GP by GP – Unrequited Love

GP by GP – Unrequited Love

With this new theme based system I am going to write the group themed stories under this wonderful new semi acronym.

So where would a man be if he had not loved and lost and loved again? Here mostly, but he could be in Greece too. I have never been there and care only for their food and spirits.

Let me see… this is a tough subject for such an amateur lover as myself. I have of course had women in my life and age range that I desired. They were clearly out of my reach and me being so self-conscious of my faults. I might never have shown passion to anyone or really flirted to be honest, I always end quickly in the friend zone, because I know they need someone to talk too when they are heartbroken over the “jerk” boyfriend or at one time, cheating girlfriend. Never saw her as a lesbian, but I didn’t really know her from other than high school.

Now I think more than you probably do, that there is no real story to tell here. That is where everyone is wrong about everything ever known… you jerks! I hate everything now because you made everything look cool and now it is hip to have everything. I don’t want everything anymore… you can have it… except my things. They are mine! So nuts to you and the mount you’re riding on!

I could tell a story; how a celebrity would never love me as much as I potentially could masturbate to her pictures. Or tell a heart tearing story about my fears of publicly opening up and telling who I really am. Instead… and as usual for me it is an instead where none should be, I will become abstract and push the interpretation of the theme to suit my mood at this very moment best.

Okay, here we go.

Conditions: Warm, Tired, Fed, Recently been on toilet, Long day at work, Still has cola in the fridge and a noodle cup for be’fed. If brunch is before lunch, be’fed is before bed… the ‘ is to make it sound better… I failed in that though.


Now let us step into the world of bacon. A simple mans request and the nectar of gods. Bacon has been a love in my life that has not benefitted me. This tasty treat has manipulated my mind and made me believe that I am happy when I consume it. It will turn its ugly back on me and poison my body and dull my senses. Like chocolate this gastronomical treason has me to believe that adding it to various meals will improve my likeness for new and inspiring food with that slight smoky taste of something that has burned just enough. Like real smoke it slows the mind and in plain sight it is acting like it is invisible.

The years of camouflaging itself in plain sight, I have become content with its presence and it has shown me love that I seldom find in other food sorts. It has exchanged passionate words with my tongue and slid sensually down my throat like… [Insert naughty pun here]. There has been no restrains between us. I have given this cruel mistress my heart and it is holding it hostage like a dominatrix. Never truly letting me go, my yearning for this guilty pleasure surpasses my common sense. I want more… I want it both in private and in plain sight. It has become a small obsession with me and a table without guilty pleasures seems naked and wasted potential for me.

I can’t say that I truly weep if there is none. Like a drug I can see that it is hurting me more than I care to admit and yet it never truly loves me. Dead and disdainful this taunting tenderized trifle has taken me whole. I can only throw myself at its mercy and never receive the approving smile or nod I so desperately need in this fake relationship. It never loved me… it couldn’t love me… not a person who fought so little before giving in… so vague an adversary… so deep a trance.

There is not a single person who could tell you that bacon isn’t food for thought. It is good for your head and not the body. Yet it is my body that needs all the help it can get. If it was strong enough to one day win over my head, I would maybe be another man… another being… a happier being?

I have listed various things throughout this page and yet I must insist on telling you that I am not a large man. I am definitely not skinny… but fat… no. Crafty is even a term that is over my level. That might be why people don’t recognize me as anything but a friendly soul to talk too. By losing a visual definition I lose a reference point in the grey meat market, bland… average… but with bacon I am someone… A slave… A willful slave of gastronomical punishment. A Pork Slab Demon!

Unrequited Love | An ancient tale of 2 halves of a whole

Unrequited Love | An ancient tale of 2 halves of a whole

“According to Greek mythology,
humans were originally created with four arms,four legs and a head with two faces.
Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts,
condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”

― Plato, The Symposium

Two halves of a whole

I started this article with this quote because I think it is the most beautiful ancient explanation of the amazing things love makes us do. So amazing that Zeus did not even imagine it to be likely, one would presume since it was his chosen solution. Why then is it that when we feel the rejection of that possible, yet unfortunately wrong, lid to our magic marker we feel so devastated?

For the remainder of this article I would like to take Plato’s words as truth and explore with you how this will spin a tale around ‘Unrequited Love‘.

I presume there are only a few lucky souls who have escaped the soul destroying experience of being rejected by that special someone. Lets take a step back and analyse the parts of this ‘not so magic carpet ride’.

  1. You love someone
  2. They don’t love you back
  3. You still love them

Now I am well aware that this is an overly simplistic view yet for this article it will suffice, after all I am not writing a book.

The first ingredient is the love you feel for another being.

You love someone

Right story books,  movies, poetry, music, and many other media will try to convince you THE way to fall in love is to see someone from across the railway station platform and instantly see your 4 perfectly beautiful children running before your eyes while he holds his coat around your shoulders whispering in your ear ‘I love you dearest wife of mine’.   Contrary to that, the statistics show that most people fall in love with someone that they have known for a while. People only report falling in love quickly about 1/3 to 40 percent of the time (or so says the internet). Of course, this varies from culture to culture. Falling in love happens differently between cultures but it does occur in most cultures.

The weirdest part in this is that in almost any relationship therapy book, love is described as a two way street where both partners work at a relationship. Don’t mistake it for Platonic love, unrequited love is a passionate desire to have this other person as your life partner, the other half of your whole. Socrates made a clear distinction, in Plato’s “Symposium”, where he explained the two types of love or Eros—Vulgar Eros or earthly love and Divine Eros or divine love.

I personally think unrequited love can never be this divine love that does not stems from desire. The way you love when not loved back is based on desire, a pull to a certain person, making it erotic love.

So to move on to the second part of this trilogy, the other person doesn’t love you back.

The other doesn’t love you back

In this journey I already concluded that the desiring love that is felt for another person. I would like to zeus-chasing-aegina-redintroduce the word infatuated here on purpose. I would also like to state this is tale is about love that was never answered, not a falling out of love scenario which hugely differs. This infatuation feels like love, hurts like love and convinces the afflicted it is love. When unanswered, the rejection felt is like being denied a privilege already earned. In the mind, the person loving has determined this is their other half, whether this was due to mixed signals or misinterpreted signals, or childhood innocence. There are a legion of reasons why someone gets infatuated with another being, these change over the course of a human life time. As a youngster popularity can be a big draw for infatuation, being ‘in love’ with the popular kid in class or a pop star. Later on in life, well meant friendly gestures can get misinterpreted for signs of affection, we can fall for looks, money and all the reasons that don’t speak to Plato’s 2 halves of a whole.

It has been documented that two important characteristics, kindness and intelligence, are extremely important in the process of falling in love. Attractiveness, physical or other,  is not connected to these things. These two attributes are things that people learn about someone from knowing them over time. Intelligence is important in all aspects of life, especially in love. But kindness is the strongest indicator for a successful long-term relationship.

You still love the other

Love is never more keenly felt than when it lacks what it loves, notably if it is unrequited. However, it also always has tremendous strengths to draw on, and so whether bravely, impetuously, intensely or intelligently it never ceases to seek what it loves, which it can only regard as beautiful and true. The lack of a relationship prevents the infatuated person from forming a realistic image of the other, creating an even more ideal creature that must be the one.

Unrequited love can only end when the person who loves, takes of the rosy glasses and see the other for who they are. And granted there might be cases where even then you can love someone, but it should open the eyes to see a relationship with someone who does not love you truly would be a disappointment rather than an achievement.


If one loves another, yet the subject of the affection has declared to have no love for the other, should this be called unrequited love or unrequited infatuation? From Plato’s point of view, which might surprise you, love or infatuation pretending to be love is so strong that it can have a hold of you. Break this hold if it is unhealthy, don’t read signs but let love be requited

“You see, love is energy.
The soul is a huge vast place,
and lots of it is dark,
and it’s full of energy and power,
and this can be bad,
but it can be good,
and that’s the work,
to change bad energy into good,
when we desire good things
and are attracted magnetically by them.”

One sided love is like a flower in the dark, never getting sunlight to grow and blossom. It will continue to use up all the nutrition out of the soil to never come to bloom. Love needs reciprocation to become a good energy. So pursue but know when to give up and most of all love for the right reasons.

If I were to write a book I would title it “The One Key Question: What Do You Love?” Get love right, and life will be as right as it can be too.

Theme: Unrequited Love

Theme: Unrequited Love

Graham and Max had nothing in common. Neither felt like they belonged in that room. The books smelled dusky. No rooms for the elbows. Yet both of them had business to do with the manager of the antiquary. Although the only occupants of the small shop was the two boys, it felt crowded. Mr. Lawson the shopkeeper had gone out for lunch and left his store wide open with a sign on the front door heralding his return in mere minutes. Max was a sturdy character. He was wearing a worn pair of jeans, a fresh pair of sneakers and a hoodie that looked about ready for a trip to the washer. His hair was done meticulously in even gelled spikes and in his hands he held a pair of aviator shades. Quietly Max regretted he had spat out his gum before entering the tiny shop. Across the small table, seated opposite of him, sat Graham. He was doing everything in his might to ignore the awkward silence. Graham was wearing a freshly ironed shirt, a pair of newly washed jeans and sensible footwear. His head had a downwards inclination towards the tabletop. This helped him avoid eye contact with the boy across the table. It was still awkward as nothing but a fair layer of dust occupied the table. If there ever was a magazine there, the spiders would have carried it off. Max on the other hand had his gaze directed towards the ceiling. Beneath the grime and the cobwebs was a wooded ceiling that seemed molded, but it was hard to tell. The air was thick with a foul fog, as if thirty cigars had recently been smoked in the room, but that was not the case. This was dust. Behind the desk towered a clock. From it pulsed a ‘tick’ and then a ‘tock’ slowly, but steadily.

“So, what’re you here for?,” asked Max. Graham did not reply at fist. Timidly their eyes met. Graham’s reply came quietly: “I ordered a book.” Tick. Tock. “What book?” Graham started at the question. His eyes widened and his hands panicked to find a relaxed pose. “Oh, uh, just an old history book,” Graham replied. He anticipated the next question, but did not care to elaborate. Immediately he asked: “What demands your presence here?” Max snickered and threw his head back. Graham’s gaze sought the tabletop. What did he say wrong? “You mean, what am I doing here?,” Max continued. Graham nodded: “Yes.” “I’m here ‘cus my–,” he broke off and looked straight at Graham: “You know what, you don’t care.” True enough. Graham did not care. Not really. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Graham replied in a hesitant manner. “Well, you see, my girl has this obsession with a book – an old book – and I came here to check if the old geezer’d help me get a copy.” Graham pondered for a while. He had several questions, but which should he ask first? Max shifted in his seat and was about to continue, when Graham asked: “What book?” “Hold on,” Max rummaged swiftly through his pockets and produced a small note: “Neverending Story, Michael Ende”. Max snickered: “I guess that Ende dude was the author.” “Yeah, German author,” nodded Graham. “German? She doesn’t understand German,” Max started. “Uh, there’s an English translation,” Graham added. “Oh. Good,” Max said with a nod resuming his relaxed pose. His hands tucked away at the pockets of his hoodie and his gaze fixed at the ceiling. “Do you know this author?,” asked Max. “I’ve read the book.” “You read German?” “No, well, a little, I read it in English,” Graham clarified. “Is it any good?” “It’s great. You havn’t read it?” “No,” Max snickered. “Seen the movie?,” Graham asked. “Tried once. Fell asleep. Last thing I remember is something about a horse?” “Artax,” Graham nodded under his breath. “Come again?” “Artax. That’s the name of the horse.” “I’ll take your word for it,” Max smiled.

Tick. Tock. “What’s the occasion?” “Sorry?,” remarked Max pulling himself up in his chair. “It’s a gift for your girlfriend, right?” “My girl, yes.” Graham’s brow wrinkled briefly. “What’s the occasion?” “There has to be an occasion?” Graham thought for a moment. “No, but I think there is.” Max laughed and shifted in his seat. His gaze fixed straight at Graham he asked: “What do you mean by that?” His tone was casual, but with an infinitesimal hint of aggression. But small as that hint may have been, Graham caught on right away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean–” “What did you mean then?” “It’s just–” “Just what?,” Max pressed without any attempts to conceal an angry tone. Graham’s eye were flickering. Where should he look? “I’m sorry,” Graham began: “But–” “But what?” “Will you just let me speak?,” Graham almost shouted at the other boy. “When you correct my suggestion of ‘your girlfriend’ to ‘your girl’ I get the impression that either you are not that intimate with the girl in question, or you have more than one significant girl in your lift. Possibly both. If there is more than one girl, the gifting of a significant gift could be as innocent as an attempt to woo the lovely lady, or meant to calm the waters. Either way, that’s the occasion I was asking about.” Max’s expression switched haphazardly between a quizzical, an indignant, an insulted and an uncomprehending look. He threw himself back into his relaxed pose once more: “It’s like this,” he began: “I was at this party a few weeks back where my favourite girl Jenny wasn’t there because she was sick. My girl Maria was there though and she was looking hot. Now, me and the boys were hanging out when one of them pulled out a bottle of some homebrew stuff. My mate’s father’s a spare time brewer, so this was supposed to be some hardcore stuff. Now, we were already pretty drunk and a good way into the night when he pulled out this bottle.” Graham was listening with great care and attention. “So, two of my boys were like ‘nah bro, we gonna hit the town instead’ and I was gonna join them, but then one douchebag who had been hitting on Maria all night was like ‘you guys too soft. I’ll drink ya’. And I could see that Maria was hating this guy hard so I wanted to drink him under, right?” Max paused and Graham nodded in agreement. Truth be told, Graham was stuggling to wrap his head around the decisions and choices presented, but it seemed rude to stop the guy. “Anyway, we get ready to down shots of this stuff and we flip for who goes first. Was fair enough, tails I lose, heads he won. So I lost and had to go first. But the stuff was spiked. I don’t know what the bastard put in the shit, but after three shots I was hearing colours and seeing music, if you know what I’m saying.” Graham had no idea, but nodded. “Now the other asshole was way more drunk than I was at the time so he took it harder. Passed out. I havn’t actually seen him since, but I chalk that up as a 110 percent win. Anyway, Maria was grateful that I got rid of the douche for her, so she helped me get home. Put me in a cab, and next thing I know, I wake up with her in bed the next morning.” “Did you?,” asked Graham, but his voice trailed off. It was not any of his business. “For sure. Two used rubbers in the toilet and her memory of it all sealed that record.” “What about Jenny?,” asked Graham. “What about her?” “You said you were getting the book for her.” “Yeah, I always had a soft spot for her and all of this made me realise, she’s the one I wanna be with.” Graham looked skeptical. “What?,” asked Max with slight indignation. Tick. Tock.

“It’s just this. How you party boys get so much female attention is beyond me,” started Graham. Max sized up the other boy: “Say, you’re a logical no-nonsense kind of guy, right?” “I guess some people would say so.” Uh-huh, and you try hard not to be impolite, rude and offensive. How would you go about getting a girl’s attention?” “What do you mean?” “Say you’re on the street and this hot piece comes walking by you. How do you land her?” “I don’t. That’d be imposing.” “See, that’s just it. You may call us party boys, hell, you can find any number of stereo types in any number of books you read while you’re home alone, but at least out approach has some ladies looking our way, maybe for just for a second, but even then that is a second longer than any of you unimposing jackasses ever get. And maybe they find us rude and stupid and annoying, but that moment of attention gives us a chance. If you never have a girl looking your way, your chance is zero.” Graham nodded. Seemed logical enough for him. “And the other way around?,” asked Graham. “That’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about you and me right now,” replied Max in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’re not at all that different, not as different as you think. See, we both have put some amount of attention into our looks. So, while we might not give a shit what other people think about us, or how they do, at least we know that they do and working around that’s important.” Graham nodded. It was close enough to the truth anyway. “We’re both vain,” concluded Max and nodded at a wall. On the wall next to the two boys hung an old mirror. It was angled so that when Max looked into the mirror, he saw Graham’s face and vice versa. “Two sides of the same coin. You’re the stable and safe choice, obsessing over your life never to make mistakes. You have a clean record and shy away from the big vices. The perfect suburban husband, ready to go. I do the exact opposite of that shit. Because at the end of a day, when you’ve finally found the one, or, well, a one anyway, you need to fulfill the role of friend, partner, lover, husband and possibly father to her children. And right now we both have two out of four definite roles down. I’m the friend and lover. You’re the partner and husband, ready to go. And do you wanna know the really funny thing here?” Graham looked at Max with anticipation. “Time’s a bitch. It only goes one way. In some years, I will strive to become like you. But you can never go back in time and try to become like me.” Graham sat in silence reflecting on a response, while Max continued: “But at the end of the day, you can treat the girls as nice as you want. You can keep from staring at the gym, give them all the space they want, be nice, help them, offer to help them, you can be the nicest guy in the world, but you’re not exciting to them. You’re not entertaining. You’re just good company. And then you go on the web to find other like-minded jackasses who complain they have been ‘friendzoned’, or that you are doomed to be so forever and ever.” Max sneered in distaste: “Absolutely pathetic. No one is obligated to tickle your pickles. No amount of polite, kind or sweet words can force any girl to drop it like it’s hot and give it to daddy. And no amount of genuine good will can make a girl return unrequited love!” Graham looked in the mirror and caught Max’s gaze. Tick. Tock. “At the end of the day, good guys finish last.”

A feeble voice came from the counter. Mr. Lawson had returned sometime during Max’s rant and snug inside: “You young people, you always suppose that one side in a debate is the right one, and the other is the wrong one.” His words came slowly, but steadily. Both Max and Graham looked expectingly at the old man. “Naturally,” started Graham, but he was interrupted. “No. It never follows that one is right. It’s also possible that both are right. And that both are wrong,” the old man said leaning over the counter. “But-,” protested Max. “But, what?,” interrupted the old man and continued: “There’s always two sides to any story. But the interesting ones have more than two sides.” “So, we’re both right?,” asked Max. Mr. Lawson grinned: “Who am I to tell?”

Unrequited Love | Some things aren’t meant to be.

Unrequited Love | Some things aren’t meant to be.

People say that all the time. They say it about just about anything that doesn’t happen. If you apply for a job and don’t get it, fail a test, come in last in a race – or a close second, if you get a puppy who has to be put down before it’s past its puppy-stage, if you fall in love and it’s not reciprocated.

We blame it on fate, wrong circumstances, bad chemistry with the interviewers, wrong choice of breed, bad hair day, unfair competition, cheating judges. We’ve all been told that “Maybe it wasn’t supposed to happen”. Probably several times.

But how many times have you thought “maybe it was my fault”? I didn’t run fast enough. I chose the runt of the litter because I felt sorry for it. I hadn’t revised enough for that test. I did not come prepared for the interview.

Or, in regards to love, “How can s/he love me when even I don’t love me?” It took me at least 30 years to love myself. The truth is probably closer to 38.

There was a priest who claimed that everyone loves themselves, even if it doesn’t seem that way. That gets my thoughts wandering. Cos if I haven’t loved myself, then why am I still alive? If I couldn’t care less about myself, I should have been dead a long time ago.

Is it possible to love oneself yet not? It sounds very schizophrenic – but then again, staying alive if I truly did not love myself also sounds very bizarre. Could it be that some part of me has loved myself all along, yet my conscious self has not been able to reciprocate? Does that mean I have become a more lovable person, or simply that I have become able to love? Will I ever fall out of love with myself, and if so, will both parts of me fall out of love or just the conscious one?

The more I think about it, the more confused I get. The more confused I get, the more I adhere to the idea that maybe those of us who take a long time loving ourselves, of learning to love ourselves, simply are unable to reciprocate the internal love for ourselves that we are born with? And that some people, the ones who do die too soon, have so many bad experiences and are broken so badly that their love is gone.

This I do know. When my self’s love was no longer unrequited, I stopped worrying about what other people thought of me. I stopped caring about people who didn’t care about me. It took me far too many years to reach that realisation – guess what, life’s too short to care about petty people and petty quarrels! And it’s certainly far too short to care about people who don’t love you back.


I think cats are born with that wisdom.

Ferly the Unrequited Love

Ferly the Unrequited Love

She watched him make his way towards her, it was a busy street and he did a sort of quick leaping ballet walk on the balls of his feet, clutching a small duffle bag with one arm. She had been mindlessly staring at the building across the street when he appeared from the shiny mirrored door of the Karate school. The bus was late, and she paced like a caged animal behind the boy who stood hugging the bus stop pole with his free arm. When the bus finally arrived she had no choice but to line up behind him even though she had been there first.

He was a fair haired boy of about 18, with big green eyes and a spray of freckles over the bridge of his nose. He wore grey canvas basketball sneakers with the laces only done up to the ankle, with one leg crossed over the other his white gym sock clearly visible up the pant leg of his baggy jeans. His short sleeved shirt with a little alligator emblem was faded red with small black and white stripes. He sat with his head turned to look out the front window of the bus, body facing her from the middle isle facing seat.

She was dressed in a spaghetti strap top, cut-offs and cowboy boots. It was still quite warm in California for mid October and she’d been out playing video games at the arcade around the corner. She’d grabbed one of the bus maps when she got on the bus and was fanning herself with it. She was a dark haired girl of 16, a real beauty with tanned skin and blue eyes that she surrounded with far to much eyeliner. She sat across from him in an isle facing seat fanning and staring. Studying him and trying to make heads or tails. She had stood behind him at that bus stop for only just a few seconds, but it was long enough to seen the small v of hair at the nape of his neck were his shaggy locks didn’t quite reach and she’d smelled him. She’d inhaled deeply through her nose after the first whiff, he smelled of dojo and aftershave.

They road with her staring at him and him staring out the window for their entire time together on the bus. He hadn’t made an effort to stand behind her at the bus stop so he could check her out. In fact, as far as she knew he had never noticed her. She was quite furious by the time her stop arrived and though she’d rung for her stop, she stayed on the bus.

When they arrived at the station the boy grabbed his bag and bolted off the bus just as it occurred to her that if she left the bus the driver would surely punch her bus pass again when she got back on, then she’d run out of fares before the end of the week. So she watched the boy buy a soda from a machine and drink it while he faced away from the bus. She wanted to charge after him but she had to explain to the bus driver and hope he let her stay on. It didn’t take much; she just batted her eyes and played with one of the spaghetti straps on her top. She hadn’t even gotten to the why she’d missed her stop before she felt the 30-something male bus driver coil around her little finger. When she returned to her seat, she couldn’t see “Mister Dojo Smell” any more and the bus driver was babbling something at her about being on the football team in high school. The bus started to fill up with commuters and she had to sit next to a businessman who kept “accidentally” rubbing the back of his hand on her bare upper thigh.

She was late home and consequently grounded for it. A real crapper of a day with an even crappier ending. She laid in bed that night and cursed “Mister Dojo Smell”, in-between wondering what he was doing and what his name was.

Weeks passed and she obsessed over him. The memory of his face getting blurrier and her feelings getting sharper. It was the beginning of November before her two weeks restriction was up and the day it was up, school passed very slowly. In art class the boy she sat next to smelled of “Mister Dojo Smell”’s aftershave, but he had greasy blonde hair and a face like a turnip. He was busy scribbling away with a pencil when he noticed her looking at him and blushed so red he had to asked to be excused to the restroom.

After school she went to the arcade, drank 3 sodas and changed her hair style 3 times. She went back-and-forth to the ladies room, reapplying lip-gloss after each soda and realizing her hair “just wasn’t right”. The unairconditioned arcade made her feel sweaty and pent up. Her girlfriends were discussing who would make a better Mouseketeer and the group of boys that hung out with them kept asking her if she had a big date, and if it was one of them. Finally, after the longest day in her whole life, it was time to catch the bus home.

Sweaty and over excited she arrived at the bus stop 15 minutes early in an attempt to look less like a wrung out dishtowel. She found it difficult to hold still, but she had to put her arm around bus stop pole. It was the only way to force the boy to look at her. Unfortunately it also meant she had to pretend not to hear the hoops and hollers aimed at her from the men in cars passing by.

She stared at the building across the street, carefully watching the shiny mirrored door of the Karate school. The bus arrived, no “Mister Dojo Smell”. She could not risk another grounding, so she took the bus home. She followed the same procedure everyday but still no boy. Then the Thanksgiving one-week school vacation happened, during which she spent every day she could at the arcade, walking over to the bus stop and watch for him at every scheduled stop time between 10:00 am and 4:30 pm. The last being when she had to actually catch the bus home.

Weeks passed, no “Mister Dojo Smell”. Christmas happened. New Year happened. No “Mister Dojo Smell”. She thought about him constantly, she made up whole scenarios for their lives together. She day dreamed about the nape of his neck, his eyes staring into hers, how softly he’d kiss her, how he’d make up a pet name for her and take her to fancy restaurants. His first movie role, their first house and then their first mansion. He’d be a world famous Karate action hero and she would be sent endless designer dresses to wear to each of his movie premiers. They would travel the world, he adored her and she wanted for nothing. Their love kept them together and happy until she died (first of course) and he died just a day later because he could not bear live with out her.

Then in the early spring she turned 17. Jay Olson told her she was smart as well as beautiful and she cut her “Mister Dojo Smell” time down to every other waking moment. In fact, she would normally be hugging the bus stop pole and day dreaming about decorating their first child’s nursery when the bus came, but today she was thinking about Jay asking her to the school dance. Then, when the bus pulled up and the doors opened, there was “Mister Dojo Smell”.

When he stepped off the bus he was less than a few feet away from her. Her face was all pins and needles, she could barely breath and when he looked her dead in the eyes she stopped breathing altogether. He said nothing, walked past her to the curb at the back of the bus and waiting for a space in the traffic to cross over. The bus driver was waving at her and yelling “hey miss”, as she walked off to find out where this boy had been and why he wasn’t paying attention to her. She’d miss her bus, probably get grounded, maybe even for more than two weeks, but it would be totally worth it.

She approached the boy with all the fury of a woman who’d been stood up to many times. His eyes met hers again as he turned to the sound of her stomping boots aproching him. He didn’t seem to like what he saw in her eyes and placed his duffle bag in front of him, hugging it to his chest.

The second she was toe to toe with him, all her anger turned to panic and she just stood there staring at him. No words would come out. He looked scared and ready to run. She put her hands gently on either side of his duffle bag and watched his shoulders creep up around his ears. She stared wide eyed into his eyes and opened her mouth to speak. As she did, “Mister Dojo Smell” took two steps backward off the curb and was killed instantly by a passing car.



I think I may have got a bit muddled about my evening when I typed the title.  My bad.  You never know, I may still manage to tie it all up.


I’ve had a good day.  Seriously.  I’m still a little giddy.

What happened to make my day full of giddy joy is largely irrelevant (and, sadly, did not involve the removal of any clothing).  But the fact remains that I walked out the end of it full of bubbly happiness.

So I went down the pub.  What else are you going to do when you are a little bit smiley?


At one point during the evening I was sitting at the bar, in a small cloud of contented smileyness, between two good friends.  When I’m in a bad mood, I tend to scowl at my beer and not want to engage with anyone.  But as I was in an unusually good mood, I was smiley and chatty.  But both of them were busy fucking about on their iPhones.  And both were on facebook.

I don’t get down the pub too often these days.  And when I do, I’m rarely in such a buoyant mood.  I love both of them, and I know that they love me.  But they both found the stuff posted, which they could have read at any time, was more important than engaging with me… or any of their other friends.

This is not a strange or unusual phenomenon.  MANY times I have found a conversation falter, only to notice that the other person is busy being distracted by stuff on their phone that they could be reading and replying to later.  I’m pretty damn sure that I’m not boring.  Ok, not consistently boring.  So why do people need to check Facebook when sitting in the pub?  Mid way through a fucking conversation??!!

If I was in the middle of a conversation with someone and then started doing a crossword, talking to someone else or began building a scale model of the Alamo from matchsticks, fag butts and Rizla packets, they may feel a little miffed.  And rightly so.  (Although I’d hope that they were at least a little impressed at my artsy-crafty talents).

So when did the iPhone become the ‘get out of being an incredibly rude fucktard’ card?  Just cos everyone else is being an offensive cock, doesn’t mean that you can too.

I hate iPhones (including all touchscreen shite that people use with self felt impunity, completely ignoring common manners and politeness).

I would, however, like to congratulate Apple.  Not only for their record breaking profits.  But also for creating a phone that manages to completely destroy the art of conversation.  Can anyone spell iRony?


So that must be the ‘i’ part of the title.  I guess the next bit has got to be about ‘Mead’.


Have you ever had mead?  Have you ever heard of mead?  In case you haven’t…
iMead‘Mead is an alcoholic beverage created by fermenting honey with water, and in adulterated form with various fruits, spices, grains or hops’ (thank you Wikipedia)

I describe it slightly differently.  It is ambrosia.  It is the nectar of the gods.  It is Aphrodite and Venus making sweet, sweet (metaphorical) naughtiness upon your tongue.

It’s quite nice.

My pub serves Mead, and I love them for it.  Before I left tonight, I asked for a small Mead.  The only problem with this was, it was a band night.  The policy of the establishment is that when bands are playing, all drinks will be served in plastics. No exceptions!  (The sign says so)

I much prefer to drink from a glass.  But I can suffer a pint in a plastic, as long as it is a hard plastic… Not one of those squishy ones.  (Knowing and getting on with all the staff helps with achieving this simple life goal).  However, drinking Mead is a step above simply ‘necking a pint’.

I’m not for one moment suggesting that your average Mead drinker is in any way superior to your average beer drinker.  Ok, some are.  But many are annoying and pretentious cocks.

What I am saying, is that to properly and completely enjoy a glass of mead, it has to be served in the right glass…  The key word is glass.  (The other key word is right).

For many years I have known that Brandy should be served in one of those huge bulb shaped brandy glasses.  It should be swirled and sniffed before being sipped.  The movies told me that this is so.  But I’ve never liked brandy, so I just took it for pretentious bollocks.

But now I am a believer.

If you are drinking Mead (especially if it is your first time), demand that it is served in a round wine glass.  (NEVER a straight sided glass, preferably not a ‘tulip’ wine glass.  I’ve not tried it in a brandy glass, but I REALLY want to).  Never fill your round glass more than half full.  And don’t dive straight in.  Leave it for about ten minutes without touching it.

When you can wait no longer, pick it up with gentle care.  But don’t drink.  Bring the glass slowly up to your nose and smell the aroma.  Don’t sniff.  Breathe in slowly and deeply.  Inhale…  Then recline upon the honey flavoured clouds of joy!

I know, right?  This sounds a lot of snotty arse.  It’s booze!  Neck it, get pissed!

But it really isn’t.  And there are very good reasons for every point I’ve made.

If you more than half fill the glass, there is no room for the vapour.  If the mouth of the glass is about the same size as the body of the glass, all your vapour is gonna float straight out.  If you have a glass full of vapour and ambrosia, you can spend 20 minutes just occasionally enjoying the aroma (ever done a balloon?  It’s nowhere near as intense, but the same idea).  After 20 minutes of minor head rushes, that smell idyllic…  you still get to drink it.  Sip, don’t quaff.  Revel in its elegance and beauty.  And not only cos it’s not cheap.

So, anyway.  After my good day and my irritation with iPhones…  I ordered a glass of Mead.  It was the new lass that served me.  She doesn’t know me too well yet.  As far as she is concerned I could have been one of the hordes of arseholes.  She has yet to learn that I am one of the special arseholes.

So when I asked for a round glass, on a band night, she eyed me dubiously.  Then she glanced at Sam for confirmation.  Fortunately I have known Sam for years, and she gave a subtle nod of affirmation.  So I got my Mead in a round wine glass and spent the next hour blissing out.  Which was nice, cos the bands weren’t really my cup of tea.

I will tick today in the ‘overall win’ column.


Oooh…  Does this count for the ‘Unrequited Love’ theme for the month?

Well, my love for my buds was unrequited cos they were busy seeing who’d had a bad day at work, or missed the bus home.  However, my love for the amber ambrosia was completely requited.  Indeed, it’s often requited.

Yeah.  Ok.  I’ll try harder next month.