Anxiety and me

Tap tap tap. No. It’s probably more of a thud thud thud. Actually it’s probably more of a ‘swoosh’ sound. No, there’s probably not even a sound that my foot makes while it shakes constantly under the table where I’m sitting. Can anyone else hear it? I don’t know.

Anxiety, at various points of my teenage and adult life, has controlled the way I act in social situations. Sometimes it can be as little as my foot shaking under a table in a work meeting after being told I have to present to potential clients.

Other times it can be far worse. The feeling of hopelessness mixed with a burning feeling in my stomach results in myself being scared to even leave my bed in the morning. I have to talk to someone today? I have to complete a task which I’m going to find difficult? Horrendous.

Sometimes I lay awake and night and count how many times social anxiety has cost me opportunities in both my personal and professional life. And there’s a huge list, I’ll be honest. Jobs, relationships, my mental health in general – all changed or tarnished because of something I really can’t explain to my closest loved ones.

Even writing this and the potential of publishing it scares the living hell out of me. I have that familiar feeling in my stomach and this weird thing that happens to my vision; anyone who has played first person shooters can recognise it – when you’re getting shot and getting close to dying, the screen goes darker and grey. This is what happens to me when my anxiety is at it’s worse.

What was the point of writing this? I’m not really sure. I think writing down feelings, set backs and things that you’re struggling with can sometimes ease it. Maybe writing this, someone will read it (ha) and think “shit, yeah me too mate!” And they won’t feel alone.

Hopefully my beautiful friends and gorgeous family will read this too. And it might go a little way in explaining to them the weirdness that I sometimes exhibit. The broken plans. The awkwardness in even making plans in the first place. I promise it’s not anything to do with you as people and I love you lots.

Through typing this, the ‘swoosh’ of my foot moving has eased a little. The video game darkness has become bit lighter and I can see clearer again. Thanks for reading my garbage and if you’re a person reading this who can relate – you’re not alone, pal.

I want to break free – a tale of a fat person trying to run and nearly dying

‘I want to break free’

It was a cold night. Not just an “oh it’s a bit nippy outside tonight” night, but more like you could feel the path slowly freeze under your feet as you walked along them kind of night. As I closed the door and walked down my path, my naked arms and knees metaphorically swore at me and my poor clothing decisions. They swore at my metaphorically as they are arms and knees and they don’t really have a way to communicate. That would be stupid.

I scrolled through my phone and my podgy thumb clicked down on the highest ranking ‘couch to 5k’ app I could find and I was greeted by a sexy robotic voice who instantly told me what we’re going to do. She even offered to play one of my favourite records so I asked her to play the Greatest Hits by Queen as there’s not a song on there’s that’s shit. “What a great start”, I thought, “based on this experience I’m going to be a great runner”, I mused.

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

“Crazy Little Thing Called Love” came on first. I thought it was fantastic that my application already knew I’d fancy listening to the album on shuffle and needless to say I was a bit in love with said application. Not in a weird way, though more like a love for a fantastic burger or a rare Arsenal goal, not like when Will Smith tries to shag a robot in iRobot. Purely platonic.

For those who have never heard of the ‘couch to 5k’ app, it orders you to either ‘run’ or ‘briskly walk’ at a minute or so at a time. As a stupidly obese lad, this is perfect for starting out on the road from sweaty-sofa-neflix doofus to the white Mo Farah within weeks.

The first minute of running. I glided above the icy roads of Stowmarket town, Freddie’s voice panging into my surprisingly small ears and thought I finally found my calling in my life. I am a runner. I am running. Everything is going to be okay and I’m probably going to be the greatest runner East Suffolk has seen.

Bicycle Race

Oh boy was I on top of the world. That one minute of pure running excellence was followed by a steady walk before embarking on the second run. The “please start jogging” voice applied to my ears via the medium of new headphones was echoed by Queen’s Bicycle Race. Within 5 minutes of stepping outside my house I was already struggling.

The white Mo Farah of mere moments ago was suddenly transferred into the fat idiot in a distinct lack of clothing for the British climate. My man-boobs slapped against each other as I could feel my knees start to buckle under the weight and anticipation of this run. I kept looking back at my application to see how long until this torture would stop – “40 seconds remaining?!” I thought. The female robotic voice I fell in love with mere minutes ago had already abandoned me. I was stabbed in the back by the one digital download I thought I could trust.

The minute came to an end and my weight forced me to look upon the icy gravelly floor with my arms at my side, attempting to catch my breath. My frame felt like it was going to force itself through my knees and into my ankles. My chest felt like it was being sat on but not in a remotely sexy way. Am I dying?

Save Me

Several songs had entered my head and left as quickly as they came. Don’t Stop Me Now briefly gave me an uplifting few moments as I avoided the mid-evening cars that came hurtling towards me. If there’s nothing funnier than watching a fat person run, it’s watching a fat person fail at running. We Are The Champions provided an atmospheric background to the push over the halfway point and my sexy robotic friend soothed my fears and told me I’m nearly there.

This is where Save Me came into play. Possibly my least favourite of Queen’s songs and it probably the song that summed up my feelings at that moment. As a fat person it is only natural I have many other ailments which include asthma. As my stomach bounced in front of me and formed a bulky shadow in front of me, I could feel my chest start to make reservations in another body and my lungs getting ready for an emergency evacuation.

Many things ran through my head including my location. I’ve never been to this part of Sowmarket before. The street lamps offered very little refuge in this wintery night and the cold air seemed to lament my feelings that I was probably going to die here this eve; On my first run. In shorts and t-shirt. Listening to Queen.

The first worry was how would I be able to contact my wife when it all goes to shit and I finally start to pass away. What street am I on? Can I describe it to her before all life leaves my fat-laden body? Will it be a replica of a month ago where I phoned my wife from Needham Market when I was utterly inebriated after the work Christmas do where I passed out outside Co-Op? No. I thought. This is not what I’m going to do. This is not how it’s going to end.

We Will Rock You

Alas, I did not die. If I had died then who would have been able to type up this really funny blog post which ultimately will be read exclusively by at least 5 different people? Whilst I was standing outside death’s door, looking pervertedly through the window, We Will Rock You bashed through my ears. The music that sound tracked Gladiators on ITV saved my life. I momentarily took the dorm of the resident Gladiator bad guy, Wolf.

Despite the disappointment that this version of We Will Rock You wasn’t the 5ive cover (it’s ace, and one of the fondest memories of my wedding was when the DJ played it at the reception), the sexy voiced robot once again kissed my inner ear with “one more minute to go, you can do it”. This excited me in a way that only a sexy voiced robot can only do. My chubby pieces of meat known as my feet hit the glazed floor; anticipation was high as I probably wouldn’t be dying outside in the cold Stowmarket outback but possibly within the confines my flat later that evening or possibly in West Suffolk Hospital.

I reached out to my front door and fell through into the hallway. I saw my wife who greeted me normally, without the realisation that her husband, and hopefully her last husband, nearly died while trying to get fit and lose that flubber that stuck to his body. She embraced me and pushed me away quickly when she realised how sweaty and disgusting I was; she will never know how Queen both nearly killed me and saved my life that night.

Needless to say, I will do it all over again tomorrow night.

You can follow Daniel’s mission to not be a fat dick by following his Twitter account at: https://twitter.com/helloimdanjames

Breaking Breakfast

This is something I wrote because I really like breakfast. And I was bored. More so that I really like breakfast and there’s such a fine line between a RAD breakfast and a shitty one. Not really, they’re all bloody ace! Shut up Daniel. 

Cheryl glared up at Mike as he placed her plate in front of her. She tried her hardest not to make eye contact with her husband of 5 years as he moved the knife and fork closer to her seated body but inevitably their eyes met before he turned around and gently back walked to the kitchen.

It had just turned 8am as Cheryl picked up her knife and fork, carefully assessing the Lincolnshire sausage, fried eggs, bacon and beans that Mike had offered her; she tenderly pressed her fork against the hardened skin of the plumper sausage before casting her deep green eyes over the crispy bacon. Everything was how she liked it and she hated it. She hated that the man she has resented for the half a decade has completed the task of supplying her breakfast of the highest quality. She panicked.

“There must be something wrong with this meal” she hurried around her brain, losing breath as she scrambled across the plate for even the most minimal flaw. Her eyes started to strain as she begins to double-check the sausages; flipping over the bacon and even trying to find a blemish on her fork. Nothing. There’s nothing on this plate that can possibly satisfy her detest for this man.

“Wait!” She pauses. Suddenly Cheryl’s normally flushed cheeks turn as white as the table cloth she’s eating on top of. For all the disappointment this breakfast, and 5 years of marriage, has brought her, there’s a glimmer of hope; a shining beacon above this train-wreck full of perfect breakfasts and adequate film choices. “The egg!” she screams, trying to recover her breath, “the egg! There are beans on it” she screams again, pointing towards the plate as Mike looks over from the kitchen.

And there certainly were beans on her egg. Despite the dreamy yolk of the fried egg erectly peering over the rest of the fried selection, the outer white was laden with baked beans and repugnant bean juice; the absolute breakfast faux pas. Mike looked at her with total shock, he knew that this couldn’t and wouldn’t have happened before – what has gone wrong? The room fell into silence, with only the light trickle of the tap echoing around the spacious room.

For these few minutes, Cheryl knew that Mike was not as perfect as her friends kept suggesting; she wasn’t going crazy and had a valid reason to feel the sickening sensation she felt every morning when she woke up to him. To many this wouldn’t seem like anything at all, but to Cheryl this meant, for just a few minutes, she didn’t feel insane.

Dan Charman

Top 12 of the last 12 (years).

Corrrr, pop music eh? Drunk, drugged-up cretins who have beaten us all to fame and fortune and like every opportunity to rub our shit-ridden faces in it. From time to time though, they decide to release something so brilliant that makes your ears tingle and get up off your minging arse.

No matter how cool you say you are or how much you try and convince yourself that the first piece of music you ever listened to was a limited edition Black Flag vinyl, pop music has played a massive part in most of our lives and with it being 2012 I thought I’d write up a list of my favourite pop songs of the past 12 years.

There’s some right idiotic choices in here but some are especially brilliant. At one point I even decided to take out Rihanna and pop in Craig David; quickly changing it so neither of the aforementioned were featured in the list.

Send me as much hate as you want, it all helps with extra visitors to this ‘orrible place.

1. Outkast – Hey Ya! (2003)

Taught everyone to shake it like a polaroid picture (see: instagram) and dance like a right loon. I think my mum even enjoyed the musical delights of OutKast and why the bloody hell not? A blistering chorus combined with tingling melodies easily made this the best pop song of the last 12 years.

 

2. Tinie Tempah – Pass Out (2008)

Four years down the line and the boy from Plumstead is still making a shedload of cash from this great release. The song really steps it up near the end and you can be sure that Tinie can afford to buy Scunthorpe, let alone travel to there.

 

3. R. Kelly – Ignition (2002)

Sure, I go to clubs sometimes. I’ll be the one pretending to know what to do when this song (always) comes on. R. Kelly, as well as having a thing for pissing on underage children (we all have our vices, right?), is a fucking brilliant R&B artist and this is definitely one of the highlights of the last decade or so.

 

4. Britney Spears – Toxic (2004)

Probably not Britney’s best song (that’s reserved for Hit Me Baby One More Time, obviously) but Toxic is easily the BS’s best pop release of the last few years. Extra points for the gnarly riff in the middle in between breakdowns. Sorry Gaga but Britney still shits all over you.

 

5. Justin Timberlake – SexyBack (2005)

Before he turned to acting and went back to the future and bought MySpace, JT was the man to beat when it comes to pop hits. Sure, kids probably only think of one man when Justin is mentioned but this release spawned really bad t-shirts and even worse dance moves.

 

6. Miley Cyrus – Party in the U.S.A. (2009)

The best opening riff of any pop song ever bloody made and instantaneously recognisable no matter how much someone hates it. I have seen grown men (maybe me) singing their hearts out to the chorus of this Cyrus number and there’s (definitely) nothing wrong with that, at all.

 

7. Girls Aloud – Sound of the Underground (2002)

Before Cheryl married a dickhead and Nicola become the poster girl for pale ladies around the country, they used to be in a girl band (yep). Just check out how scary Nadine is. Finished crying yet?

 

8. Beyonce featuring Jay-Z – Crazy in Love (2003)

The King and Queen of everything, ever, released this number back in 2003 and still has one of the strongest choruses in pop music. If you’re able to stop yourself looking at Beyonce’s bum through this video then you’re a better than me… or physically blind.

 

9. Lady Gaga featuring Colby O’Donis – Just Dance (2008)

I think I have forgotten how many songs Gaga has released now but this has to be the killer that really made people stand up and listen (and spread rumours about her various male or female genitals).

 

10. McFly – 5 Colours in Her Hair (2004)

The lads who have more recently dominated our TV sets in various reality programmes released this number back in 2004. At the time they were seen as the British version of the Beach Boys but soon enough found a number of drugs problems. We’re all human, innit?

 

11. Destiny’s Child – Survivor (2001)

Girl power! Dancing on beaches! Beyonce before she got knocked up! This was MASSIVE way back in 2001 and seen as an anthem for independent ladies all over the earth. Bit of a powerful number, this.

 

12. Justin Bieber featuring Ludacris – Baby (2010)

BRING ON THE HATE! Like I said at the start of this piece, pop music is a bit of a dodgy subject but there’s no doubt this fella has changed the game. While embedding this video the amount of viewers was tallied at 725,999,528. That’s a lot of screaming girls (and me). Baby, baby ooooh!

 

SO THEN. That was my top 12 of the last 12 (years). There’s a lot of artists that nearly made the list (notice there’s no Kanye or Rihanna? Weird eh?) but I’m pretty pleased with this. I’d be honoured if you send any hate my way on Facebook or Twitter (@DanJCharman) but don’t send poo through my letter box as that stuff really does smell.

Peace. xox

Dan’s guide to gig fascism

Oh I remember when I liked gigs, I really do. Drinking blinding amounts of cheap cider before listening to crappy local bands between swaying crowds and ear-bleeding feedback was my idea of a great night out. And up until about 3 years ago, it still was; people could stuff their Oceana nights out where sweaty bastards grind crushingly up against each other before blowing their load – I had my gigs and that was that. 

Something happened though, and it coincided with me becoming a negative bastard who had enough of screaming sweat merchants who were destined to spoil my night out. But never fear, I have come up with some ideas for a perfect gig experience which borders on fascism but totally kicks arse. Probably.

1. No mobile phones allowed. 

It’s not people talking on them that’s the issue here, it’s the common sight of some guy or girl in front of you who decides to film the entire set on their Blackberry. I don’t know when it became a ‘thing’ to enjoy watching a band play through a mobile phone instead of watching them play right in front of you but this happens way too much now. The mobile phone ban will also stop any couples or friends taking a photo of each other at a gig to prove cool credentials; you look sweaty anyway you silly bastards, we don’t want to see that on Facebook in the morning.

2. No couples.

This is especially the case at rowdier shows where there’s a bit of action in front of the band. Guys! Don’t get stupidly offended when you decide to nurse your girlfriend from behind right in front of a pit of sweaty men who are swinging their arms around in every direction; you’re definitely going to get hit so don’t get all up in people’s grills when you eventually get knocked. Plus if I want to see some high class making out I’ll be trawling through various adult video sites, thank you! 

3. Adequate distance between the crowd.

Like I said before, I came to see this hip new band to get away from being stuck in a club pretending to talk to girls; please don’t be pushing your buttons down on my crotch and jumping up. Sure, I can think about that later in the evening but I’m here to see a band disappointing me with a live show and don’t want your sweaty hair sticking in my left eye. 1ft between each crowd member will mean less capacity but less dry humping. 

4. No pushing to the front.

There’s a reason those 14 year old girls queue so early to see bands like You Me At Six and that’s to get to the front. No one needs some dickhead pushing their way to the front so they can taste the sweat of the lead singer; you’re trampling on people’s feet and generally being an arse. This also counts to people who go back to the bar for a beer, it doesn’t give you the right to claim that exact place after you leave, this counts for ‘saving’ places for your mates, too. Y’dickhead.

5. Beer prices.

You do expect prices of booze to be a bit higher at venues but the other week I paid £5 (FIVE) for a can of Red Stripe. Not only is red stripe the poorest of all the beers and tastes vaguely of arse, five quid for a normal sized can is ridiculous and in a packed-out venue it really doesn’t help. My super incredible venue will serve exclusively home-made cider in sandcastle buckets. And probably heroin. 

Why do I write for a living?

Why do I write for a living? I find myself asking this at least twice a week while eating another oversized packet of beef flavoured monster munch and refreshing my Gmail account every 30 seconds to discover that AMAZINGLY AWESOME feature I just sent an editor has been shunned.

Then I realise I have a degree which is pretty pointless. CRIMINOLOGY AND SOCIAL POLICY? Who’s stupid fucking idea was that? Surely I’m not dumb enough to choose that as a degree to shape my occupational future? Sadly, I am dumb enough.

One thing in my life that I’m sure of is lists. Most things, except from the holocaust, can be summed up nicely in a list. So I wrote a list of good and bad things about my occupation as a freelance writer. EVERYONE READ MY LIST!

THE BAD BITS ABOUT IT

It’s really poorly paid. Really, really poorly paid. Probably the reason why my diet has been condensed into packets of monster munch and cartons of long life milk; writing for people doesn’t really pay very much and if it does, chances are it’s not going to happen every week. So obviously rent day is a gloomy bastard of a day every time it comes around.

It’s antisocial. I suppose this doesn’t bother me that much. People are, in general, pretty shit bastards so having the ability to hide behind a computer screen is something I welcome. But you can go for days without seeing another human being unless you run out of toilet paper and have to dash to the shop for a 4 pack of bogroll and a white lion bar.

Embarrassing job title. Can go either way, this. Sure it sounds pretty glam telling your friend that you’re a writer but for every time that happens, there’s usually an awkward family situation where the response is normally “oh so you’re unemployed?”. Fuck you, great auntie!

High chance of a mental breakdown. Sleepless nights trying to finish that copy an editor asked for THREE WEEKS AGO just reminds me of how much I hated writing essays at Uni. 5am is a frequently visited time along side several cans of home brand energy drinks. Of course, this leads to more pooing. Lots of pooing.

THE RAD BITS ABOUT IT

It is something I want to do. Not many people, in this current economical climate anyway, can say they are doing something they love. Sure, it’s stressful and doesn’t pay very well but I literally get paid to write shit ideas that come out of my head. There’s no better feeling than seeing your own words in a glossy magazine or on a highly visited website; there’s no bigger buzz except probably designing a robot that can fight other robots.

I have no boss! My bedroom is my office, my pj bottoms and various band t-shirts make up my work attire and my lunch break can be taken at 11am or 5pm. I have a lot of freedom in regards to how I spend my day and it’s pretty ace. Yesterday I got up at 8am, wrote 2 pitches to some editors and then went back to bed and watched The Office. What the fuck did you do, eh?

An awesome job title. As pointed out above, this can be a bad thing but in a lot of circumstances, people really find my job interesting. Going home to see old friends and them asking me what I do normally gets people quite excited, especially listing the cool people I have interviewed and the ace magazines I have written for. It’s something very different and I like that.

A lot of free stuff. Everyone loves free stuff. You love free stuff and your nan probably does, too. I’m quite proud to say I have dined for free at the BBC on two occasions, sank 6 pints of free cider before a film showing and eaten too many sandwiches at photoshoots. This doesn’t include being paid to go to the best festivals in the world and see my favourite bands for nothing at all. It almost makes up for the huge lack of money I do get paid. Almost.

Yeah, so that’s a bit of a list for you all. I bet you all like lists, you dirty bastards. If you want to become a freelance journalist, have a little read and then decide to do the opposite of what you think is correct.

Love Dan xxx

Apparently it’s Valentine’s Day!

Ohhhh it has been a while ladies and gentlemen. Never fear, I haven’t killed myself or fled to Latvia. Not yet anyway.

Apparently today is Tuesday 14th February, or widely known as ‘Forgetting how shit your boyfriend/girlfriend is for one day of the year’ day. As I type this I am watching Loose Women, the popular ITV programme which doesn’t include any sex despite it’s quite saucy name. A few of them have probably taken a dick or two in their time though.

I don’t really know what’s going on, it looks like Carol Vorderman is talking to the 3 other middle aged women about their vaginas going dry or whatever happens when you hit 50. While this is happening, the one who looks like a dried-up crinkle cut chip (you know, the loosest of the Loose Women) is calling for Valentine’s Day to be cancelled. BAN VALENTINE’S DAY! What? So we can miss out on all of the funny shit that comes with it? Without this very romantic day we wouldn’t have the following awesome things:

FACEBOOK DISPLAYS OF LOVE! “OMG! I am soooo lucky I have da best boyfriend evaaa!” posts the girl who has seemingly forgotten her boyfriend of 2 years was caught fingering a girl in the disabled toilets of Oceana a few months ago. Apparently we’re that fickle that a bunch of wilting flowers from the local garage combined with a tatty bear from Poundland are enough for that girl to forget how much of a wanker that guy is the rest of the year. It’s Valentine’s Day though – so any bad shit goes out of the window and replaced with photos of inflated love heart-shaped balloons all over Facebook. We all need to know how great your boyfriend is, otherwise we’d all die slowly and in severe pain. Delightful.

STALKING CHANCES INCREASED! It’s surprising to find out that not everyone in the world is utterly loved up beyond all comprehension! There are quite a lot of us out there who are hopelessly single and possibly ready to mingle so why not take this time to have a nice little stalk (or ‘extreme liking’ I like to call it) of that girl or boy you have been following eagerly on Facebook? Seeing as they’re single too, Valentine’s Day is probably the only chance you’ll get to ‘like’ every one of their profile photos without the police popping around you’re sperm-drenched house. Treat yourself!

A SHIT LOAD OF GANGSTER FILMS! To many, the real winner of St. Valentine’s Day has always been Al Capone. On this day in 1929, Capone and his henchmen brutally murdered 7 mob associates in Chicago. Instead of paying for poorly cooked pasta in a local Italian rasturant, just pop on any of the following on your DVD player: Gangster Number One, Scarface, Casino, Goodfellas or any of the Godfather films. Rejoice as a bloke’s head is crushed between a vice in Casino or watch Tony Montana let rip; this absolutely shits over any other aspect of Valentine’s Day. There’s nothing better than guns, lots and lots of guns.

If we did ban St. Valentine’s Day then we’d miss out on those wonderful things that make us think/know we’re better than the majority of the population. Tomorrow will be like any normal Wednesday and the loved up Facebook statuses will be replaced with public arguments and relationships changing to single. Have a great Tuesday 14th.

Daniel xxx

A giant pack of beef Monster Munch and no sitcom.

Yeah okay so I didn’t get the sitcom. Despite, in the end, kind of convincing myself I had a great chance of being that one person out of the final cut to get it, it didn’t happen. But hey, I had some really good feedback and my script has been kept on file – maybe when they realise I’m a comic genius and a bit of an internet legend (note: I’m not a legend, that doesn’t even make sense) they make come back for me. I won’t be waiting by the phone.

Despite this being my first ever script and everyone telling me about my future is going to be ace and all that, the last two days have been utter shite. I work in a world where rejection is a daily occurance – what? I have had pitches rejected by Knitting Weekly, Darts Monthly AND Kerrang in a whole day? That’s just the way it goes. However, this felt worse and Thursday led to an Alan Partridge-style breakdown involving a massive bag of Monster Munch being consumed within seconds. I don’t want you to think I’m padding out this sob story; this was a great big bag of Monster Munch I was eating, HUGE some may say (note: I would say it’s huge).

After eating the GIANT bag (it’s definitely giant) and falling sick for four hours I decided that maybe it isn’t my time. I’m not the most patient of humans out there, this is evident of my general harassing of ITV celebrities by posting them pieces of their photos I have ripped out of magazines nearly every day (I have never done this really, any girls reading this and all that) but maybe patience is a virtue. Jesus/God/Dale Winton was right all along.

So what now? I don’t really know. It has taken me until 5:20 in the afternoon to get around writing this and I have been planning it for hours. I have just noticed a new ITV show that are looking for contestants and involves writing at FHM (already been published there), Kerrang, Heat etc. I know I’m beautiful but I don’t think TV is for me – plus if I want to be a super successful writer then I think my current method (slogging along slowly with very little money) is definitely the correct path. I might just drink a bit (see: a lot) of gin and see if click on the application form.

Thank you all for your kind words, I do appreciate it and stuff.

Dan xoxo

Awkward porn. It’s porn but has awkward before it.

It’s fairly safe to say that I’m an awkward human being. It may surprise you to find out that behind this brutally confident internet profile, I’m a geeky dork who lacks plenty of social skills and once stayed on a bus for 30 minutes after missing my stop just so I didn’t annoy the driver. It’s okay though, there’s plenty of us out there and when I was conducting my ‘research’ (this is not looking at porn, that’s just disgusting) I figured there’s not enough pornography out there that really appeals to the everyday dork.

If you have read my ramblings before (and why wouldn’t you?) then you would of seen my previous views on pornography script writing, so I thought it was about time I put my very limited creative skill to the test and knocked out (excuse the pun, even though it’s a fucking brilliant pun) some awkward porn: porn for the everyday dork.

The scene opens. A girl is sitting on a brown, ageing sofa. She’s blonde and is wearing a faded Halls & Oates 1997 tour t-shirt. She appears to be in her early 30s but that’s just a sign of her many relationship failures and lack of Tumblr re-blogging; she’s only 24 and works as a receptionist at a local agency. Her Facebook profile claims she’s a photographer. She’s definitely not a photographer. 

Girl (flicking through the TV with a remote): Gosh, there’s really nothing on TV. Even the rise (and rise of) Belle and Sebastian on MTV Indie&Quirkie isn’t cheering me up.

There’s a ring at the door. The girl gets up to answer it and the camera follows her. She pulls down her oversized and faded t-shirt to hide her modesty (really rubbish pants, it was washing day). A man wearing chinos combined with a thick knitted cardigan is at the door, he struggles to greet her but they end up embracing with a hug which only results in them awkwardly touching momentarily.

Boy (standing with his hands behind his back, sweat dripping from his palms): Hey, I thought we should hang out seeing as Tumblr has been down for the past 30 minutes and my Flickr has been suspended.

Girl (playing with her hair, it’s really greasy as she didn’t expect visitors): Sure, we can watch the highlights of X-Factor in a really ironic way and post Facebook updates about who we would have sex with.

Boy: Ace!

The two walk to the sofa and sit down. The boy accidently sits on the hand of the girl but he is quick to rectify this. Sexy music (probably Slow Club or something) starts to play as the girl leans in for a kiss. The boy leans in too but manages to knock his teeth against the teeth of the girl. They both wince for a second before kissing successfully on the second attempt.

Here I got bored. I figured awkward porn is a great idea but I really to eat some food and do something that would actually make me some money. I hope you have enjoyed it so far, if not then you can probably fuck off.

Dan xxx

 

 

Dean Gaffney on Aboriginal Australians

Daytime television is brilliant, that’s probably a fact. What is even more brilliant is the daytime viewing between Christmas and New Years, a deluge of antiques shows presented by failing media graduates and documentaries following Hitler’s desire to kill everyone who listens to dubstep. History was never my strong point.

A quick skipping through the documentary channels (desperate times and all that) brought me to an advert which starred the Happy Mondays singer Shaun Ryder and detailed his attempt to hunt down UFOs: ‘Shaun Ryder on UFOs’. “Wow, that’s remarkable.” I thought to myself before turning back to some mid-afternoon Babestation. I figured if TV channels are guzzling down this tripe then maybe I can come up with some of my own programme ideas which will take the television schedules by storm. So, obviously, I did.

Dean Gaffney on Aboriginal Australians: Ex-Eastenders Lothario Dean ‘The Power’ Gaffney travels over Australia, visiting aboriginal tribes across the nation. He will uncover their ongoing struggle with living in a modern nation while trying to remain loyal to their history. I believe Dean’s I’m a Celebrity experience will provide a great background for him as he takes this very challenging lead role.

Ron Atkinson on Gangs: Big Ron Atkinson, ex-football coach and racist is sent into the middle of Tottenham to speak to young men and women who openly took part in the August 2011 riots. Ron, who is obviously accustomed to communicating with people of all ethnic backgrounds will spend time with the individuals in an attempt to find a motive and maybe even a solution to the problems. Not to be confused with that Ross Kemp show, it’s definitely totally different.

Steve Brookstein on the Women’s Institute: The first winner of the British X-Factor, Steve Brookstein, heads to his local Women’s Institute to find out if he has what it takes to join the historic institute. Steve will use his natural showmanship in various competitions against the ladies including a Victoria sponge bake off, flower arranging and a sing off. This should include a number of close-ups of his face as it looks like an unsatisfied plastic vagina.

Howard Brown on the credit crunch: The star of the infamous ‘Who gives you extra?’ Halifax advert, Howard Brown, will be the face of this two part documentary exploring the increasing financial problems within the United Kingdom. Howard’s (probably) financial knowledge will become useful as he asks the questions everyone is dying to know. This could lead to Howard becoming the chancellor of the exchequer so a follow up programme is already sorted.

Christopher Biggins on Surgery: Television personality and avid homosexual, Christopher Biggins, explores Britain’s ongoing love affair with plastic surgery. Biggins will follow individuals who are about to undergo various alterations as well as catching up with those who have already had the procedure. The series will finish with Christiopher himself having plastic surgery, with a very good chance of it going wrong and resulting in a horrible mutation. Hopefully.

I’ll be emailing the big guns at: History channel, Dave, Gold and Channel 5 within the coming weeks with my ideas and I’ll keep you updated.

Dan.