Day 192: I Smell Like A Hamster

All boys smell of hamsters. When a boy no longer smells of hamsters, he is A Man. Girls never smell of hamsters. (They smell of other things, I know, but you'll never meet a lady who smells of hamsters.)

Girls don't smell of hamsters because they are not stupid. They know that if you want to dry your clothes, you do not stack them all up on top of each other and stuff them on a radiator. You space them out and let the warm air circulate. In that way, your clothes dry properly and you do not parade about the place with crispy jeans and t-shirts that smell like the bottom of a hamster's cage.

Although I am not a boy and am not (despite the fact of my short hair, which often causes people in restaurants to call me 'sir' until I turn round and they see my enbonpoint*) a man, I have a jersey that smells like it has been lining a hamster's cage for many months. I wash it; I dry it carefully; I wash it alone; I wash it with other things. I dry it on a rack, on a hanger, and draped directly over the radiator but all to no avail. It smells of hamsters all day and all night. It is a non-stop centre of Hamsterstench. A blind man would smell me coming and say, "Smell that? That's a first year Chemistry student at the University of Aston, that is. Someone get him a proper clothes drying rack, will they?".

Unlike "Beautiful Jersey With Weird Hooks and Eyes" and "Touch It, It's Cashmere, Black and You Want It" Jersey, Stinky Jersey cost £19.99 from Sainsbury's and was bought in a Panic. It is not made of wool. I think it is made of plastic. It does not wash well, it bobbled within a week and it stinks (of hamsters). It reminds me that it is better to save up the money of six Stinky Jerseys and get one "It's Black, Cashmere and You Want It" Jersey (in much the same way that it is better to save up twenty "It's such fun!" handbags and get one "Cunting hell, you could get a car for that" handbag).

These are dark days, my friends. I am showing my age. Any second now I will be telling you to moisturise twice a day. And yet I must face the truth: I am 37, like Radio 4, like kind Men (not boys that smell like hamsters), believe in Quality over Quantity, and cannot walk the streets smelling like a Chemistry undergraduate. Only one course of action remains: I must give Stinky Jersey up, and hope it meets its destiny as the lining of a slightly grubby hamster cage.



* At which point, if I am in France, they gather in the kitchen, point, and exclaim "Il y a du monde au balcon!" in amazed tones.

Day 191: I Am Worried About Daughter Number Six

I think you may enjoy having a little click on this. Then scroll down. But not too fast. Otherwise you'll miss obedient number three, and sister number five's hat. (She likes horses.)

There is a chance that this is a joke, but I don't think it is. But just in case, look at this, a thing that is definitely not a joke.

And nor (or so it seems!) is this. Underneath the list of vegetables, you, like me, will I know be delighted to discover (a bit further down, under "Causes of chronic flatulence") that a lady called Denise has very kindly provided the world with an mp3 file of one of her flatulent episodes. Read on, and you will find an intriguing reference to "Kate losing her job at the funeral parlour, Denise having to leave her job as a lecturer and Julian's flatulence causing mental illness". Heavens!

Day 191: I Decide To Get A Publishing Deal

Enough's enough. Everyone else has a book deal and I want one too, whether I deserve it or not.

I have therefore put together the following letter and propose sending it to everyone in The Writer's Handbook 2006, even the small zoological publishing house outside Crewe.
_______

Monkey Towers
The More Salubrious Part of Brixton
London
SW2


Dear Agent(s) and/or Publisher(s)

Today I offer you what can only be described as an opportunity of a lifetime: one that will make us all rich, and me famous in a way I will pretend I do not enjoy.

Before I go on, might I suggest you get a glass of cool white wine (medium-sweet, if you can), and a bowl of better-quality cheese-based snacks (Roka Crispies, for example) by your elbow? I want you comfortable, relaxed, and open to new and groundbreaking ideas.

Background: From Blog To Book

I have become aware of late that it is possible to obtain a publishing contract by writing a “Weblog”. In order so to do, it is helpful if your “Weblog” (also known as “blog”), fulfils at least one of the following criteria:

1. Saucy
2. A bit cheeky, leading to loss of employment
3. Useful and informative
4. Interesting enough to lead to interviews on BBC Radio 4
5. Not about much, but well written and/or amusing.

(Please note: in some cases it has been possible to combine, for example, (1) and (3), or (2) and (4) – rare, but impressive.)

What I propose is something new. Something that will break new ground and force reappraisal of the entire blog-to-book genre.

My Idea

I propose making a book out of a blog that is about nothing at all. The book will, therefore, also be about nothing at all.

In addition to and on top of that, I suggest that this book – reflecting the content of the blog that will spawn it (i.e., my blog), will completely fail to meet any of the criteria usually required in order to qualify a blog as book-worthy.

Why My Idea Is Good

My idea is good because it is different. People of all ages, sizes, colours and creeds are fed up with well-written, interesting blogs that have become books. They are hungry for change; change they do not even know they want.

What My Blog Is About

NOT MUCH! And that is why it is great. (Also, it is not particularly interesting or well-written.)

What My Book Could Be About

Like my blog, it could be about not much. And that is why it could be a genre-subverting masterpiece. A book about writing a blog about a life in which NOT MUCH HAPPENS, including genuine behind-the-blog insights and stories about what was really happening. (Not much, as it happens, but it’s a nice “extra’ for the marketing people.)

Example Scenarios

• A plague of squirrels
• A Canadian pathologist who cuts his own hair
• Chewing-gum in my ladygarden (for the second time)
• Pimping my Micra
• Beaver(s)
• Unfeasibly large Classical cock
• A museum of Cat
• A beautician sweats in my mouth
• Some dioramas and some strange facial hair

And many more!

Why Me?

My weblog (www.non-workingmonkey.blogspot.com) is indeed, as I have hinted, about not much. Also, there is enough content there already for me to cobble something together in a month or two, meaning we could get this baby out in time for the crucial Christmas Market.

In practical terms, the fact of my non-workingness also means that I am available to meet any (or all) of you in the Top London (or New York!) Eaterie at any time to discuss my idea in further detail.

What Should The Book Be Called?

I think the book should be called “The Year That Not Much Happened.”

Film Rights

I will be happy for you to sell these as long as Clive Owen (with a brain) is cast in the role of ‘Unfeasibly Large Classical Cock”, and a stunt double is used for the episode featuring “Chewing-gum in my ladygarden (for the second time).”

I very much look forward to hearing from you and trust that you, like me, are able to see the artistic and commercial potential in this new and ground-breaking idea.

Yours faithfully

Non-workingmonkey

Day 190: I Am Greatly Cheered

Discounting two hours spent at the gym (where there is no time to think or feel anything), the Bad Mood that began the moment I woke lasted six hours. No mean feat, considering I once had one that lasted seventeen years.

Anyroad up, the black clouds started to lift following a conversation with Kathryn at Norwich Union (who said she'd give me £2,892), some scrambled eggs on dangerous black bread and a quick go on Supertramp, and finally fucked off out of it when I read all about the winner of The Insignificant Awards and laughed until my nose bled. (Mainly at myself, for going to see if I'd won anything.)*

Oh, then someone sent me this. Which is enough to cheer anyone up.




Note: Be very glad this stops there. It was six times longer, and about why blogging is indeed Insignificant, including my desperately fascinating thoughts on "why I blog". Happily, I realised it was astonishingly dull and, more importantly, a bit of blogging about blogging, which is frankly Unforgiveable.

Update some hours later ...

* Talking of awards, Tim (who seems pleasant enough despite not being able to distinguish between an otter and a monkey), has given me an award for being "funny", which is kind of him, although I fear he may be laughing AT rather than WITH. Do go and look, if only because he has "bigged up" (as they say on the streets) some good blogs as well, e.g. dearest Anna.

I like awards very much, so if anyone else would like to give me one, do feel free. The only condition is that it should involve no effort on my part, no sending of $10 to the Ohio Poetry Society, and no subscriptions to either Reader's Digest or Which? magazines.

Day 190: I Wish They Would Shut Up

I wake in my pit at 8am following a night punctuated by noisy felines, alarm clocks going off for no apparent reason, emails from the Colonies half-read and replied to in the early hours, and strange dreams containing a Pathologist and a serviced apartment in Paris with a very slow lift.

I am thick-headed. My legs ache and when I swallow, it hurts. It is raining, and the post brings nothing but bills from dentists, copies of tax returns and letters from Norwich Union containing approximately £2,500 less than they were supposed to contain.

And now they are digging up the road with one of those tools that requires ear protectors for its operator. They are doing it outside my house, and will be doing it all day. I would like them to stop, otherwise I fear I may weep.

Still, at least the cat has stopped snoring, reminding me that I must once again put out an appeal:

1. Does anyone (in the UK) want to adopt this cat?
2. If not, does anyone know the best way of getting a cat adopted?

He is old, fat and needs company. (Like me.) He's alright when he has company, but because I go away quite a lot I think he's going a Bit Mad. He is low-maintenance but makes a racket if he's been left on his own too long. Free to nicest person.

I have tried to take a photograph of him looking sweet, but the best I can do is this:


You will note that even in a photograph that is supposed to make him look sweet, he looks like a fat, mad, slightly malevolent bat.










On a more positive note, his name is Monster and he is usually asleep. Unless you are, in which case he will make an infernal racket, meaning you will not sleep much and will wake the next morning in a foul mood, hoping beyond hope that someone will adopt him.