Posted by Desperate
25/01/09, 14.58 GMT
Dear Baby
Well, it’s been some weekend. Your sister now has what looks like a 1950s prostitute with a serious facial deformity tattooed on her upper arm and your brother has “Queer” emblazoned on his. I suspect you’ll be sensing from my tone that I’m not overjoyed at developments on this side of the uterine wall. It’s not even as if I can shrug them off as the usual dull teenage rebellion because your father—who’s 51, I must point out—also sports a sparkly new stud in his ear.
And a ridiculous ring of barbed wire around his bicep.
Oh, and my name on the back of his neck.
As if indelibly marking his commitment to our “relationship” somehow makes this all right.
I appreciate that you’re still little more than a hodgepodge of cells and lack firsthand experience of social mores, so you will probably struggle to process what I’m telling you. You may even imagine, in your innocence, that seeing my name in gothic script on your father’s slightly doughy neck should have had me giddy with love and gratitude.
Let me set you straight: this situation is just about as far from all right as it is possible to get.
I’m sorry, Baby, deeply sorry, but the first thing you will very likely see upon emerging into the light is a saggychinned, balding Robbie Williams wannabe. He’ll expect you to call him Daddy.
Unless I snap before you get here and smother him while he sleeps. Or knife him in the chest. Or bludgeon him about the head with a leather-bound volume of Britannica— that one is my favorite, mostly because those encyclopaedias cost us only slightly short of £2,000 and arrived just in time to be trumped by Wiki-bloodypedia. Well, they’ve got to come in handy for something.
I promise I will do my utmost not to succumb to my more violent fantasies between now and your due date. However, upon your arrival should you find yourself being whipped away by social workers while I lie hysterical on the delivery couch handcuffed to a prison officer, please try to forgive me.
And even if you can’t, I do believe that as you grow up and assimilate the full horrors of your family’s history, you will come to realize that I was doing you a favor.
Your loving mother
Comment posted by Krishna Mom:
Confinement, honey, it’s the only way to keep them in line. I’ve still got my daughter safely locked in her room and hubby is in the basement until he learns that Monday Night is Foot Rub Night, *not* Football Night. I recommend you keep that little one of yours in the womb until he/she appreciates the necessity of boundaries.
blogass.co.uk
Posted by Hornblower
Crépuscule dans le Périgord : Partie 82b
Comment posted by Topolski:
Hi, Simon. ‘Tis you, innit? Simon Horne, formerly of Primrose Hill and a veteran of the London Advertising Scene, where you worked at Leo Burnett, O&M and Miller Shanks?
The Simon Horne that, at Miller Shanks, made a final, desperate lunge for glory with a 90-second commercial for Simon Horne (pack shot: Asian transsexual licking genitals, about 1/10 for appetite appeal*)?
The very same? Thought as much.
I agonized long and hard about the ethics of outing you. I considered your desire for anonymity, evidenced by your decision to blog under a nom de plume. I also took into account your wish for an undisturbed retirement after so many years sweating in the oppressive heat of the media kitchen. Indeed, I thought deeply about all your rights.
In the end though I was persuaded by the submission of my learned friend, Vince (you remember him, yes? He despised you like a dose of hepatitis B). He reminded me that in the thirteen months we worked for you, you were never less than a craven, unprincipled and monstrously vain self-aggrandizer—though he was characteristically more succinct in his appraisal. One word, in fact: cunt.
So, enjoy the spotlight once again, Simon Horne. It’s reassuring to know that, having fucked the careers of so many, you are now getting agriculturally screwed by a grizzled French field hand. Any of your former employees reading this will appreciate the karma. On récolte ce que l’on seme, as your frog-spouting readers would have it.
*Anyone who wants to put a face to the name should click here. It’s Porn Hub’s 15,774th most viewed clip—though I suspect it might become this week’s highest climber.
From: Liam O’Keefe
To: Harvey Harvey
Sent: 25 January 2009, 16.05
Subject: Security issues
Hi bwana
You’ll be pleased to know I’m around yours. I just called by to check you’d canceled your milk. And to make sure any pets you may or may not own were being adequately cared for. And to deal with any important correspondence (I know the inconvenience of red reminders, repossession notices and such like).
Oh, and while I was at it, I thought I might as well get myself a nice hot shower—had a tough day shifting some heavy gear and worked up a bit of a man-sweat. Hope you don’t mind, but there’s no gas or electric at my place. Or furniture.
Also, there’s a Turkish bloke who got his wires crossed about a message I left him, ended up in hospital and probably doesn’t feel too well disposed toward me, so it’s best I lie low for a bit. That’s by the by, though it does mean I’ll be crashing here for a night or two.
At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on the place while you’re away. On which note I’ve got to pull you up on your home security. It’s fucked, mate. I expected to at least have to jimmy the door open with a credit card. Keys on string went out with the two-shilling pint and Buddy Holly. This is the twenty-first century. FYI, the chaps who roam the streets in hooded leisurewear aren’t kindly Franciscan monks. They have knives and methadone habits, and their stated mission is to make you poor.
And you need to tighten up your computer security. I didn’t even have to be a grade-D hacker to figure your log-on is David Tennant. The Dr. Who wallpaper was a clue. And your password? Five letters, first letter D, ends in K. Got it first hit.
What next? You getting your PIN tattooed on your forehead? Sorry to be so harsh, but ours is a bad, bad world. Jobless bankers roam the streets, vying with the homeless for the increasingly thin pickings. You’re going to have to buck up. I really do fear for you in Nigeria. The gangbangers over there probably don’t actually wear hooded leisurewear on account of the clement weather, but their knives are doubtlessly bigger and you can bet they’re a sight more incentivized than ours are. Poverty is a great motivator—any Marxist analysis will tell you that.
I don’t know why I’m telling you all this because you’re dead already, aren’t you? I can feel it. Here in the gathering gloom. Of a drear Sunday afternoon.
Fuck, I hate Sundays.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m depressed.
And lonely.
And scared.
I can say that to you because you’re already dead. I can say anything to you. Anything at all. I can tell you how unspeakably fucking bleak I feel to have arrived at thirty-seven and have absolutely nothing to show for it.
Nothing.
Whatsoever.
Oh, sorry, there are a few things: an ex who despises me; a guy in the clink for something I did (though I am trying to fix that); a stack of debts so toxic that even the Royal Bank of Scotland wouldn’t touch it; a job where I’m earning brownie points for flogging cigarettes to children—no, worse, children who’ll have to steal from their dirt-poor parents in order to fund the habit I’m giving them; and there’s that irritated Turk. I think I mentioned him. He wants to kill me. He might be handcuffed to a hospital bed, but he has friends that aren’t.
He’s got a point, the Turk. I mean, what use am I? What the fuck am I for? I should be dead. Like you.
Sorry, I don’t mean you should be dead. You shouldn’t be. You should absolutely be alive. But you aren’t. All because you did something decent. You flew 3,103 miles (I Googled it. Nothing better to do. It’s Sunday) to save the life of a stranger. All right, so you’re bei
ng scammed rotten. That makes you a fool. But an honest, decent, upstanding fool. Not a cowardly, lying cunt like me.
Enough already. Think I’ll watch Antiques Roadshow. Take myself back to a wasted childhood. More stuff to feel shite about. Did I mention that I used to dive for my county? Nottinghamshire Juniors. I used to knife into the water like a gannet after a sardine. I coulda bin a contendah. What happened? I discovered smoking and E and loafing on corners. What a fucking waste.
Rest in peace, mate. And (almost) in the words of the ever-reflective Coolio, “I’ll C U when I get there.”
Liam
PS: Love the Atari Super PONG. Do you keep it as a collectible or have you never actually heard of Xbox, Wii and PS3? I’m never sure with you.
PPS: You owe me £5.86. I had to buy bread, milk and coffee.
PPPS: But you’re dead, so I suppose I’ll collect it from your estate.
From: Ted Berry
To: Creative Department
Sent: 25 January 2009, 16.16
Subject: Let’s be inspired
Amazing the ideas that come to you as you’re waiting to go into the ring for your second-round bout in the British Veterans Thai Boxing Championship. I thought it’d be a grand idea to bring in some inspirational names from outside the media bubble; people who can blast away the post-Christmas torpor; blow our minds with their feats of derring-do. I want names. Think big—infinity and beyond, mes braves.
My starters for ten:• Nelson Mandela
• Ronaldo (the lardy Brazilian, not the preening Portugueezer)
• Björk
• Luc Besson
• The singer who won the first Britain’s Got Talent, despite the fact he had a face like a trampled bag of chips—he is the living definition of impossible odds.
Gotta go and prep my Wai Khru Muay Thai. That lanky streak of piss Fink is limbering up. If I kick his arse, I’ve got Beattie in the semis. Wish me well!
Sent from my ¡Phone
eBay.co.uk
CEO’s office, complete contents
Item specifics: top-of-the-line furnishings that will instantly transform even the drabbest corporate cubicle into a swank pad fit for a swinging-dick S’ralan Sugar clone. Main items include a glass-topped desk big enough to park a family car beneath, a hide-upholstered swivel chair built for the bottom that likes to lunch and a Ligne Roset sofa sufficiently low-slung to make minions feel properly inferior.
Fully accessorized with “ironic” Newton cradle, set of walnut photo frames (suitable for those essential pictures of wife, children, favorite hooker) and collection of unread self-improvement books. The piece of resistance? Damien Hirst’s Beautiful, Galactic, Exploding Screenprint (yes, yes, it’s just a piece of spin art, a three-year-old could have done it, but fuck it, darling, it’s a HIRST!).
Would suit wanker.
Monday
Mood : alive. Then dead. Then somehow inexplicably alive again. Then dead. Possibly
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.21
Subject: Interns?
Intern needed for urgent copying for GIT meeting. Cookies for successful applicant.
From: Milton Keane
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.22
Subject: Interns?
Desperately seeking intern to bind GIT docs. Choccy cookies for lucky volunteer.
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.23
Subject: Interns?
Cookies and fresh doughnuts.
From: Milton Keane
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.23
Subject: Interns?
Choccy cookies, freshly brewed coffee and £10 M&S voucher.
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.24
Subject: Interns?
Cookies, doughnuts, choice of coffee or tea and four-pack of Budvar.
From: Milton Keane
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.24
Subject: Interns?
Choccy cookies, coffee, M&S voucher, free pick from Cazza’s fridge (anything non-vintage).
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.25
Subject: Interns?
Cookies, doughnuts, coffee/tea, Budvar and Blade Runner DVD (Director’s Cut).
From: Milton Keane
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.26
Subject: Interns?
Choccy cookies, coffee, M&S voucher, fridge pick, Ugly Betty (complete Season 2) and ten-minute go on Cazza’s amazing Eames rocker (sitting is believing!!).
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.27
Subject: Interns?
Cookies, doughnuts, coffee/tea, Budvar, Blade Runner, ultra-cool Bathing Ape baseball cap and 8GB iPod nano (magenta).
From: Milton Keane
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.28
Subject: Interns?
Choccy cookies, coffee, M&S voucher, fridge pick, Ugly Betty, extended go on Eames rocker, over £250 worth of Esmée Éloge freebies and a signed copy of my exclusive YouTube DVD.
From: Larry Finlay
To: Katie Espiner
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.53
Subject: I want it and I want it now
Gavin in digital has finally done something useful. After a weekend scouring the net he’s ID-ed Hornblower (click below for details). He’s an ex-adman called Simon Horne, yet another one doing the Year in Provence bollocks. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down. I want you to tie up the book deal posthaste. Drop whatever shite you’re on and fly to France immediately.
http://www.blogger.com/profile/17497362735526850652
Larry Finlay
Managing Director
Transworld Publishers
From: Katie Espiner
To: Larry Finlay
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.56
Subject: Re: I want it and I want it now
Are you sure, Larry? I know everyone’s talking about this guy’s blog, but only because he’s a complete idiot. And I’m up to my neck in the new Sophie Kinsella.
Katie Espiner
Senior Commissioning Editor
Transworld Publishers
From: Larry Finlay
To: Katie Espiner
Sent: 26 January 2009, 08.59
Subject: Re: I want it and I want it now
Since when was idiocy an impediment to getting a book published? The man is a certified fucking phenomenon and I want him on our list. Believe me, every publisher in London will be creaming his/her knickers for this one. I will not be beaten to the punch again as we were with that made-up hooker blog. Delegate Kinsella and get your arse to France.
From: Susi Judge-Davis-Gaultier
To: Creative Department
Sent: 26 January 2009, 09.00
Subject: Creative reviews
Any of you wishing to show Ted creative work today should hold back any witty, funny or otherwise amusing ideas. Unfortunately, he cracked two ribs yesterday and laughing causes him considerable pain.
From: Róisín O’Hooligan
To: All Staff
Sent: 26 January 2009, 09.07
Subject: WTF??
Has someone grown their own personal werewolf up there? Some of us are trying to drink our lattes in peace and could do without the howls of anguish, thanks.
Róisín
Reception
From: Dotty Podidra
To: Sally Wilton
Sent: 26 January 2009, 09.11
Subject: Looks like our thief is back
Hi, Sal. Think you’d better get up here quick. David’s office has sort of gone missing.
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