Loverman.

Ere Lukat why don’t you write blogs anymore? What’s wrong with you? You shark faced prick. You connoisseur of the big women. You dead pan pervert. You sold out, living it up in your minimum wage paradise, with your office job, your two screens and your sticky note pad. You’re out there changing the world, printing pictures of people’s tits and deceased pets on to various accessories and driving your second hand Vauxhall Corsa through Rishton every day. Why don’t you pour pints of cider down your pants anymore? What became of the public nudity? The public fingering? The vomming in to your owns hands? The sobbing whilst beating a man with your primitive fists? Yeh well I sold out. I’m not pandering to a bunch of fucking nobodies anymore. I hit the big time. £6.19 an hour. The Pimms is on me you bunch of squares. I’m just a normal bloke now. A normal blokey bloke, a top feller, sat in my sombrero nodding along to Feeder…Who’s blander than Feeder? Plodding along to Elbow…sighing along to Snow Patrol…gassing myself on exhaust fumes along to…The Fray. Whatever. Joe Bloggs. Average Joe. Billy Joel. Uptown girl…not to mention the other hits.

That’s right sunshine; I think I’m a big man now with my £6 haircut and my reading spectacles. Looking like a knackered Gary Barlow after being forced to live in a public toilet for 5 years with no sunlight. Like all the worst features of each member of One Direction…smothered in soot and left in the bitter night. Like a hollow Olly Murrs, riddled with herpes and eroded over time. Like an overused simile in a half arsed blog with no commercial or spiritual gain. This is my slow decline, my middle age. This is my Indian summer; put me out to pasture with a hot coco and a book before bed. Let me put on my wicker slippers and sit back in my favourite armchair, clicking my fingers to Ricky Martin...hey hoo…hey…nahhh nahhh livin’ la vida locaaa…this guy can carry a tune…this guy has rhythm and I bet he has an eye for the ladies too. This is my level, pass me another herbal cigarette whilst I sway the night away…but that’s not good enough for you leeches is it? No you want me out there humiliating myself. You want me pantless, whizzing my dignity away in the gutter in the dead of night. You want to force me to ‘get out there’ in to the stinking, wretched world, dragged from my phantom of the opera-esque existence. You want me to join online dating websites don’t you, you sick scumbags? Hassling women with big, strange faces. Getting ignored by people I vaguely dislike. Women who describe themselves as fun and bubbly when really they mean dull and irritating. Hey hey alright babes how's it going AHAHAH what do you like? I like whatever you like hahah? Go on tell me what you like and I bet it’s exactly the same as what I like too. Yeh Keith Lemon isn’t he great, he’s so witty. Yeh Gangam style…although I don’t order takeaways that often. Is it good?  Nah I’m not a twisted nihilist psychopath haha I’m a reyt cool guy, a normal bloke. I’ve never consumed flowers or been bottled by a lesbian. Don’t worry about it babes. No? Aww cummon’? I’ll kill myself if you don’t go bowling with me. I will FUCKING END MY LIFE RIGHT NOW. What’s up with me eh? Cummonnn just touch it a bit. With your little finger. Blow on it with a straw. Handle my flaccid member with a teaspoon. With a velvet glove? Nah? Well fair enough. Fuck it then.

No…no that wouldn’t be enough for you would it? You want more don’t you? You want me to go on Take Me Out. Thrown before the studio lights and the sweating Northern face of Paddy McGuiness. Thrown out in front of those Jezebels, those harpies, those vulgar wenches…from places like Sunderland…and Liverpool…and Hull.

I can hear McGuiness’ voice a hideous vibration in the air. Cracking his little puns, his jokes…let the whatever see the whatever…harharhar. Come on girls clap, clap for the monkey as he comes down. Licking their lips like savages waiting for it, waiting for their chance to be disappointed. Clap clap clap. Here he comes. IT’S JOEY…FROM BURNLEY. Lowering the poor fucker down to the sound of Shaggy ‘it waznt mi…la laalalalal laallalala…it wuzznt mi’. Look at him, doing his little Jig, the jester dancing for the entertainment of the women. Dancing in his double denim…no wait…triple denim…a little denim waistcoat…no you want more…quadruple denim… a little denim undershirt…and little denim booties…Oh dear god no…you monsters…a denim cravat…no? Still not enough. You want maximum denim…ultimate humiliation…a little denim cat perched on top of my head. Veering off to both sides and doing a little dancing turn so the women can check me out. Booing me…that’s right they’re booing me...violently smashing their lights off with furious sneers on their faces...but I’m still doing my little jig, come on girls look at my personality, such a good personality isn’t it. ‘It wuznt mi.’ Paddy shakes my hand; his palm feels cold and distant. The palm of a man being paid substantially to feast on my shame. He asks the cackling women why they turned their lights off. ‘EEH HE LOOWKS LIKE HE HAS A REYT SMALL COCK PADDY.’ Hahahahhaharhrhrharh the crowd erupts with laughter. More turn their lights off, glaring at my denim clad crotch rendering it insufficient. Paddy moves on, the Geordie lass rasping away with her cigarette worn voice ‘WAY AYE MAN HE SHOULD GET HIS WEE COCK OUT LYK’. Paddy pulls my pants down, handling my member with his studio chilled fingers, trying to measure me with a child’s ruler as the women boo and hiss.

A few of the fat chicks keep their lights on. There’s still hope. What’s your talent Joey? Come on what’s your special talent?

‘Well err…I’m a writer. I write books, well novels mainly, some poetry?’

YOU WHAT LAD….ERRRRR IS HE A QUEER OR SUMAT.

‘But err I don’t know, I don’t really have any interesting talents to speak of. I’m sorry Paddy…I’m sorry…girls.’

A hot tear falls from my sodden eyes, delicately dancing down my flustered cheeks.

EEEH WELL THAT’S A BIT SHIT JOEY LAD. WHY DON’T YOU PUT ON THESE LEATHER CHAPS AND DANCE AROUND WITH THESE FIRE STICKS WHILE DWARVES TRY AND SPIT ON YOUR FEET?

 ‘Well if you insist Paddy. If you think that’s what’s best…I mean I don’t really like juggling fire…semi nude…the dwarves they look so angry…but err...if I have to? If that's what the beautiful girls would like?' 

OH PADDY HE’S DEAD BORING INT’ HE…HE’S SOOO FOOKIN’ BORING. BOOOOO BOOOO.

Come on Paddy, roll the video clip, let’s see what his friends and relatives have to say.

‘He’s very open minded. He hates all races and cultures equally. He’d be just as happy sneering at a mosque as he would a Catholic church. A very spiritual man.’

‘He’s a strong believer in women’s rights. He has no problem picking a fight with an angry bald chap or a gritty lesbian. Many times I’ve seen him battered mercilessly by spiky haired women with powerful forearms.’

‘He’s awful in bed. A selfish lover. The only man who I’ve ever seen fake an orgasm after drinking himself impotent on newsagents Vodkat.’

WELL WHAT DO YOU THINK GIRLS …NO LIKEY…NO LIGHTEY.

Booooooooo……booooooooooooooooooo…booooooo.

Go on Joey. Fuck off with your tail between your legs, clad in your supermarket denim. Just do one eh?

I’ve been feeling lately after years of swallowing prescription meds and drinking myself stupid just to feel alright. In a world where we chow down on our dead horse meat balls and check out who the latest celeb nonce is this week, maybe my head’s not so broken after all.

Yours sensually.

Lukat.