So, this sucks. I’m working for my mum. This was not the outcome I envisioned when I asked my mum to get me a job doing exactly what she does in the next five minutes with no strings attached. Writing is the worst.

Apparently I’m supposed to write about myself. Unfortunately I missed the “King Baby” seminar in rehab where you learn how to be an emotionally retarded solipsist, which I feel would be helpful here, but it was summed up to me afterwards as “Waaah! I want drugs!”. I’m also supposed to not be too rude about rehab. But it’s no fun being polite about things. So, here are some things I’m going to be rude about:

1. You. Why are you reading this shite? Why do you want to read about the embellished but still fantastically boring life of a homeless pyjama-wearing drug-addict with nothing better to do than to drift about like a stoned care-bear on a cloud of Beta Blockers and cynicism?

2. The fact that I am being paid for this in chocolate and kudos. I want drugs!

3. People on the Dark Web with names like DancingPanda who won’t sell you illegal prescription drugs unless you can work out how to buy bitcoin.

4. People who write blogs. I probably shouldn’t be too rude about them because one of them is in charge of my chocolate supply and kudos rating.

5. This blog in particular. Who writes a blog about their own children? And how am I supposed to be rude about it when I haven’t read it!? I don’t know anything about this clearly scurrilous and mind-numbingly uninteresting pseudoblog that I am wasting my time denigrating because it’s more edifying than actually reading this tosh. Oh and also, “Gatsby”?! What the hell kind of a name is Gatsby?

6. Gatsby. What a jerk. And he’s actually called Voldemort. And even he has something to say about this blog. Something about how it’s all told from the point of view of the person who’s writing it.

I mean seriously, what a nob. What kind of narcissist goes to a barbecue hosted by a friend of like what? two decades, and just swanns about eating pancakes looking like an old, bald, paedophilic pirate with terrible taste in tattoos and probably dropping crumbs in his disgusting Pastafarian-Mr-Twit-hybrid beard, with no regard whatsoever for the fact than an ex-almost-but-not-quite-girlfriend might have chosen that particular weekend to move cities and hang out with all his old friends? And then mentions people’s mothers! In his own immortal words, Your mother only goes down, Gatsby. Down where the worms sleep with the fishes like the ones you will be getting in the post and like the ones she probably fed you for dinner when you were a horrible little concoction of slugs and snails and Succubi tails, because your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries and may you rot in a country where they only eat cake.

7. The French. Too many onions. That Eiffel tower thing is too tall. Too many restrictions on people dressing up as letterboxes. Too many fancy dishes made out of garden pests with pretentious names that actually just mean things like “burnt custard” or “very fat bird paste” or “Mr Sandwich”. Eat my Pantaloons à la crème de la merde du poulet avec les oeufs benedict de grenouille de la mer.

I think I could get into writing.

Tip Bink

PS Is Gatsby really reading my blog? How hilarious… but not very surprising. It’s much funnier that he has let slip that he is. (And he has old-man TATTOOS? Oh dear…)

PPS As instructed, I haven’t edited a word… though I did say, Bink, the one thing you couldn’t be was libellous.

(And you know perfectly well that I also meant don’t split infinitives in my blog. Or call me mum. Or use plural for the singular indefinite article. Oh, this is agony… How many grammatical arguments can you pick with me in a mere five hundred words? And it’s also generally quite a good idea not to do a Ratner on your readers, cf point one. Oh, and point five. And arguably, point four.)

PPPS Apart from that, Bee, it’s great!

PPPPS Readers, when you’re considering whether to tip Bee (Alex apologises that the photograph and details are mine: I’m seeing Bee on Tuesday – she is coming to the next showing of my play, YAY! – so I will pass any funds on to her then, along with chocolate) you might want to bear in mind that her friend has already given her a fiver for inserting four words of his choosing into her post. I strongly suspect Pastafarian-Mr-Twit-hybrid (on the grounds that her friend is a CompSci, so probably doesn’t use words like solipsism).

In this, I confess, she is only following her parents’ example. Shaun’s pupils used to challenge him with an esoteric word to insert into his sermon in Chapel, preferably without the head master guessing what it was. I once earned more one evening, getting paid by guests at a dinner party to get words into a brief radio interview early the next morning, than the BBC paid me for doing it (though to be fair, that’s not difficult). And a barrister brief-boyfriend of Serena’s paid me £100 for getting his favourite Star Wars quote into any media broadcast before he could get it into a court speech. (In fact my old friend Peter Bazelgette – now Sir Peter – offered me a tenner in the Green Room to insert a word into my upcoming scathing attack on his programme Big Brother on Sky TV... but it was seriously obscure, I didn’t think to write it down and as soon as I gone into the studio I forgot what it was.)

So blame the parents. It’s usually their fault.