The Exceptionally Weird World of Ben Broughton

Look, we're all a bit weird in our special ways. What seems the daily average to you may seem bizarre to the next person. Me, myself; I get extremely attached to inanimate objects, I have a tendency for hoarding certain things of no value plus I have certain quirks ingrained into me.

So here I'm going to offer you some insight into the life I live and all the 'norms' to me, that you may or may not know.

Hoarding #1; Haribo

An Un-'Bo-leavable Collection

Amongst those in the know, this is my most infamous hoarding 'project'. This is such a notorious part of my character that other people are willingly involved in this deluded action! Close friends and family members will constantly return from holidays aboard with bags of 'Bo for me. And I love them for it.

As for how this particular hoarding came about I'm not entirely sure. I've always been a fan of Harry Bo [that's how I pronounce it, like he's an actual fucking person], it's the perfect post-extra-long-cigarette-eating-snack. But the catalyst for me starting this collection is completely lost on everyone including myself. Kids, don't do drugs!

I'm not really fully aware as too how long this particular 'obsession' has been doing on either, what I'd guess anywhere between three to five years. People often ask me what I'm actually going to do with empty packaging of Haribo bags, and I'm not sure about that either.

But while my memory is fogging over the inception of this 'obsession', I have an extremely good grasp of the bags I've collected. I have loads, the picture featured is about 70% of what I have. There are some doubles, due to me changing the way I open the bags; I went from opening them like a normal person to cutting them open from the back with scissors to make sure the front stays intact [dedication]. But I can usually tell within an instant if I have a particular bag or not. In the world of collecting bags of 'Bo, that's like the best skill to have.

So to summarise; I don't know why I started this, I don't know when I started this and I don't know how it'll end. Upon discovering this revelation, I'm slightly unnerved by my actions and I'd rather not talk about it anymore because if I delve deeper I don't know what underlying causality is actually taking place here and I'd rather not find out.

Object of Affection #1; Cup & Spoon

"Mmm... brown stained Simpsons mug"

If I've lived with you in the past or you've ever come to my house for a cuppa, you'll know about this; but I rarely wash my cup and spoon. This pairing is my exclusive tea drinking equipment. Nobody else uses it [no surprise there].

I know from numerous reactions that most people find this “disgusting”. In my old job, I had the exact same set up; big Simpsons mug that I never washed, so if I had a holiday/time-off, staff members would bleach my cup in my absence [the bastards!].

Once again, I'm not sure how this started. I'm never writing an autobiography, as I seem to have little memory of my own fucking life, apparently. This 'quirk' has been going on for as long as I can remember though.

Eventually the pairing does get washed, if I was to hazard a guess; I'd say three or four times a year, or whenever the mood takes me. What's weird is I'm generally quite a neat freak, I won't use cutlery or crockery that isn't perfectly immaculate, but when it comes to my cup and spoon, I don't have any hang-ups what so ever.

In my opinion, tea tastes really good from this filthy mug and on this rare occasions it's clean, tea lacks something. Maybe it's all in my head, or maybe I'm the only person in England drinking tea properly.

Quirk #1; The Ring-pull Turn

This reminds me to buy more beer.

I don't have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but this trait is as close to OCD as I get. I'm quite found of my canned beverages, I drink from four to twelve a night depending on my mood. But as soon as I crack open that sweet amber nectar and the head squirts out of the hole like a successful “pull-out”, I'll always turn the ring-pull.

I know exactly where and why this quirk was birthed [surprised myself knowing this, to be honest]. In my younger adolescent days when I used to have bottle tops tied to the laces in my trainers; I spent the majority of my free time with my friends in a caravan getting high and drinking beers like gypsies. In that situation it soon became important to lay claim to what was yours; lighter, tobacco, beer. This is where I came up with the ring-pull turn. It followed into later life in university dorms and student houses, but now it's still with me, even as I drink alone, every night, crying at what my life as become. Woe is drunken me.

So there we have it, three things that I thought were normal, but after thinking about them for this blog post, I'm really starting to think I need to seriously re-evaluate my life.

Me Pour Grasps Off Da Inglish Langwich

Although I may come across as more intelligent than you, in my extremely small circle of friends the way I speak and my turns of phrase are often under constant ridicule. But then again I'm a white male with a fully functioning brain, so they have to pick on me for something.

Obviously most of what I say incorrectly is due to my up-bringing in the small Nottinghamshire town I was born and raised in. And due to my friends being lucky enough to fall out of their mother's vaginas in other parts of the country then hadn't encountered such dialogue until I was introduced into their [then miserable – I'm assuming] lives.

Like most things in life; my escalating problems with alcohol, my hatred of children and my uncontrollable temper... my poor grasp of the English language falls squarely on my mother. Being the voice that I've listened to for the majority of my life, I've picked up all her bad linguistic habits.

Listening to myself, I find that there's a trend of amalgamating two or three words into one simple sound or completely dropping words from a sentence. Clearly now I've come to learn of what I'm doing wrong, I should try to change the way I speak to make myself more understandable... but I'm set in my ways.

Things I Say Wrong;

“I'm gu'in t'shop” - I am going to the shop.

This is the closest thing I've got to a catchphrase amongst my friends [that doesn't involve weed, beer or swearing]. And I'm constantly mocked for the t' – Michael McIntyre had a whole stand-up routine about how Northerners say t' instead of 'the' – it was his usually brand of sub-par comedy. But I've pushed this further by incorporating two words into a single letter; brilliance and time saving, while being incomprehensible to the untrained ear.

“Owt” - Anything.

Fuck knows where this comes from. But it usually follows the last one; “I'm gu'in t'shop, do you want owt?”. This cleverly compresses a three syllable word down into one.

“Or'ate” - Alright.

A common greeting in Sutton-in-Ashfield, often said; “Yu or'ate, mate?” because of the intricate rhyming pattern it expresses.

“Noun'a-gen” - Now and again.

“Tour'da'pens” - It all depends.

While the first three are often heard around my own town, I'm confidence these last two are exclusives from my dear mother. It was only in the last few years that I realised I was saying these so wrong. It may sound stupid, but it's as if I really didn't know what I was saying. Yeah, it's fucked.

“Me” - My.

Yes, that's right, in my old town even the simplest two letter word can be halted into a similar word that already exists and said in it's place. If that doesn't boggle the mind, I don't know what will. 

Some of me Sutton folk gu'in t'shop

 

Or'ate, noun'a-gen, I don't know how to end these blogs, tour'da'pens what I'm doing that day, but I gotta get off as me mum's got me gu'in t'shop.

Leave a comment if you want owt pickin' up.

Advice to Aspiring Battle Rappers [Part 2]

So this began with Advice for Aspiring Battle Rappers – although it's slightly began to change into me cataloguing my experiences of attempting to secure myself a rap battle. This is Part 2 of that never-ending saga.

So what do you do after you've penned three rounds of bars that you've finally realised you'll never get to use against anyone else?

It's obvious … you post them on a battle rap forum for your own kind [battle rap geeks] to judge, in the hope to seek admiration. You hit 'post', the thread comes up, you get a bit nervous; “Wait... will they read it how it's supposed to be performed?”... no probably not. Well done, you've opened yourself up to a possible barrage of insults from people you don't know! This is the internet, you twat! In which people hide behind alias so they can slag you off to their heart's content!

You sit. You wait. You repeatedly hit refresh. “How come 'X', 'Y' and 'Z', have viewed the thread and not left a comment... can't they see my genius?” You ask yourself. You sit a little longer. You wait a little longer. Eventually you have to sleep, staring at a computer screen for ten hours straight can take it's toll on anyone.

It's hard to push the thought of it out of your head, you've busted your metaphorical balls on the these metaphors, and nobody is willing to acknowledge that. BALLS!

Finally you see there's been a couple of responses to your post. With a shaking hand you move the cursor over the the thread and click. As the page loads you're filled with dread and excitement. You scroll down with your heart in your throat like you're dining at Hannibal's house [punchlines for days]. You read the replies... they're favourable. Some constructive criticism but the majority are supportive. Even a Don't Flop battler you like quotes a line and says it's a “fantastic bar” [shout out to Shuffle-T].

Real Screen Print... No Photoshop

You should be happy, people appreciate what you've written but now there's a nagging in the back of your head; “if only that cunt had've turned up!” It becomes infuriating but what can you do?

Skip ahead awhile and after the dust settles, you think; “fuck it, may as well give it another go”. It's a little easier the second time around, although you never got that battle you've kind of got your foot in door like over-pushy Jehovah Witnesses [punchlines for weeks]. So you go about setting up another battle.

And you get one. And your opponent has battled a couple of times before, even had a try-out for Don't Flop [the UK's #1 Rap Battle League]. This is a massive advantage to you, he's battled before you have plenty of material to study and plenty of angles to use, while he's battling you; a nobody. Plus this guy wants to make a name for himself in battle rap, so he's bound to turn up.

So boom; you get down to writing again. And luckily for you your opponent is quite lanky and he isn't the best looking chap in the world, so there's plenty to say on that matter;

Is it me or; has Tim Westwood's orphaned lad - started talking black,
as a performance act - to plead towards his awful dad
Or maybe; Steven Hawkins has - finally contort his back, [...and...]
by a BLACK-burn-HOLE; been transported back and taught to rap

Or is this; a zombie from 28 Days Later's supporting cast?
Or … has someone stretched Gollum on a torture-rack?
No it's a Morbid twat … that's only alive because his parents adored the fact;
his umbilical cord 'wun't' snap in their abortion pact

Doubt settles in though. You start to realise no matter how strong your pen game you still have to perform this material better than your counter-part, he's had plenty of practice. You write a couple of personal schemes that you think will give you the crowd reaction you need and then you concentrate on your performance.

Eventually you get it down. There's a confidence about you that wasn't there the first time around. All those positive comments on the forum have got you a little gassed up.

Then you get a Facebook message.

Your opponent has pulled out due to some legal trouble. It's frustrating but not out of character for the bloke, you've been doing your research, you know he's a bit of a wrong 'un. While this totally deflates you, you cast your eye back over your bars and probably count your blessings because;

In my eyes; shouting about a battler's loved ones until ya lung's collapse is fucking wack
Cos we came to see if our punches match - not turn this into a punching match

Cos I don't need to call your baby mum; a slut or slag, so someone braps

Or negatively mention your son in raps, cos I'm sure he's sweeter than a pussy cat

And I bet that child loves you... but do you really love the brat?
Cos being a father to a budding chap means more than getting a humongous tat'

Cos I heard you got involved in a shoving match,
and some cunt got slapped, so it escalated into thumps and jabs,

and you got put on tag, [was facing jail] but luckily in fact; it never come to that,

But if it did; picture yourself serving a sentence as tons of months go pass
As you miss your son's first sentence; “Mum, when is Daddy coming back?”
Then question; Is that really how someone with a son should act?

… probably would have got you a stern punch in the face and a couple of kicks would have had you sprawled out of the floor like unfurling a rug [punchlines for months].

But wait... because it's fucking happened again. Your one man mission to be a purist and write only for the person in front of you has bit you on the arse like a kinky prostitute [punchlines for years]. So you've got three rounds of angles you can't use on anyone else, did you not learn your lesson the first time around?

Another battle is arranged. The emcee hosting the event's mate will step up to battle you, he's going to tag along to the event anyway, so this time you know he'll definitely be in attendance.

So back to square one. Research. Write. Practice.

You're getting pretty good as these aspects. But the doubt in your head is performing in front of people. This time you take heed from past experiences and throw in a couple of schemes relating to TV shows you're obsessed with so even if this guy pulls out – which he definitely not do – you have something you can reuse.

It's less than a week from your battle, you've got everything set. You're not as confident with this material as you were for the other battle, but fuck it, this new chap is borderline shit so it shouldn't be too hard to beat him.

Then you get another Facebook message.

You're new opponent has pulled out – what the fuck is this Groundhog Day? Fuck sake!

It's at this moment it begins to settle in... maybe this battle rap t'ing isn't really for you.

End of Part 2.

#UnfinishedBusiness; Ben’s Big Day Out

#UnfinishedBusiness is a collection of Blog posts from 2013 that I never quite completed or totally forgot about.

Synopsis:

It was the summertime and it was a warm day, so after a few too many days trapped in my own home I decided to venture out into the real world and then attempted to write about it.

Now, I’m a notorious shut-in. I’m most at home when I’m … at home, basically. Venturing into the outside is oxymoronic in my drug-addled mind [into/outside – stick with me people]. But after spending the majority of my spare time attached to my rickety chair has began to take it’s toll on my productiveness, as in it’s completely obliterated it, so in an effect to not go completely stir crazy I decided to leave my home and do something.

Now, I wasn’t going to do anything totally outside my comfort zone. No! That’d be way too much for me to handle. This was simply a practice run.

Before I left on my adventure, I had to make sure I had the suitable equipment; a sandwich, packet of crisps, books, sunglasses, recreational drugs and obviously a couple of beers. I also had plenty of tissue, for HAYFEVER – before your minds begin to conger up any ill thoughts of masturbation. Obviously I had already attempted to halt any effects of that disgusting pollen that fills the atmosphere around this time that renders the majority of hayfever suffers absolutely useless, with tablets and nasal spray, which later turned out to be as effective as homeopathic medicine. But either way, I had my bag packed and I was on my way.

My destination was a familiar one; Markeaton Park. I don’t think I’ve been since my frolicking years as a student, even then I wasn’t keen on the place but it beat sitting in lectures or studying … all that would have gotten me would be a better degree … a better job … and a better life… but who needs that when the sun’s out and you’ve got a Frisbee?

Before locating my spot I stumbled upon what could be described as a damsel in distress, or what could also be described as a mother struggling to push a pram up a steep, yet small hill. Seeing as I was in a joyful mood, I offered my assistance. Although it was slightly upsetting that we didn’t get to push the pram down the other side. Apparently harming children isn’t a hobby each and everyone of us shares, who’d have known? 

#SunshineSelfie

 

I made my way onto the park and secured myself one of those fishing dock things by the water to sit on. I was able to relax in the sun far enough away from anyone else so that I could enjoy myself. I then sat back, relaxed and listened to a couple of podcasts – with my earphones in of course, just because my phone is perfectly capable of producing audio for others to hear, doesn’t mean they should have to [take note, kids].

And that's as far as I got. I can't remember anything really exciting happening. Some baby swans got a little too close for comfort and then a random dog started barking at them, that seriously messed with my buzz. I saw a massive dragonfly. And after too many beers I had to use the communal toilets. Never fun. And that's all I can remember. 

Baby Swan fucking up my buzz.

 

Amsterdamned; The Feature Length Blog

So I did it, I went to Amsterdam.

“What for five fucking months? Did you get locked up – what did you do THIS TIME Benjamin?” is probably what you're billowing out of your mouth right now, with specks of saliva gathering on the screen [which by the way; does not class as cleaning it].

No, everything flight wise went to plan and I returned home after the weekend away.

“But where's the follow up been, you cunt? I've been sat here five fucking months constantly refreshing this webpage, waiting to find out what's happened!” is now what you're more than likely spouting, as the collection of spit heavily grows on your monitor and begins to trickle down, collecting at the bottom, then dripping onto that napkin from Costa on your desk that you were saving for 'personal time'.

But let's move away from that shit and get into what you came for;

Amster-FUCKING-dam!

Let's get the most important stuff out of the way first, fuck the whores and weed, let's talk burgers!

Amsterdam may be globally known for the place to go for the world's best prostitutes and/or marijuana strains, but it doesn't pain me slightly - as the whore-mongering stoner to say; it's burger's surpass both of them, easily. Because I went to Amsterdam thinking there's a possibility I'd have an orgasm in someone's mouth, but instead I had one in mine [no homo] at Burger Zaken!

If we move away from the puerile factor for two seconds [sorry readers, I know you love your filth] Amsterdam is famed for it's architecture too. All the buildings have an extremely narrow width, but stretch back to make space. This is true in Burger Zaken too; so the chefs are right in front of you the whole time, totally surrounded by customers. So you get to see your burger made to your specifications while getting to hear all those snarky work comments. The guy on the salad was a fucking gem, I was inches away from him bitching about the way the lettuce had been cut. But that's more of the reasons I love the place, they actually gave a shit.

We visited Burger Zaken twice that weekend. The first was kinda by accident, we needed to eat and it was a burger shop, so we went in and basked in it's glory. Then Saturday, after going out for steak at 10pm, then hitting the pubs/coffee shops, we returned to Burger Zaken around midnight for a goodbye burger. I'd like to say the greatest thing was the fact that the guys remembered us and asked how we were doing – not a surprise you may think for a customers that were only in a day before, but this was Easter weekend, Amsterdam was full of tourists and their footfall always seemed maxed out on the many times we walked passed [while lost/trying to find our bearings]. But for me the greatest thing was waiting for my burger and basking in the banter of one the employees and a foreign female customer;
“So how do you like Amsterdam?”
“It's great, it's soooo free here!”
“What do you mean free? You still have to pay for things... Oh, you mean 'free' because of the weed and the sex. Do you not have sex in Norway?”
“No.”
“Then how are you here?”

I'd stagger to Amsterdam for another one of those burgers. Honestly, I'd even empower the myths of Jesus to walk across water, while kicking sharks in the face, barefoot, for one more bite of their super succulent burgers.

So if/when you go to Amsterdam please visit Burger Zaken, tell them Ben Broughton sent you, they have no fucking clue who I am, but if enough of you do it maybe I'll get a free burger next time I go!

But let's forget burgers for a the meanwhile cos you and I know you're only here for the sordid details.

Prostitutes! After my first visit, which totally shocked me and left me all bashful like the proper English gentleman I was [and still am], my second visit to the Red Light District was mild. I knew what to expect. I obviously had no need to take advantage of the products [women] on offer because for a male of my handsome attributes it'd be a crime against natural selections for me to pay for sex, but it's fine for me to look!

Seeing as it was Easter weekend and the streets were flooded with tourists, the farmers had brought out their best cattle out [that was a metaphor by the way, sadly there was no cattle market]. Honestly some of these ladies were so beautiful it made your dick tingle, until you think about the abuse they must have suffered to get to this point - then your penis shrivels back in on itself [told you I was an English gentleman].

But what I found fascinating what all the time I spent in the RLD [it was right by our apartment, we had to walk down it to get anywhere, especially when we wanted to see boobies] I only ever saw one person go to 'use the facilities on offer' even then he was being egged on by his mates so it seemed like a dare. Which to be fair is the best dare ever; “So is no-one in our group going to fuck a prostitute? If you dare me, I'll do it … but as a reward for the dare you guys have got to pay for it!” Oh, when I said 'use the facilities on offer' I meant 'fuck a whore', I didn't mean he shat/pissed on her... but maybe he did, it is Amsterdam after all.

Weed! And the decade long love affair with Mary Jane that's ruined countless relationships, soured my aspirations and nulled my social skills … but fuck it, as I was in her home town I had to indulge in my mistress's temptations.

Off the bat, I've got to say; whomever decided to have the marijuana capital of the world in a city with so many canals, deserves every joint smoked in Amsterdam's history, past and future, put out on his face for eternity. Because it's a fucking death trap.

On our first night we came up with a plan; coffee shop then bar, then repeat. Which is a bloody fantastic plan due it's simplicity, yet the roadblocks were thrown in our faces by the bulging populous of Amsterdam at the time; everywhere was packed!

We still stuck to our plan, but speaking for myself; I soon turned into a meandering zombie; lurching from place to place in hopes of cannabis or alcohol. At one point, in one of our seemingly never ending treks I was so high I think I reached what Buddhist's call enlightenment. I was in a dream state, still walking, yet at one with everyone and everything around me. I was floating above humanity, I was a higher-being, I was untouchable... that all came crashing down when another tourist slightly brushed passed me and almost sent me toppling into a filthy canal.

Now a drawback to being a bunch of proper English gentlemen, is the fact that each coffee shop we entered we thought it was fitting to buy some more weed, despite the groom-to-be telling us to we didn't have to. But what kind of person turns up to an establishment and uses a competitors product? A bastard that's who and English gentleman aren't bastards! This eventually left us with numerous bags of weed at the end of our last night and despite our best efforts to get our monies worth and smoke the lot, we failed.

Now here's the predicament... in that super-stoned mindset you start to think; “I could easily get this back to England... somehow! I bet everyone does it!” You begin to conger up plans... the best being just putting it in your pocket... yeah it sounds fucking ridiculous now, but in my mindset at the time it was genius, plus you haven't seen my “Oh... I forgot that was in there” face!

Eventually you sober up slightly and realise it's probably not worth the risk. Then at the airport, after they check your passport, you stupidly slide it back into your pocket and walk through the metal detector, setting it off. Now some G4S dude starts to frisk you. “I think it was the chip in my passport” you tell him, hoping it stops the borderline sexual assault taking place, sadly it doesn't. “Ha, you have some coins in your pocket too”, he says, with you half expecting to follow up with correct amount; “... three Euros, fifty-two cents”, seeing as his hands wonder all over your body like he's a teenage virgin and you're some passed-out slag at a party. He eventually gives you the all clear. Then you realise it's definitely not worth the risk.

… or is that just me?

Plus they had a fucking sniffer dog when we landed back in the UK!

Bastards!

Amsterdamned; The Prelude

After almost a decade I'm returning to what 'my people' claim as our 'Mecca'; Amsterdam.

By 'my people' I'm obviously referring to stoners and not sexually-deprived-perverts [haven't fallen into that category for ages – there's a smug look on my face as I write this]. I'm less Red Light District more Red Eyed District.

It's less than a week now and the excitement is starting to kick in as I haven't had what I'd class as a holiday since my first trip to 'Dam at the tender age of 18. It's hard to get away when you're caught up in a cycle of bills, shitty wage and crippling alcoholism, but luckily [as with most big events in my life, it's been planned out for me].

As a rapidly advance towards middle-age prematurely, I find less and less things I want to leave my home for [work, food, medium-large house fires], let alone my city [family weddings/funerals] and in turn; let alone my country [rape charge/pregnant girlfriend]. But it's a fucking stag-do in Amsterdam! That's harder to turn down than a... fucking stag-do in Amsterdam [sorry nothing else compares]!

I've only ever been on one stag-do before due to my antisocial attributes and obvious fact that the majority of my friends resemble Sloth from The Goonies [no offence guys, we flock together after all]. On that stag-do I was slightly out of step with the gentlemen present due to my selfish attributes of not visiting my home town and childhood friends. It's hard to re-carve out that same wise-cracking character you spent all those adolescent years building in the space of a weekend, especially with a whole new bunch of faces that have already implanted their place into your former group in your six year absence.

But this time it'll be different as we're rolling with just a four man team; me, [my BFAM;] French, [the Stag;] Chilli and [the random;] Chilli's brother-in-law [aka the guy we accidentally leave behind due to running up a large tab at a coffee shop]. Four [/eventually three] is workable amount of people, less opinions and easier to come to a decision, especially because I know how to manipulate them.

I understand that the Red Light District is a stag-do hotspot, but I think we'll be giving it a miss. AS WE'RE ALL IN VERY LOVING, STABLE RELATIONSHIPS [hopefully that sentence excuses me from buying a round for the boys]. Plus I entered the Right Light District on my last visit; it was surreal, scummy and rife with STI's – it's kind of the embodiment of me if I was an area in Amsterdam. And nothing quite prepares you for seeing scantly clad women dancing in windows. I found it quite fearful, as if some manikins had suddenly come alive and wanted to repopulate the Earth with their half-human bastard offspring. Although that could stem from a childhood fear due to a shop-window model toppling over onto me in a provocative manner. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but prostitution should stick to the classic methods; cards in public telephone boxes, names and numbers penned in public toilets and not-so-sly adverts on craigslist.

But if we're not going to bang Eastern European whores and them get forced out of more money by their pimps, what are we going to do?

… get high... obviously!

But I don't want to be one of those guys that only goes to Amsterdam to just smoke weed because the fact is you could shop around at home and spend the weekend in your house getting high on different strains for half the price of a trip to 'Dam. We need to at least do something cultural while we're stoned.

I haven't run these ideas pass the boys yet but I think I'm on to some winners;

Play 'Hide & Seek' in the Anne Frank museum.

Go to the Sex Museum and erect my own monument [get it; erect my own monument].

OK, so I didn't as many ideas as I initially thought. I was tempted by a visit to the Torture Museum, but I already deal with the public on the day to day basis and there's no rack or body manipulating device more torturous than that, so I'd probably get bored.

Be sure to check back for the following Blog in which I desperately try to piece together half-remember memories from my trip and write them into a mediocre post.

Poorly Timed Xmas Blog

Blogs are like buses, you wait ages for one then two come at once plus they're both filled with misery. 

This is something I was writing before Christmas, but never got around to finishing due to it being Christmas...

Christmas shopping ... it’s a burden we all share [like Chlamydia], but if you’re yet to run the yearly gauntlet of frenzied, consumer driven zombies clambering over each other to buy material possessions that are meant to define your love/respect/admiration for a person you share your miserable life with; “I feel bad for you, son, I got 99 problems but ‘buying-shit-for-people-I’m-supposed-to-care-about-for-Xmas’ ain’t one!”*

“Hit me!”*

I’m not much of a man’s man; my unintentionally hairless chest and my physique; similar to that of a 15 year old… hermaphrodite… would prove that! But I easily earn some hairs on my balls for extreme levels of hatred I have towards shopping. Shopping is like eating out an arse; I don’t like it, I can’t do it right and the thought of doing it again makes me sick. But this year I actually made an effort. [Add sentence here to prepare reader for long-winded and unnecessary back-story].

As I live away from my [shitty] hometown, my two younger sisters used to take on the duty of buying gifts for family members and adding my name to cards/presents, then they’d hit me up for the cash I owed them later down the line. They don’t do this anymore, probably because they have their own lives and enough money to buy things separately… or maybe they’re just cunts. On top of that; I’m a terrible gift-giver, I don’t know what people like, but those are my short comings of being so self involved and if my family love me, they’ll learn to get over it.

This year was different. My mum had scheduled to visit me [with less than a week’s notice] to drop off my Christmas presents. This basically set off a fuse of the time period in which I’d see a family member before Christmas – without doing it off my own back! So in the few days before she arrived I spent what seemed like two lifetimes going in and out of shops trying to find my family [mother, her husband, two younger sisters and younger brother] gifts – I think it actually turned out to be three hours and I went to a restaurant in that time too.

I also had to buy something for my mother as I hadn’t got her anything for her birthday [yes I’m a terrible son… doomed with two terrible sisters that don’t seem to give a fuck about adding my name to a card anymore]. Worst of all; I had to buy something for my brother. Now you may be reading this thinking that should be easy enough, brotherly love and all that… but that’s bollocks. As much as I love that uber-computer-game-playing son-of-a-bitch, we’re very different people; I’m the handsome, wise-cracking, ladies man, toast of the town, intoxicant binging reprobate, everyone’s favourite yet to mature man-child, he’s the… weird brother of ‘that dude’. So Jack, if you’re reading this; it’s going to be Game vouchers again, mate, sorry. [Note: Still haven’t actually bought them]

Obviously I have a life outside the family I only see a handful of times a year, the main part of which is the lovely lady I trapped into a relationship and she stuck around [Stockholm syndrome, bitches!]. Now this is slightly easier, as I see this wonderful woman daily, so buying for her doesn’t present such a task. What she likes, her hobbies/interests should be embedded in my brain. But if I chose wrong, the repercussions are much greater, it’s not as if I get a wrong present for a family member they’ll stop sleeping with me – they can’t, we’re from Sutton, they make you do it!

I was struggling on a ‘big present’, I’d got a couple of bits and pieces [cheap, random shit] but luckily she knows me too well so she pointed me in the right direction by suggesting a film camera. A film camera is not a video recorder by the way, I recently learned that, about a sentence after she proposed it [Yes, I’m that stupid]. I know what you’re thinking; “but digital cameras are so much better, no film, no paying for having your photos developed… blah blah blah.” But let’s please not dwell on my younger girlfriend’s attraction towards the out-dated relics. I’d like to add I’m such an idiot that the pure suggestion was not enough to for me to go about finding one myself, I had to be aided with a direct link online to the one she wanted. Yet I still bought another one out of spite.

There are some gifts I haven’t purchased yet, the main ones being for my two comrades in smoking, drinking, joking, thinking and intense games on Worms; whom I constitute as my family away from family [although we don’t sleep with each other]. I’m almost sure on what I’m getting one of them. The other one’s a Sikh, so he has no right celebrating Christmas really [said the devout Atheist] and I know what to get him, but a punching bag with the prophet [censored]’s face on it, is hard to find seeing as the EDL doesn’t have an eBay account.

All this Christmas shopping has rekindled a little obsession I had last year with Amazon [website, not rainforest]. I know buying stuff online isn’t a big deal to most people, but as an out-dated relic I’ve never really done it. The main reason is due to my vast amount of [what some would call; illegal] downloading by PC’s have constantly been hit with viruses or malware, this has always made me cautious towards online shopping in case some computer nerd [Jack!] steals my bank account details. But now I just do it on my phone, like most ‘look-at-me-I’m-tech-savvy’ mindless drones inhabiting each others’ lives. I fucking love Amazon it’s like window shopping form the comfort of your own toilet seat, plus you can get anything on there, I recently bought a novelty toilet seat [it’s strange how my mind works].

[This Blog stops here because I didn't finish it]

*that was an adaptation and reference to Jay-Z; 99 Problems from The Black Album [Roc-a-Fella / Def Jam]. 2004.

#DrinkingSeason: Ben's Booze Banter

Bonjour cunts, as many of you may know from personal experiences with me I’m quite an avid borderline alcoholic.

If you can’t ever remember seeing me so drunk I made a complete twat of myself and all those around me, you need to seek medical advice because clearly you’re suffering from major blackouts or memory loss.

Anyway, recently I’ve been slightly worried about my colossal intake of alcohol. I don’t know if I’m simply being a bit of a hypochondriac or if in fact this is an actual, legitimate, reasoning from my subconscious.

You see, I drink A LOT. That’s not some kind of braggadocios claim, like; “I drink more than you” [although I do], it’s a stone cold fact [I could also out drink Steve Austin, stone cold fact #2]. For as long as I can remember I’ve drank almost everyday [of the week, not the entire 24 hours]. I like to think it started when I came* to University, but delving into my corrupted memory bank of before I departed to Derby, I still used to spend most nights drinking with friends in my hometown. Back then it was all there was to do in our small shitty town, but now I’m a proper grown up, paying council tax and whole lot, surely I should have moved on from this ‘habit’ by now?

So why do I drink? I don’t have a definitive answer, I think it’s a combination of factors, the first being habit.

You see I like routine, I’m a simple, yet boring individual and I like to know where I stand day to day. I like being in my comfort zone; at home with alcohol… and sometimes friends. Anything away from that and elements are out of my control and I don’t like having to give up complete dominance of my surroundings, it makes me feel weak. Yet, if everyday passes with no massive alterations between one and the next, I feel content in life. Just writing this makes me pity my own existence, especially when you take into account how fleeting life is. Maybe I’ve lost my drive, ambition and self-belief that I’m capable of doing anything else with my life. That moves us swiftly on to my second reason of why I drink…

Escapism. Alcohol like many other wonderful drugs, helps ease off reality. And let’s face it; reality, much like reality TV, is fucking awful. If you think reality is anything but awful you’re either; an optimist that’s yet to have life crush that hope out of you or you’re a botched lobotomy patient. On the rare occasions I don’t drink [due to the fact I can’t afford to] and I go to bed sober, my inner voice begins to role off that long list of problems in my life; debt, health, future, bills, rent, the disgusting human being I’ve become. That begins the never ending spiral of self-hate which culminates in me sitting up until the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep, making empty promises to myself about how I’m going to change. Those promises never happen. Then the next time this happens the intensity of my self-loathing escalates to astronomical levels. Alcohol amends this, with enough in my system that little inner voice has nothing to chime in about, it blocks out that nagging talk in the back of head and helps me relax and be happy, without the constant fears of how my life is mapping out.

Boredom. I get bored extremely quickly. I get bored with people, bored with tasks, bored with entertainment, right now as I write this I’m itching to get out my seat and do something else, because quite frankly I’m bored of writing at this precise minute [but you can tell that from the lack of jokes]. Yet, the only reason I’m writing is because I’m bored of everything else there is to do in my flat… fucking explain that one! Alcohol doesn’t totally cure boredom. It’s not like I sit in a dark room, swigging SoCo from the bottle congratulating myself on how so not-bored I am. Alcohol just makes things less boring; episodes of QI on Dave I’ve seen a million times before, the latest shit comedy film Hollywood has churned out, listening to my friend’s relationship problems… You get the picture, all the mundane shit that we come across daily. You see, while I like to think of myself as a boring individual [I have two topics of conversation], I detest being bored, my mind thrives on constant information. Alcohol subsides that need of stimulating entertainment.

So, am I an alcoholic?

I’m not capable of self-diagnosing, really. The government suggests having at least two dry days a week and if you’re able to do this you’re probably not addicted to alcohol, I tried my hand at it and was successful [for one week, this is only the second]. But the pure fact that they suggest only two dry days was slightly shocking to me, which made me think on the grander scale that I’m probably not alone in how much I actually drink.

Yet I do think I have an addictive personality; smoking, TV, tea, chicken wings, I’ve done more than my fair share of recreational drugs in the past and my personal opinion is I ‘liked’ one a little too much, but when the down out-weighted the high, my perspective changed. Maybe this will happen with alcohol; maybe I’m just one massive hangover away from calling it time gentleman, please, on my drinking… although with my current drinking form I average less than ten impactful hangovers a year, so for one to make me want to quit drinking altogether may put me on my deathbed before I take note.

I think my biggest problem isn’t alcohol, it’s what I’ve mentioned; routine, escapism and boredom. These are all problems with me personally, I need routine, but routine makes me bored and I need to escape it. Maybe if I just get off my arse and make alterations to my daily actions I not need to drink so much. Maybe if I stopped spending all my money on drink, I could pay off those debts. Maybe if I spent less time being drunk I could regain some self-belief and drive to actually achieve something in life instead of moaning about it in a drunken stupor. 



*Proof reading this, I noticed this; “came to University”, it obviously should be; “went to University”, clearly I still think of myself as living that Uni life style. 

#DrinkingSeason: The Alcoholic Test

1.  Do you drink heavily when you are disappointed, under pressure or have had a quarrel with someone?    

YES. Obviously, drink cheers me up when I’m disappointed, if I’m under the influence, I’m over the pressure and what else would I do after a quarrel? Talk things out like civilised adults?

2.  Can you handle more alcohol now than when you first started to drink?

YES. But can’t everyone? Let’s face it when you have your first drink [at the tender age of six], you have no tolerance at all, and that slowly builds up over time until you’re able to knock back quadruple Southern Comforts [at your seventh birthday party]. 

3.  Have you ever been unable to remember part of the previous evening, even though your friends say you didn’t pass out?

YES. But my friend’s are complete bullshitter’s, they probably knew I’d passed out and decided to fuck with my mind… maybe that’s it… maybe, just maybe I don’t have a problem with drink and simply have shit friends.

4.  When drinking with other people, do you try to have a few extra drinks when others won’t know about it?          

NO. I want to make sure everyone can see how much I can handle.

5.  Do you sometimes feel uncomfortable if alcohol is not available?

If I’m at a pub; YES. If I’m at the off-licence; YES. If I’m taking a long dump; NO. If I’m at a funeral; YES. Swings and roundabouts; YES.

6.  Are you more in a hurry to get your first drink of the day than you used to be?    

UNSURE. As I can’t remember that far back.

7.  Do you sometimes feel a little guilty about your drinking?    

YES. Along with my actions when I’m drunk, like once when [censored for legal reasons].

8.  Has a family member or close friend express concern or complained about your drinking?

NO. Not for a while at least, but there could be a reason for that. [Read the answer for Question 3 again].
   
9.  Have you been having more memory “blackouts” recently?     

NO. I don’t think so, but how would I know?

10.  Do you often want to continue drinking after your friends say they’ve had enough?      

YES. Because they’re totally drunk after four beers, I start to get drunk after six [if I haven’t eaten that day].

11.  Do you usually have a reason for the occasions when you drink heavily?

YES. But my drinking heavily and your drinking heavily are three completely different things.

12.  When you’re sober, do you sometimes regret things you did or said while drinking?    

YES. But to be honest, I don’t remember 80% of what I said, did or brandished at the park to those children and that duck.

13.  Have you tried switching brands or drinks, or following different plans to control your drinking?            

YES. I started buy extra strength larger and also switched to vodka to get me drunk faster, but I get the feeling that’s not what you are on about.

14.  Have you sometimes failed to keep promises you made to yourself about controlling or cutting down on your drinking?            
YES. But who hasn’t uttered those immortal words while suffering from a hangover; “I promise I’m never drinking that much again!”

15.  Have you ever had a DWI (driving while intoxicated) or DUI (driving under the influence of alcohol) violation, or any other legal problem related to your drinking?      

NO. As I don’t drive [a personal choice, as I’m always drunk and would be liable for a DUI] and I’m rarely out in public drunk.

16.  Do you try to avoid family or close friends while you are drinking?          

NO. Gotta have someone around to carry me home or make sure I don’t choke on my own vomit, that’s just common sense really.

17.  Are you having more financial, work, school, and/or family problems as a result of your drinking?       

NO. I’m having more financial, work, school, and/or family problems getting in the way of my drinking.

18.  Has your physician ever advised you to cut down on your drinking?

NO. As I haven’t been to see a doctor since I was 16, but if I did see one I’m sure they’d advise me to drink less, but that’s just what they say. When ever as a physician advised a patient to drink more?

19.  Do you eat very little or irregularly during the periods when you are drinking?    

YES.

20.  Do you sometimes have the “shakes” in the morning and find that it helps to have a “little” drink, tranquilizer or medication of some kind?         

NO, I don’t drink in the morning before work, instead I get some hammered the night before I wake up at least tipsy or at most still totally bladdered.

21.  Have you recently noticed that you can’t drink as much as you used to?  

NO. Don't be silly.

22.  Do you sometimes stay drunk for several days at a time?     

YES. Last year’s record was 365 days on the trot.

23.  After periods of drinking do you sometimes see or hear things that aren’t there?    

NO. I don’t think so. But how would I know, if I constantly see it? This question is really tripping me out.

24.  Have you ever gone to anyone for help about your drinking?     

YES. But it was a barmaid.

25.  Do you ever feel depressed or anxious before, during or after periods of heavy drinking?    

Before? During? After? You’ve covered all bases there, so basically the question is do you ever feel depressed or anxious? Then; YES.

26. Have any of your blood relatives ever had a problem with alcohol?

YES. They’re all a bunch of drunks.

Time for a Sketch

Now, my recent lack of blogging has really become apparent to all my fan [that’s you Batch, you cunt].

But, I’m a busy man-child; I don’t have time to articulate all my frustrations into words nowadays, especially seeing as this blog has been going for over five years and I’m yet to become famous or even slightly respected for all the effort I’ve put in. I blame you all, I hope you know.

That’s why blogging has taken a backseat to other aspirations I hold. The first example was my battle rap, which if it went ahead and I was successful [not in the battle, but in standing in front of a crowd and performing, without making a massive tit of myself], I was going to try my hand at a stand-up routine.

Blogging was a low priority at the begging of the year as I was developing comedy sketches for various outlets, including Newsjack, 4amCab and The Show What You Wrote. Although a mix up with submitting times and working a late shift meant that all the hard work I’d ploughed into writing for TSWYW was a total waste as I missed the deadline. I could really do with an agent or at least someone to make sure I’m actually paying attention to these fucking things I do.

I hadn’t heard anything for a while and wasn’t hoping for much from 4amCab as I’d sent them three sketches and once I clicked send email I instantly regretting one of the sketches so much I assumed they wouldn’t use anything I’d offered up. It was in very poor taste. But they the other I got a notification on Twitter [this almost never happens], excited and bemused I checked it out. And as it turns out they’d liked something I sent them and used it.

This made me happy.

The sketch has be rewritten by the wonderful people at 4amCab [this happens a lot, as at the end of the day it’s their product that they are putting out and the podcast has a certain ‘feel’ it needs to continue], but features my beginning and overall premise.

You can check out the sketch here;



You can check out the whole podcast here;

http://4amcab.com/credits/s2/credits-ep4-spudmarine/

You can Follow 4amCab on Twitter here;

https://twitter.com/4amcab

The Sketch I send them. 

The Fuck Buddy Complex

After the dust had settled on my previous relationship and my brain was again able to finally form actual real thoughts instead of replaying an endless loop of “our best bits” like a lazy sitcom episode, my initial thought was; “well that’s my sex life over with… for the time being”.

I knew I wouldn’t be jumping straight back on the horse [probably could have picked a better metaphor for sex to be honest], but then at the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long. You may see that as being a little egotistical, but I have a tried and tested method; get into a relationship, get out of a relationship, have sex, get into a different relationship… I’m not trying to claim I invented this method, but it’s always gone this way for me. I’ve never really had a long ‘draught’ – apart from the time I lost my virginity, it took me another two years to have sex again… but I’d be practicing over those two years [you think adolescent males pick on each other for being virgins, try and be the one in the group that had sex then didn’t for two fucking years]. Since then, the flow of gash has never subsided for too long. I’m not trying to portray myself as some sort of player, when comparing figures [of women desperate enough to sleep with us] with numerous friends, I’m some where in the middle, between virgin and man-whore, which I’m more than content with [so content in fact it’s the first sentence on my covering letter I supply with my C.V.].

You see, the thing is I’ve been lucky enough to secure myself fuck buddies over the years; this is what’s kept me my figures at a medium and purchases of tissue low. I don’t know who came up with the brilliant concept of fuck buddies but I’d love to shake his hand [I presume it was a man, seems like the kind of thing WE’D do] after he’d given it a good wash first, mind you.

When you’ve been in a long-term relationship, sex almost becomes stale, it becomes the same rigmarole, you both know what to expect; nothing new, nothing exciting. Towards the end of the relationship it’s simply a loveless act, hollow of any emotion, just one of those things you do, like saying “I love you” every once in a while to break the awkward silences in between television adverts. Then you have sex with someone else, then you realise; “Oh yeah! This is why humanities obsessed with sex… because it’s fucking amazing!” 

You fall back in love with sex; it’s great, a rush of endorphins to the brain and a rush of blood to your member, then a rush of sperm onto her thigh, then a rush of apologies from your mouth. It’s a rush!

Two of my close friends had been in fuck buddy relationships [they’ve asked me to point out that it wasn’t with each other] just before I re-entered the single life and once I was finally single those relationships had blossomed into … well … relationships. I was foolhardy enough to think that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. “Pfft… emotions are simply a creation of conglomerate greeting card companies to help sell their products” I’d tell myself as I sat alone in my room while my friends went out and formed meaningful connections with those they loved. I tried to convince myself I had that Barney Stinson swagger… although my boy never suits up, yet I’m still disease free.

The thing is meaningless sex is easy to have with someone that doesn’t mean much to you [I may never have meaningless sex ever again after that sentence, although most women I’ve had meaningless sex with can’t read… so I may be OK]. The ‘problem’ arises when those emotions you previously discounted begin to surface and you’re fuck buddy starts to do things that encourage those emotions to grow like turning up at your house with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Then in between all the sex you start to realise you have plenty in common, then before you know it you’re in a predicament.

That predicament is; although you both agreed this was strictly sex [Shameless Plug; watch out for my new Strictly Come Dancing spin-off; Strictly Cum Sex pilot episode ‘cumming’ to BBC in the winter], you start to think; “Wow, this girl’s pretty amazing, so much better than any other fuck buddy I’ve had before, plus we have tons in common AND I’m not ashamed to be seen out with her in public!” but is she thinking the same thing? Then you begin to catalogue your own qualities as to how they compare against hers and you fall short; an obsession with rap battles and drinking until you pass out doesn’t appeal to most women. You look at what she’s done for you; treated me great, laughed at my shitty jokes [and my Amateur Abortionist rap] and bought me that bottle of SoCo [yes, I’ve mentioned that, but Southern Comfort is a necessity] against what you’ve done for her and somehow; “well… I give her the dick” doesn’t quite measure up [short penis joke implied]. With all this in mind you try to contain those emotions, because if you let them out you’ll ruin the fuck buddy relationship and back to spraining your wrist on a daily basis.

But eventually it gets too much like the guilt you feel from murdering a younger sibling [my lawyer wishes me to point out that that was a “wacky simile and has no connection to me or any court case I’m currently involved in”]; you have to blurt it out. Then you wait for her response, those seconds feel like really long seconds, then she doesn’t respond but that’s fine because she’s asleep and this whole saga was simply a ‘practice run’ so you know how it’s going to happen when she’s conscious. Then finally, with enough Southern Comfort courage you ask her out, then she says “Yes”, then you’re happy, then she inspires you to write again, then you write a blog about it, then you hope she doesn’t kill you.

Breaking Up & Broken Down

To say that break-ups are hard would be a fucking understatement.

Break ups are devastating and no matter how many you’ve had in the past they still pack a punch hard enough to leave you crying on the other side of your face.

I recently broke up with my long-term missus, it was an amicable break up, something new to me, so I falsely led myself to believe it would be different this time around, how wrong I was. An amicable break-up does have its benefits, you feel like an actual adult for once; you’ve made a realistic decision that the relationship is no longer working and you should terminate it. It’s a damn sight better than belongings being thrown from a window while you trade expletives at the top of your lungs in front on the curtain twitching neighbours. But to be fair no matter which route you take; amicable or trading blows on the street until the police turn up, you still end up in the same emotional state; lonely and heartbroken.

Obviously the old saying goes; “time heals all wounds”, not strictly true, but from my experience it certainly aids with heartache [as in sorrow, if your heart actually physically aches, go and see a doctor imminently, time may not heal that problem]. The problem is what do you do in that time because you’re whole life has altered drastically. The person that you’ve spent the majority of your time with other the last two years is no longer around and just to top things off, you’re two housemates that haven’t been in relationships for ages finally get girlfriends, that really highlights your loneliness. People ask if you’re ok, you lie and say; “Yes”, hoping that they pick up on the fact you aren’t, but they don’t, they’re idiots, they take your response at face value. This then only serves as a reminder that the one person that knows you best and can see through your lies has left. You feel isolated. You cry into your pillow. You think about all the good times you had together. You cry into your pillow some more. You get that overwhelming feeling that you’ve made a mistake. You cry into your pillow again. You can’t sleep at night because the double bed feels empty, plus your pillow is damp and uncomfortable.

Soon you come to terms with the loss. You begin to accept that you’ll never get a chance to relive that wonderful day you spent together in Skegness [in all honesty that was a terrific day]. And while it’s difficult to come to terms with the fact that you will no longer make memories like that, you begin to realise that you no longer have to have the same stagnant, long-winded conversation about what the fuck we’re going to eat tonight. You can actually make plans with the few reminding friends you have left without checking in with your other half as to what her/our plans are over the coming days/weeks/months. You can engage in sexual activities with other people [theoretically, as it’s been a while since you approached a female]. You can watch rap battles on YouTube without that moaning sound in the background, grumbling over the best punchlines. Yes that double bed still seems empty, but now you get the comfortable side, all the duvet and to top if off the pillows have dried.

Eventually normality prevails, until you begin the very same cycle with the next person to come along.

Housemate Wanted

Hey lucky reader, yes; YOU! I'm about to offer you a once in a lifetime opportunity not to be passed up.

Due for unforeseeable events involving what can only be described as selfish cunts, a room has become available to rent in my abode. It's not often that a chance such as this comes up, so it is advised that you take this opportunity ASAP.

The house has all the mod-cons*. Over the past few years the world has been savaged by mother nature, while homes, huts and businesses are left in ruin worldwide, my house is 100% tsunami proof, so that should ease any possible worries you have. Also; wild bear attacks are at a constant level of zero and have been since records began, attacks from smackheads with dirty needles has been on the increase over the last decade though; but as they say around here; “we all gets AIDs eventually, why wait?”

The house is situated in one of the East-Midlands biggest (and only) cities; Derby. While Nottingham is known for it's legacy, excellent night life and brilliant shopping facilities (- if you're into that kind of capitalist stuff), Derby has things to offer too; like a regular bus service to Nottingham so you can take advantage of all their great stuff. But it's not just buses into Nottingham, no! You can also take the train. Derby itself has a couple of things on hand to keep you entertained; like Lara Croft Way; a road named after the Tomb Raider character, the Derby Ram [statue]; it may look like a coiled concrete turd but it's something to look at for 20 seconds or so**. All of this exciting stuff is a only minutes away from my house, how I ever get anything done is beyond me!

If you've liked what you've read so far about this amazing, once in a lifetime opportunity, you should carry on reading to see if you fit the qualifications to become my housemate.

What We Don't Want:
Drum & Bass DJs; you're a plague on society, there's too many of you and I can't be seen with any more of you. My quota for D&B DJs as friends/acquaintances is maxed out ten fold, so fuck off.

Jews; we aren't anti-Semitic, we're just not welcoming to anyone that believes in a monotheism religion, so Christians and Muslims are included in this too, as you all basically believe the same thing, you just quarrel over the small details.

Anyone with a political ideology that leans to the right; if you vote Conservative you're not welcome and probably far too posh to live here anyway.

Drug enthusiasts; if you're drugs are anything but; tea, coffee, tobacco, alcohol or marijuana, this probably isn't the place for you as I'm not explaining another OD'd corpse to police/grieving families.

What We Do Want:
Someone with a 'good' taste in music; basically if you have a varied taste in music you'll more than likely get on with someone in the house. A love and detailed understanding on British battle rap (and it's history) is preferred but not mandatory (yet).

Someone with an income; self-explanatory really, you need money to pay bills and keep the fucking debt collectors at bay.

Someone thick-skinned; you must be able to take a joke at your expense, also thick skin comes in handy as we have single-glazed windows (double-glazing is for motherfucking pussies), so on occasions*** it gets a little chilly.

House Rules:
House Rules!! Respect must be given to the fictional doctor Gregory House. Revealing spoilers from the latest episode is punishable by death. This is also true for The Walking Dead.

Do not answer the door; if you're not expecting visitors, you do not answer the door as usually the person on the other side is after money, usually owed to them by someone in the house.

*according to a survey done in 1985
** it's not better than Nottingham's left Lion though, hell, it's not even better than the right Lion!
*** on occasions, meaning from October – March.