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.

How to Win Come Dine With Me

Like a large quantity of the British public I love to watch Channel 4’s cookery competition in which 4-5 members of the general public host a dinner party with the chance of winning £1000. But let’s face it, we aren’t tuning in for advice on recipes, we just want to see people from different walks of life let rip at each other with some verbal sparring. Yet, from the numerous hours of watching C4’s primetime show, I’ve developed a list that’s bound to make any novice host/hostess a likely victor in the competition.

Don’t Cook Prawns
I fucking love prawns but there’s always some moaning prick that doesn’t and no matter how you prepare them in the kitchen they’ll always get a grilling at the table; “Did you take out the shit sack [devein it]?” “Are they fresh?” “Why did you leave the head/tail on?” “Why didn’t you leave the head/tail on?” Serving up prawns is basically opening yourself up to the fucking Spanish Inquisition… quite fitting if they’re in a paella.

Don’t Have “Musical Entertainment” in the Living Room
Providing guests with entertainment is more often than not more difficult than serving up the food. A mistake I often see is a host parading out some musical entertainment in their bloody living room, don’t get me wrong on some rare occasions it works well but more often than not it fails. This is probably because a living room is not the natural environment for a musician to play and it leaves everyone uncomfortable. Who wants to be in a situation in which one wrong strum of a guitar could send a plectrum flying into the eye of a dinner guest?

Have a Decent Vegetarian Option
Normally I have no qualms in treating vegetarians like shit, in fact it’s one of my hobbies, yet when it come to Come Dine With Me you have to make a real effort as they could be your key to victory. I don’t know many vegetarian dishes besides beans on toast and cereal so I can’t offer much in advice in what to serve but veer away from grilled mushrooms with loads of shit in it, be inventive and don’t just get a Quorn microwave meal.   

Don’t Be So Overconfident
Just don’t act like an arrogant cunt basically. You’ve seen them before constantly nitpicking at other contestants methods, recipes, homes, children, pets, carpet choice…  All it does is turn everyone against you and make them expect absolute perfection at your night… which is never going to happen, so just keep your fucking mouth shut… apart from when you’re shovelling someone’s overcooked and soggy beef Wellington down your oesophagus.

Ply Them with Alcohol
You sometimes have contestants on, that for whatever reason don’t allow alcohol at their night. More often than not it has something to do with religious beliefs, but hey, if they’re willing to let some fictitious, esoteric guidelines of how to live your life dominate their actions they don’t deserve that £1000. Alcohol is not only vital to dinner parties, it’s vital to life. So when it comes to your night keep your guests’ glasses topped up, the more pissed they get the more fun they’ll have, the higher marks you’ll receive. NOTICE: Don’t ply yourself with alcohol on your own night, you need your wits about you, try to avoid a massive intake of booze the evening before yours too.

Don’t Use Shop-Bought Pastry
I have never made my own pastry, I have never even cooked with shop-bought pastry so this whole pastry debacle that constantly rears it’s ugly head on Come Dine With Me makes no real sense to me. Yet, I do know if you’re going to use shop-bought pastry someone will ask, then will mark you down. Pastry’s shit anyway unless it’s filled with meat from Gregg’s, just avoid it all together so you can avoid that moment where that “arrogant prick/bitch [of the week]” gets a chance to demean you in your house in front of your guest for not making your own pastry. 

Practice Your Menu
Whenever some half-witted contestant turns to the camera in their own kitchen and mumbles; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never made this before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, I unleash an ungodly amount of expletives at my television screen for so long I miss the beginning of The Simpsons. This should be a no-brainer; but practice your menu at least three times before your night, just so everything runs a bit smoother. Imagine you’re on a hospital bed, anaesthetic gradually kicking in and as you slowly drift off, the surgeon leans over you and utters; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never performed open heart surgery before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, you won’t be filled with much confidence … or organs by the end of it.

A Well Overdue Wine

It’s been a while since I’ve wrote anything, so I though I’d give it a go and use some of the other letters on my keyboard other than; F, R, E, P, O, R and N. The problem is I’ve had a lack of things to write about and by ‘write about’, I obviously mean bitch about. Maybe I’m settling down in my old age? Or maybe the constant amount of day to day intoxication has dulled my senses, drive and any ambition that wasn’t already crushed out of me by society… either way, I’m back to putting metaphorical pen to metaphorical paper.

To help me make the transition from drinking to blogging, I thought I’d write a blog about drinking; it’s really amazing how my brain works. But instead of lambasting a topic, I wanted to switch it up a little and talk about how great something [besides me] is. My topic is red wine.

Now, I’ve never really drank wine before recently, I’ve been in contact with it the majority of my life as my mum puts away a bottle or five a day. The only time I remember drinking wine is a few years back when I got a free bottle from work and had no other alcohol in the house, so I downed it while watching a Cantonese gangster film [Yes, I am THAT cultured]. It was ok, but it never really appealed to me that much. Yet now, I’m turning into a bit of a wino [I mean that in both wine-liking and hobo terms]. I’d just like to clarify that I only drink red wine. White and Rosé still taste like elephant piss to me and if you want to argue it out, I’d be more than willing to bottle you with a fruity yet robust Australian Shiraz [check the terminology bitches!].

You see, while red wine is nice, it’s not the flavour that attracts me to it so much, it’s a real alcoholics drink. What makes it so great is the fact that it’s served at room temperature, no need to make space in the fridge for those three bottles I’ve just got from the shop. Plus it’s a tipple you can drink at your own pace; it doesn’t go flat, get warm and if you pass out late at night with half a glass left it’s still there in the morning for you to finish off before you set off to work [you may need to scoop out any dead moths first, mind you].

Of course, as with anything, there are some minor problems. As I’ve just started out drinking wine, I’m a little uneducated in the different types although my taste buds are sincerely fucked from years of smoking so the country of origin or grapes used means nothing to me and I highly doubt I’ll ever learn how to differentiate between them. Plus the names are fucking fucked! Whoever came up with Merlot, well done on making a decent wine, but at least fucking proofread the name, it should end in a ‘w’ not a fucking ‘t’ you stupid wtaw*!! As for fucking Cabernet Sauvignon … what the fuck is that? That may as well be written in pissing Arabic, I think I’d have more chance at pronouncing it correctly. But aside from the stupid names, red wine’s got a lot going for it, so why not have a bottle tonight and forget about your troubles/bills/children/responsibilities.

And that’s it. Not great, but trying to get in the habit of writing again, next one will be better I promise, it’s entitled; The Fuck Buddy Complex… that just sounds good, so come back for that when I’ve finally get around to finishing it. Peace.

*That got added as I proofread the piece, best fucking joke in there.

Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless [Part II]

Previously in Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless; our two protagonists search for a home after discovering they can no longer live in a glorified shed, time is against them, so far they’ve viewed one possible home and it wasn’t good…

With the date to which I had to evacuate my current living situation looming over me like guilt from a half-remember childhood memory and what seemed like no sight of a place to call home on the horizon, I decided that I may need a back up plan. For example, Mr. French had arranged a place to crash if the worse happened and we didn’t find a home, so I thought I’d do the same. Yet when it came down to me trying to figure out where I’d go or who I’d stay with I draw a blank. While I may not be the most popular man in my postcode, I like to think I’ve touched enough lives to warrant myself as a likable individual that others would help out in a time of need. Yet, as I mentally scrolled through the list of people I knew, I couldn’t help but scratch off name after name due to substantial reasons; too far from town, he lives with his missus/family, we recently broke up, he sacrifices virgins to Satan … eventually I came to Mike and Ginger Rob, which to be perfectly honest should have been my immediate response as they have a big house, they like me [or at least they can stand my company] and their ‘lifestyle’ is perfectly in sync with mine, if you trade drum and bass for the far superior music genre of Hip Hop.

With the fact that I wouldn’t be pleading Facebook friends with updates such as; “… OMG going to be homeless, has anyone bought a new washing machine lately, I’d happily take the cardboard box off your hands …” I could once again focus all my energy, thoughts and sexual frustration towards finding a home. [As I mentioned before] we had a complied a list of ten places we were interested in, rated from one to ten, one being the home we liked most, ten being the home we liked least … we’ve made lists before and we fucking rule at it! Fuck Schindler! But many of these listed properties were falling short; missing important features or weren’t available until long after we needed them. This would have had me worried if it wasn’t for a constant supply of intoxicants to delude me from reality [here’s my only tip for moving house; when trying to find a place under pressure, it’s best to spend as little time as possible sober]. 

Somehow, around our busy work schedules and erratic sleeping patterns we managed to line up another viewing for a first floor flat. The flat was quite nice, it had all the stuff you’d usually find in a home; walls, doors, a ceiling … you’ve all seen homes so you get the general idea. It was certainly one for us to ponder.

With that in our minds we got to pondering as time got to ticking.

Our options were running thin, like me when I jog, so with only seven days until ‘Eviction Day’, we decided on the first floor flat we’d seen [the one with the walls, doors, ceiling etc.]. Then came the process of filling out forms, an enjoyable experience for every individual. There’s nothing I like more than detailing information on previous workplaces and properties I’ve occupied, especially when drink, drugs and repeatedly banging my head on walls has secured all that information in my knowledge box [brain]. Finally once all the correct information was filled out, we gave a call to the letting agent and she ‘informed’ us to deliver the forms to her office. Her office was in Mickleover, the only thing I know about Mickleover is the most popular bus into/out of Mickleover is advertised as a “Posh Bus”, this instantly makes me assume everyone that lives in Mickleover is posh and judging from the houses, they are… although when you’re on my run of the social ladder everyone’s posh apart from Big Issue vendors and pregnant twelve year olds.

We arrived at the letting agents, clutching our forms and most recent payslips to prove we were actually employed [to be far, that’s not evident upon looking at us; you call it scruffy, we call it “hobo chic”], feeling excited about the prospect of securing a place to live. That feeling lasted about 30 seconds, right up until the point the letting agent said; “Oh, the flat you’re interested in has already gone…” I think in this instance, if I’d have murdered this woman in her office, beating her bloody corpse with my tenants form until the police turned up, then gone to trial and explained; “I am guilty of killing this letting agent, but let me first clarify that this victim, as you wrongly refer to her as, was well aware that myself and Mr. French were on our way to her office with the sole intention of renting a property we’d previously discussed, even though the ‘victim’ knew this flat was no longer available, so I may be guilty of murder, but isn’t she guilty of being a letting agent”. I’d surely be found innocent under the circumstances. Luckily, I didn’t flip out in a murderous rage, instead I held off and let her finish her sentence; “… but the first floor flat is now available.” Now, we’d seen the first floor flat online, but couldn’t sort out a viewing [prior to this] because tenants were staying in it until after ‘Eviction Day’. Now we found ourselves in a predicament, our original choice has gone, but we have an exclusive offer to take a place that’s come on the market earlier than expected. We sat and gave it 20 seconds of thought, I channelled my inner Phil Spencer [I’d been watching a lot of Location, Location, Location recently in a hope I’d become more savvy at finding a property to live]. It was a bit of a dilemma; time’s running short and only complete fucking idiots agree to rent a place that they haven’t even viewed… that being said we are complete fucking idiots, so that’s exactly what we did.

What will Ben and Frenchie’s new home be like?

How will the move go?

How much longer can I stretch out this one topic over numerous blogs? 

Will David Batchelor give up reading after part 2 or will he come back for part 3?

Find out in the next slightly-less-thrilling instalment of Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless…

Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless [Part I]

I’ve heard that moving house is one of the most stressful things a person can do, but to be perfectly honest I’ve done it plenty of times so the stress of the whole debacle washes over me. You see, I’ve moved home a lot in my time. Growing up, my mum seemed to want to constantly move house, we moved around more than gypsies and it’s not like we moved up and down the country [apart from that short time we lived in Plymouth a.k.a. The Arsehole of England], we predominately stayed in the same shitty little town. Obviously when I moved out to come to University, I’ve continued to bounce around form overpriced student house to even more overpriced student house, continuing the trend set by my mother. To be perfectly honest I’ve lost count of the amount of homes I’ve had and to top if off I’ve just recently added a new home to my never ending list.

Towards the end of January me and my housemates discovered that we were to be thrown out of our house as it had been sold. This news carried me into February, which as it stands was possibly the worst month of my life as the clock began to tick on one of the most significant relationships I’ve ever devolved, I am of course talking of the news that House MD was defiantly going to end, me and the girlfriend also decided to part ways. My future was looking bleak; girlfriendless, Houseless and soon to be homeless.

But as they say; “you can’t keep a good man down”, and while I’m far from a good man the thought of living out of a cardboard box inspired me somewhat to find a new place to live.

But before we get down to my house hunting, let’s speak on where I was getting kicked out of. My old house was a lot like Anne Robinson; cold, heartless and although there’s been attempts to make it look slightly better you know it’s old, decrepit and rotting away on the inside … it was also really draughty [a super injunction prohibits me from informing you of Anne Robinson’s draughty vagina – but hopefully you were clever enough to figure out the route that joke was taking]. Due to these factors, our bills were expensive; to be honest the amount of money we’ve spent on gas/electric could have easily armed a small Middle Eastern country with AK-47s and enough ammo to [over]kill the entire Chinese population. But at the end of the day I’m a pacifist so genocide is not on my “To Do List” … but half of the Chinese population is [ahh… in-jokes]. The house was situated on what estate agents may refer to as “vibrant”, which translates as “a place filled with scum”; chavs, rude boys, smackheads, pissheads, Eastern European drug dealers that scream at each other in the street gone midnight, that guy that waits on the corner, asking you what time it is, hoping you pull out your phone so he can snatch it and run. You know those kinds of vibrant characters. Although none of that bothered me, I got to watch a smackhead OD on the street once from the comfort of my own home [he survived if you wondered/cared]. Towards the end of our stay things were beginning to break anyway; downstairs toilet had been broken for time, sparks were happening inside the microwave when you turned it on and the freezer door was being kept closed with a brick [I'm known to embellish stories, but this is all true].

You see, we just ignorantly lived this way, not realising that we were in a first world country living in a third world house [now I’m embellishing]. So getting thrown out was the motivation we really needed because nothing drives your incentive like the thought of being homeless, yet judging by my last house it wouldn’t be a massive step down.

So we began trawling the internet for possible new homes. Myself and Mr. French [my Brother from another Mother/spiritual advisor] compiled a list of ten houses/flats we were interested in. Luckily we don’t have high standards [in homes… or women], so our criteria were limited, as long as it had white goods and double glazing we were happy.

The first place we viewed was just around the corner from our current house. It was above a solicitor’s office. Alarm bells starting to ring when we were taken through the office, up two flights of stairs to a door that leads to the flat. The thought of there being a single door between my home and the business ran by the landlord was a scary thought, especially when you take into consideration what I do in my recreation. The flat wasn’t that bad, although the bedrooms weren’t too great, the smaller one of the two simply had a double bed in it with about a foot of room either side upon realising that there would be no room for a PC desk and no PC in my room is really going to ruin my sex life [yes, that's a masturbation joke... although not as funny when you point them out], we soon opted out of that place.

Will Ben and Frenchie find a home?

Find out in the next slightly-thrilling instalment of [*insert blog title here, when you can be arsed to come up with one you lazy prick*]

Rantin’ on Reactions to Robberies

I’ve never witnessed anyone getting mugged in my time, but I’ve seen plenty of robberies in battle rap. Although, I’ve attained enough knowledge to know that; much like the muggings that happen up and down the country on a daily basis, there’s nothing I can do about a robbery in a battle, I’ve accepted this and it’s time some more Don’t Flop fans do too.

The most recent ‘robbery’ that pops into my head is Mark Grist vs. Zain Azrai [from TTT10]. Now, I’m with the majority on this one, as much as I like Zain, I think Grist totally eclipsed him in the battle and the teacher should have walked away with the W, but he didn’t and life goes on. As much as I love battle rap and have done for years, I don’t get tied into the immature bullshit that takes place on the comments section of YouTube. So I’m going to use this article to stress some points to those of you [idiots] that do.

Firstly, if you don’t agree with a judge’s decision on a battle don’t hit the dislike button, you morons. The Grist/Azrai battle [at the time of writing] currently stands at 659 likes and 2773 dislikes, yet it’s hands down one of the most entertaining battles I’ve ever seen. It’s the perfect type of battle to show to non-battle fans as it breaks previous stigmas set by 8 Mile and goes against the general publics narrow minded views of the entire hip hop genre; I mean, come on, it’s a bloody teacher rapping against a Malaysian joke merchant. Yet, when someone comes to the video and sees its rating they probably won’t even give it a chance and that’s such a shame.

Secondly, don’t go posting hateful comments aimed at the winner of the battle [that you believe was a robbery] because it’s not down them. All they did was turn up and perform. I’ve seen comments on the Grist/Azrai battle, slating Zain to no end. “How irresponsible and pathetic of zain, the dirty fat chinky.” types RhysGB15. Yeah, how irresponsible and pathetic of Zain to travel across the world to partake in something he loves for the enjoyment of others. What a cunt he is!

Thirdly, those of you with half a brain will blame the judges. Congratulations on being slightly more intelligent than the previous batch of idiots, but alas you’re still fools. I’m not inside the minds of judges, but I’ve watched plenty give explanations to camera to understand that everyone is different. Judge #1 may lean towards comedic punchlines, Judge #2 may prefer intricate wordplay and so on. What you need to remember is they’re more respected in this ‘game’ than you keyboard warriors and they’re the ones making quick, on the spot decisions often in an environment much different to your silent bedroom, plus they don’t have the advantage of skipping the battle back to pick up on bars they may have missed.

Basically, in battle rap, robberies happen, yet they are few and fair between; so don’t get your panties in a bunch over something you can’t change. Instead how about you just support the artists, the league and the movement or fuck off.

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.