthday wishes of all those not mentioned here were also a great gift, and I'm honestly feeling better in myself for the reminder that people know I'm alive. I'd like to give a specific shout to man Weanie for turning up to offer a quick Happy Birthday to me even though he was absolutely shattered from his gig. Try as I might I couldn't get a link to his band while at work, but they're awesome, a SERIOUS metal band named Sower.

Right then, what else is going on? Well, (switch off, non-nerds) the Warhammer Online update I've been waiting for since release is finally here, so tonight I finally get to play one of the bad guys and enjoy the hate-filled psychopath that is the Black Guard of Naggarond. I'm really looking forward to hacking people up with a spiky halberd. In other news, meddling with the components of my gaming rig has been an unusually fun experience, so much so that I've taken it into my head to come up with an ambitious project.

Now, it won't come as a surprise to some of you that I've always had a soft spot for laptops. My first real gaming rig (more fool me) was a laptop, and I've had a hankering for a new one since mine was stolen. Obviously I've learned my lesson and don't want one for gaming anymore, nor do I want to spend more than £150 on the thing. No, I want what I will refer to as a shitbox laptop. Basically, all I'm going to use it for is writing, the occasional piece of artwork, listening to music and internet browsing. It needs at least two USB ports for a memory stick and printer coupling, and at the very most 80GB of space. I've been scouting NetBooks (these things are cool) and while I appreciate the fact that they are rather nifty, they're also a bit dinky for my sausage-like fingers and manhands. I might punch straight through the keyboard with these fat digits. The ultimate draw of a NetBook (for me at least) is the fact that they're so small. I've wanted a laptop as a replacement for pens and paper, pretty much because I find it nearly impossible to write with pens anymore. I never follow up what I write in my notebooks, they're more of a scrap/draft/scribble/idea pad than a real notebook.
The only thing is, I'm going to want to mess it up. I'm gonna paint it, engrave on it, stick things to it and generally make it ugly, unstealable and undeniably mine. So I don't want anything too fancy, you see.

I know, it's a dilemma.

Anyway, thanks for putting up with me and have a good day!

Od.

"Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old"

I'm sorry to say that that time of the year has rolled around again, and if you can put up with my rambling for one more year, not only will I be impressed as all hell, I'll be sincerely grateful with it.

I'm going to begin by thanking my friends.

Certain of you were there for me four years ago, when it was so difficult I was on the verge of cracking up every single day, and for that I thank you. Others were kind enough to listen when I needed to talk, to offer what advice they could, and to help however they could. I thank you for that.

All of you have been good and patient and have managed to put up with a solid four years of my vigil and I have to say I never thought any of you would last that long. So for that, and for all the lesser, myriad annoyances and irritating features I've made you endure, I thank you.

Okay.

Now all of you know that if there's one thing I do way too much, it's talk. But I think you'll agree that, because of obvious, awkward reasons and personal ones, this is the one subject I just don't like to talk about it.

But if there was ever a day when I thought I could man up and actually discuss the subject, it's today.

Today would have been my Mum's 51st Birthday, and I'm sure somewhere she's cackling about the fact that she isn't going to get all wrinkly and slow after this point, bless her. Normally on Mum's birthday I try to drown my sorrows in alcohol or otherwise, and believe me, I'll definitely be intoxicating myself into a stupor after I finish writing, but this year I've decided that I should actually tell you what happened after Mum passed away.

..I really hope I just suck it up and set this blog to private at some point.

Anyway..

I haven't felt the same since Mum passed away. About anything.

After she was taken, I confess I let everything go slowly to hell. The cats, rest their souls, got older and more difficult, I fed them and cleaned them and changed their tray but, to me, they weren't.. they weren't really there anymore, d'you see? So eventually they all went to sleep, some in sadder ways than others, and I went on.

Alex, my then-girlfriend, was still there, but I just couldn't deal with her anymore. She could be lovely when she tried, but there was something in me that just snapped every time she spoke. At every look, every touch (extremely rare as they were), every breath, I felt something wrenching at me. We smoldered, faded and died as a couple. She moved on, but I had nowhere to move to.

That's how I've felt since it happened. I've got nothing to move on to.

Mum was my best friend, and fuck you if you're even thinking the word 'cliche', and she was, above all else, my Mum. She took care of me from day one, devoted in that way that only mothers can be.

The rest of my family just seemed to vanish from my viewpoint. They were around, of course. I really, really couldn't have gotten anywhere without my Auntie Gill, Dad, Lou, Uncle Jimmy, and Big Rich. But they.. I just forgot about them half the time. Still do, as a matter of fact. When Mum was here they were very much real and very much there, at the end of a phone or in person every other week or so. I used to love visiting them, even if my sour demeanour indicated otherwise.

I forgot birthdays, which in itself isn't much of a thing (those who have seen my Big Birthday List on my kitchen cupboard door will understand), but now they were just gone. Blips on the radar, barely. Everything was dead, the world had ended, what was beloved by me was just fucking TAKEN like what she wanted didn't even matter, precious fucking God didn't step in at any point to set things right. Even shouting at people wasn't working. Nothing worked, Mum wasn't here for me to complain to about it.. All I really feel is left for me is waiting to fall in front of a bus. Or getting mauled to death by a low-flying mortgage. Maybe both at once. I just feel so fucking old.

And who else is going to put up with me? I mean, I know people usually tolerate my presence, but since Mum passed away I feel like the only person who ever really liked me, not just tolerated me or put up with me, is gone. Anytime I speak to anyone now, ANYONE, I just get the impression that the only reason they haven't told me to fuck off is because they feel sorry for me or they feel some obligation, or they've got no-one else to talk to, you know?

Mum actually WANTED to speak to me, whether it be to find out what I was thinking, what I wanted for dinner, whether she should wear the good earrings or not, what was on telly, where did I put the bloody remote, or could I make her a cup of tea..

..shit..

Okay, look, I'm gonna get the fuck out of here while I can still see and start hitting the vodka and drugs. Don't worry, I'm well aware of my limits.

The point of this self-deprecating rant was actually something positive, though you might not be able to tell that by my sudden spiral into uselessness, which is:

You really, really, REALLY don't know what you've got 'til it's gone, and fuck those jaded bastards who take this sort of thing in their stride or wuss out because they think it's cliched.

Do me one small favour and I promise I'll leave you guys alone for ages. If you can, just give your Mum a bell and see how she's doing, yeah? If not, give your old man a shout. No need to say hi for me, say hi for yourself instead. Just make sure they're okay.

Odsox.

"Don'fuhgetchateef!"

Let me tell you about my Wii injury.



It begins way back, through the mists of time, in Essex, somewhere closer to Barking than Colchester, outside a huge block of flats built in the traditional council estate fashion, at night. The blocks are huge and imposing in the darkness, looming over their concrete gardens like gritty sentinels, covered in thousands of glass eyes, some lit, some dark.

A red mondeo pulls up to the kerb about a hundred metres away from one particular block, just by a small, foot-high brick wall surrounding the concrete slope used for games during the day. As the engine dies, the passenger door of the car pops open, faintly illuminating a young boy with dirty blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. He hops out of the vehicle, turns and shuts the door with a bit more force than is necessary. On the driver's side, a tall, black-haired man with a single gold earring has climbed out, and gives the boy a half-joking frown.

'Christ, shut the door,' he says, turning the keys to lock the vehicle up.

"Sorry, Dad!" replies the boy, grinning and looking around in the dark. His father steps around the car, fiddling with his mobile phone. The boy turns to look at the blocks, and, in the way that young boys everywhere do, sets off at a sprint.

His father has walked perhaps two metres, glaring at his phone, when he hears his son's step falter, followed by a thump, a quiet crack, and a high-pitched wail. He instantly moves into a sprint, heading toward the sound. As he steps over the little wall with his long legs, he spies his son on the concrete ground; on his knees and clutching at his mouth, tears streaming from his eyes.

'Oh bloody hell, come here, what have you done?' he asks the boy, lifting him to his feet and peering at his face. Some blood circles his son's mouth; not much, but enough to prove an injury. The boy speaks, but his hands muffle his voice. His father wipes the boy's eyes with the cuff of his jacket and pulls his hand away. Already possessing a sizeable gap between his front teeth, his son's front tooth has been cracked diagonally by the impact on the concrete, leaving an almost pointed remainder, coated with a little blood. The boy sniffs and whimpers, looking around for the missing piece of his precious tooth.

'I was running, and, and I fell over the wall! It really hurt!'
His father sighs, and grips the boy's shoulder.
'Well, it's your own fault for running off in the dark, isn't it? Come on, get inside and then we'll get you down the hospital.'
'I DON'T WANNA GO TO THE HOSPITAL!'
'Don't be stupid, you've got to. Come on, let's get inside, eh?'
'What about my tooth?'
'I'll come back out and look for it once you're settled in.'
'Okay.. but shouldn't we see the dentist?'
'Rich, we're going to the hospital.'

Fast forward twelve, fifteen years, to Essex again, but in Colchester, more specifically a small, cosy flat stuffed with mismatched furniture. Several young adults are gathered in the room, seated on different pieces of furniture. A big man sits nearest the massive television, seated on a pink sofa, looking quite comfortable with a Wiimote in his right hand and a large glass bottle of cider in the left. He grins as he chats to the others, still gap-toothed but with a whole front tooth where the cracked one once was.
'Weanie mate, this is brilliant. I need to get me one of these.'
'Hey man,' replies an even bigger man sat in a green leather armchair, leaning over to grab his own bottle of cider, 'you're welcome to come over and play anytime.'
'Cheers dude,' replies the young man, dirty blonde hair now a light shade of brown. He swings the Wiimote back and forth, playing against one of his other friends.
This is great, he reflects, eyes and Wiimote never leaving the tiny digital tennis ball zipping back and forth on the large screen, I can drink and play this at the same -
The sudden crack against his front tooth makes him drop the Wiimote, and, staring blindly at the television, he removes the cider bottle from his mouth. As he suddenly realises the idiocy of what he's done, he turns to the others.
'That was very, very stupid,' he says.
'What did you do?' asks a tall, skinny fellow seated on the arm of his girlfriend's chair.
'I.. I was thinking about how awesome it was that I could drink and play at the same time.. then I swung the Wiimote, hit the glass bottle, smacked it against my teeth and cracked it against me fake tooth.'
The other instantly burst out laughing, and the young man can't help but grin as well; he'd laugh too, if it hadn't been him.
'Shit,' he says, feeling the tooth with his tongue, 'That's definitely cracked. I'm not gonna be able to leave it alone, either. Bloody hell.'

Sure enough, over the next day, try as he might, he can't stop running the tip of his tongue across the edge of the fracture. It feels like a hairline, and on inspection he can see the line itself.

Later on, as he's over at his stepdad's, enjoying a slice of apple pie with hot custard, he swallows a mouthful of the sweet pie, and blinks. Cautiously, he taps the end of his tongue against the tooth.

A chunk of it has fallen off. Rushing to the mirror, he inspects the tooth. There. The corner of the tooh, made from a kind of dental concrete, has chipped off, leaving a jagged edge to the tooth, and a larger gap.

'Oh, brilliant,' he sighs, peering at the broken tooth.

'Back to square one.'