*Clears Throat*

Hello all,

After a grueling ten minutes of trying to remember which version of my password I use for Blogger, I have finally logged in. Hooray for the small victories in life.

I'm astonished that my Blog is still getting views and even some comments, thanks for taking the time to read and even comment.

I've been extremely busy over the last two years and found it hard to find time for writing, which is such a shame, as it's always been something I've done for as long as I can remember. 
 
But on the plus side, I've had many new experiences over the last two years and have plenty to write [… or bitch and complain] about. 
 
So watch this space, or at least check back weekly.

Pretty Fly [Catching] for a White Guy

Hey, if like me, you happen to live in the over-sized town of Derby, you may have noticed this lovely little shit-hole has become increasingly more shit-holey just lately with the influx of flies.

The hate-mongering tabloid; The Sun, has a perfectly balanced article about it; Click Here; 

[If you're not too ashamed to have The Sun's website in your internet history]

It's becoming increasingly frustrating for us residents, I'm not at the stage of thinking it's like “living in a horror movie”, because I don't watch shit horror films. A swarm of flies, although disgusting, isn't really overly horrifying to me. It's less like a horror film and more like an Oxfam advert of impoverished children, you know the one's where flies crawl across a starving babies face... it's more like that, apart from the starving to death bit. Wow, thinking about those poor kids really puts this whole fly thing into perspective. A fly infestation and starving to death, now that's horrifying.

"I have mine with milk, two sugars and only five flies - I'm trying to cut back"

Anyway, while at my house we do have someone to deal with pest control, even she's beginning to feel the strain, so I've had to step up to give her a helping hand [as she has none]. Unlike with most things I attempt in life like soberness, empathy and 'not being a cunt', I'm actually quite good at catching and killing these shit swarmers. I knew if I resisted suicide for long enough I'd finally find my calling in life.

It's quite ironic really, because for the largest majority of my life people have been saying I wouldn't harm a fly, how wrong they were. I know my petite body structure gives off the impression that if I caught one of these pesky bastards, it'd simply fly off carrying me [with it] into the air, but that's not the case [heavy boots to the rescue].

Over the last few days, I've been honing my techniques and perfecting them. Last night I Mr. Miyagi'd [professional fly-catcher terminology] two flies without even looking at them. OK, that's a slight bit of a stretch, but the first I caught left handed while admiring myself in the mirror. But the second one later on, I simply felt buzz by the right side of my head, I swooped at it, caught it and gripped my fist tightly until I heard the crunch.

It was epic. I may have got a little over hyped by my amazing fly-catching skills and began screaming insults at any other flies in ear-shot, it was akin to the “King Kong ain't got shit on me!” speech by Alonzo Harris in Training Day... but you know, without the 'n-word', obviously. Plus in hindsight licking the fly guys off my palm like a neanderthal was probably a step too far, but I was really, really hyped up... and drunk.

The issues surrounding the causation of the flies is still be sorted, but with this amount of them in the local area we're going to be dealing with them for sometime. So here's you're opportunity to have [possibly] Derby's Best Fly-Catching Muh'Fuckha at your disposal [for a small fee*].

Basic Package; I'll come around and snatch them out of the air. That's a basic price and a surplus for every five flies I catch.

Premium Package; As above. But I'll use a secret chemical formula made of hydrogen and oxygen that when you use enough disables the flies. This chemical formula can be detrimental to some electrical devices [that ARE NOT covered by my insurance]. Price increase to cover the cost of the secret formula.

Exclusive Package; I, along with some friends will come and fumigate your house with Tetrahydrocannabinol. Massive price increase for all the Tetrahydrocannabinol we'll use.

Hope to hear from you soon.

*Non-Refundable

On My Soapbox; Air-Strikes in Syria

Look, I want nothing more than the end of humanity [we've ruined this world; slowly depleting it's natural resources, halted it's natural growth, extinct specious', murdered each other because of conflicting ideologies/religions/creed/nationality and loads of other shit], but I always pictured some sort of Zombie apocalypse or a meteor hitting the globe to thin out the crowd instead of another World War... but I suppose beggars can't be choosers.

So people, it's time to hug the ones you love, sit down, plunge your face into your lap and kiss your ass goodbye... which obviously you can't do! Because if a human could kiss their own buttocks that would mean, technically speaking; a man could suck his own cock - and if that was the case; they wouldn't rule the world and we probably wouldn't be in this situation. I say 'probably' because, ya'know; Thatcher!

But the world belongs to chauvinist pigs and one of those chauvinist pig fuckers is David Cameron. I love Cameron, he's like the typical bloke next door... if you grew up in a fucking mansion! Oh yeah, not 'love', I meant 'loath', I'm always get those two mixed up... ask my loathly girlfriend.

Anyway, good old Davey Boy has gone full British Bulldog [let's hope he dies before his time, hey, left-leaning old school WWF fans that catch that reference] and ordered air-strikes on Syria.

Look, if you're expecting me to explain the cluster-fuck of the situation in Syria [and that's the technical term by the way], I can't do it. It's a cluster-fuck. I thought I had a decent grasp on the situation until I watched a video on the BBC News website explaining it and was left more baffled after. Basically, a lot of nations dislike Assad and want to see him leave [USA], but some do like him [Russia], at the moment he's fighting a civil war against rebels, one of those rebel groups is ISIS, but nobody likes them. [Fucking told you I couldn't explain it well!]

And now we're throwing our metaphorical car keys into the bowl at this swinger's orgy. Hooray!

Now, I could be seen as a 'terrorist sympathiser' to David Cameron; the 'warmongering death merchant', but I'm not that gung ho about dropping bombs on Middle-Eastern countries. I know I smoke a plentiful amount of marijuana and drink so heavily that each day is Groundhog Day for my liver... but even in my drug addled mind I have some recollection of the UK getting involved in wars like this before... that weren't particularly easy or successful.

This is because wars like this aren't what they were back in the day. Remember the good old days, when you knew who we were fighting... anyone goose-stepping with a German accent... those were the days!

Nowadays we're fighting religious cults, which is what ISIS are. It's usually a term used for backwards ass Southern American that are 'drinking the Kool Aid', but I think it's the perfect description for these guys. A bunch of religious nuts that have concentrated on certain parts of a religious text that in their eyes gives them immunity to do whatever they want in the name of their God. And they're not constricted by boarders. They're everywhere. With a media campaign so well organised that if they ever catch the guy behind it; he'll be granted immunity if he takes a job at Coke or Apple's advertising department.

This is not something you can simply bomb into oblivion. This is an ideology that enlists impression people and basically brainwashes them into thinking through death they'll reach a higher being. An ideology can't be stopped with violence, if anything that only makes it more powerful. This is a new age, I new type of warfare, we need a fucking new approach.

Let's face facts. Air-strikes are going to kill innocent people. These are normal individuals already in the midst of a civil war. Yet they still live on, I'm a fucking coward, I'd have killed myself a long time ago if I was in their shoes... my only big decision would be if I'd kill Fiona too or just let her feast on my corpse.

And for those who reached a point that it got too much and they left becoming refugees, fleeing to Europe, many dying on the journey, come up against xenophobic hatred because narrow-minded fucks see them as the very same people they're trying to escape. Which leads to bullshit like this;

… popping up in my Facebook feed.

In my eyes, if you're trekked a large part of the globe to another country to avoid persecution, you know what, you fucking deserve a house, much more deserving than a person that simply fell out a vagina on this island that can't be arsed to work. The UK has always opened it's doors to people from other cultures and for the most part they thrive here. Years back it was the Indians, then the Polish, now it's Syrians. I'm from a council estate, so I know full-well the biggest drain on the benefits system is home-grown scum, claiming for bullshit medical reasons and doing cash-in-hand-jobs on the side. I know this because they're friends of friends, and I'm always willing to have extra tokes on their joints and more cans of their beer ['honest man's tax reparation!']. I'm willing to bet the same fuckers that were bashing the Indians all those years ago, probably sit down to a nice curry once a week, and go to the Polish shop because they stock Lays crisps and cheap foreign fags on the sly. So fuck it, let the Syrians in, can't wait to try their cuisine... although judging the lives they've had it's probably scraps and shrapnel.

But as the image states “Why are we housing the bastards trying to kill us?”, well we're not are we. Is every Muslim a terrorist, of course not. Just because your dear old gran has been going to Church every Sunday for decades that doesn't automatically link her to David Koresh, does it? So shut the fuck up.

“But Ben, we're letting in 20,000 refugees by 2020, some of those could be terrorists!”

Yeah, it's a possibility.

“David Cameron said there's already been at least seven attempted terrorist attacks in the UK this year that have been foiled.”

Yeah, he did say that.

So what about this;

Maybe instead of spending a fucking shit ton of money dropping expensive bombs on people, we put that money into properly vetting the refugees that are entering the country and seek out the bad apples. While also giving funds to our counter-terrorism groups, because by the sounds of it they're doing a fucking great job. A big personal kudos to you guys. Keep up the good work, you're the unsung heroes for sure. People get behind the RAF, wishing them good look for basically flying a plane [terrestrial pilots do it drunk, it can't be that hard, there's not much traffic] and pushing a button to drop a bomb [pushing buttons is easy, even a moron like me can do it sssuuuccccccesssssfulllllly].

Our interaction in Syria, without a doubt will increase the terrorists attacks in the UK and although our counter-terror groups are doing a sterling job, you can't always be 100% at work, shit, I'm fucking awesome at my job but even I smash a plate or six on a bad day* [I'm a kitchen porter, by the way and not at a Greek restaurant]. And when that happens innocents will die. Just like in Paris. Because we're not dealing with a bunch of idiotic nut-jobs, we're dealing with a cult that's masterminded a plan. They know assassinating key political figures is almost impossible, so it's civilians that die, we will be paying the cost for our leaders' actions.

But that's just to the start of the plan, xenophobic fears will get amped up in the media, many Muslim will feel persecuted by the societies they've spent their lives in. They'll be verbally and physically abused. Most will shrug it off, knowing that they're dealing with unintelligent cunts, but there's a chance all this abuse could push other individuals over the edge and radicalise them. Truth be told if I was a Muslim and I caught backlash from the attacks in Paris, I'd probably feel disenfranchised from my community and seek revenge, but I'm a spiteful bastard that holds a grudge. And ISIS wants civil unrest, it helps alienated individuals join their cause. And the thing is we need Muslims now more than ever. They could be the key in de-radicalising those that have had their mind warped by ISIS propaganda, they could be the ones that reinforce the humility that the Quran teaches. So how about we lay off them and instead embrace them more? I'm an atheist, there's plenty of evidence that points towards Hitler being the same, yet I don't kill Jews or believe in any of his ideologies. No matter what religion you are, there's always some flag waver causing atrocities in the name of your God[s], it doesn't mean everyone that follows the same God[s] believes the same.

I've rambled for far too long on this subject, so here's the wrap up; Assad is a cunt that needs to be overthrown, he kills his own people with military enforcement, that's not how political leaders do thing these days, instead they kill their own by cutting tax benefits and sending the lower classes to wars they have no business in, like us Western societies. ISIS are cunts, and I don't even want to call them ISIS because that feeds into their hands as that's what they want; they want to be referred to as the 'Islamic State' and all of those that oppose them have fallen right into their hands, so they're already winning. Cameron is a cunt for agreeing to air-strikes in Syria that will kill innocent people and therefore probably turn the Syrians we're trying to help against us, that in turn feeds right into the hands of ISIS.

But don't worry, because at the end of the day you're more than likely safe against a terrorist attack. Evidence shows they usually happen in capital or big cities, so the large majority of us are safe [I wish all the cool people I met in London on my last visit all the best].

Before I go, I just want to say; I think a country should only bomb another country if over 50% of it's inhabits can find that country on a map... and if they can't maybe you should educate them to the point in which they can... but I suppose if you did they probably wouldn't want to bomb them in the first place.

As to how we resolve this threat, I don't know. This is a new age of warfare, a new enemy [kinda like al-Qaeda, remember when we quashed them and the remnants turned up in ISIS?]. There is no victory in violence against a cult willing to die for the cause. If our government really wanted to protect us in this time of austerity they'd do more for the poor, more British people will die this year due to low income and a critically underfunded NHS than attacks by ISIS, but that's not important because some brown people have weapons in the Middle-East and we need to kill them. Should we look into where they get their weapons and funds from? No, we'll ignore that and simply let that continue, because dropping bombs is easier than ruffling a couple of feathers of rich, powerful individuals! It is a capitalist world after all, it's OK for ISIS to have what seems like an endless supply of money from mysterious benefactors because if we dig a little deeper it could upset political procedures.

What happened in Paris was a fucking travesty. There's no doubt about it. But the Western World has been fighting Islamic fundamentalists for quite some time and there seems no end and everything seems to worsen. We need new tactics... and I'm not an idiot, they may not work, but we should go back to the drawing board and try again and again until we figure it out. If violence was an acceptable answer 85% of us would kick the shit out of our boss[es], co-workers, friends and family everytime they they pissed us off. But we don't because we're civilised... or so I've been lead to believe. 

*I'm over exaggerating for comical effect, if I broke six plates I'd be fired, they collectively cost more that my wage for a week.

How Dave Chappelle [Kinda] Co-Wrote This Blog

When talking to most people about Dave Chappelle, it almost plays out like one of his Lil' Jon sketches;

“I've been to see Dave Chappelle.”
“WHAT?”

“I've been to see Dave Chappelle.”
“WHAT?”

“I have been to see Dave Chappelle.”
“OKAYYYY!!”
“Have you heard of him?”
“WHAT?”

“Have you heard of him?”
“”YEAHHHH!”

I personally feel like I shouldn't have to explain who Dave Chappelle is, but seeing as some people may not know [SHAME ON YOU!]; he's an American comedian and [in my eyes] he's easily in the Top 5 comedians alive and performing today.

He recently came to England... well London, but he's American, most of them think our country basically consists of fields, farms, forests and London, and to be fair they're mostly right.

This is such a rarity, I actually thought I'd never even get the chance to see the man perform. So when the tickets went on sale at 9.00am, I was obviously at work, but luckily for me my Brother From Another Mother was on hand to sit at his laptop, constantly refreshing the ticket sellers web-page and he sorted the tickets... like the legend he is.

Now as a notorious recluse, you may think the thought of me travelling to London would be somewhat difficult for me, and being in London even worse due to my distaste for flocks of human cattle, but I do quite like The Big Smoke. I especially love going on The Tube, I'm like an excitable child.

Although this could in part be due to my reasons for being in London in the first place, as the last two times I've been it was to see Chappelle and the time before that was to see Book of Mormon. So I was already in excitable child mode.

Dave, as I sometimes call him, was obviously performing at The London Apollo Theatre. Which in itself was quite exciting for the comedy fan boy inside of me as it's such an iconic stage that many comedians have graced over the years, so to sit inside the place was enough to have me grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat on ecstasy.

Yet imagine my elation once inside and discovering that me and my partner in crime where seated on the fourth fucking row! Fourth Row, Bitches! At this point I was more gob-smacked than Charlie Murphy after Rick James asked him; “What did the five fingers say to the face?” So I did what we all do in these situation and turned to social media to brag about it.

The expensive pints were flowing [Fuck you London prices!], by the time his opening act started. Donnell Rawlings kicked off proceedings. Rawlings is probably best known as Ashy Larry from numerous Chappelle's Show sketches. I've never seen him do stand-up before, but it's safe to say he set the tone perfectly for the big man to follow. 

And follow he did. Constantly chain-smoking. Which was a great nod to the last time he was in London and did a ten minute impromptu set in a comedy club.Click Here. 

The jokes came thick and fast as I sat in awe of the comedy legend. I'm terrible at remembering jokes, so sadly I can't share any, but when you're caught up the moment you're too busy having fun for information to permanently register in your mind. That's how comedy shows usually are, from my [drunken] experiences.

I did miss a slight bit of the show, as the constant laughing and beer swigging was wreaking havoc with my bladder, so I had to make a quick dash to the toilet and literally forced out my urine so fast I almost gave birth to my own bladder. Note to self; wear a colostomy bag for the next stand-up show I go to.

And before I knew it, it was over.

To the far right of us Chappelle had began to high-five and shake hands with members of the crowd and as he made his way across the stage towards us I saw my chance. So up I ran, out of my seat quicker than footage the World Championships of Musical Chairs in rewind, I Hussain Bolted all of those four strides to the front of the stage [Fourth Row, Bitches!], probably shrieking in a fanatic tone that would send a shuddering shiver down the spine of even the craziest One Direction groupie, a few others were had gathered to reach out towards my idol in the hopes of his touch would also grace them, but I would not be beaten... and in a scene reminiscent of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel's masterpiece... the Godly hand of Dave Chappelle reached out to the sweaty, trembling fan-boy hand of Ben Broughton and shook it.

If I wasn't paralysed by the sheer adulation of the situation, the shock of the whole experience would have opened my eyes so wide that my tear-ducts would have bled semen.

“So what happened next? How did he kinda co-write this blog?”

Well, I haven't washed my hand since.

The End. 

 

"I'm rich, biaaaaatch!"

Irking Me Off; #3 Bloke in High Heels

Bonjour you cunts [#PrayForParis], firstly let me apologise if you've been waiting for me to drop some literary gem, because this ain't it. I've got some shizzle [people still say that right?] I'm working on, but right this instant I'm in a bad mood, but I don't want to write about the thing that put me in a bad mood because I need to keep my job... at least until Christmas. So instead I'm writing about the last person to irk me; the bloke in high heels.

First and foremost, I'm just going to put it out there, I don't care about people cross-dressing, got no problem with it. We as humans have dedicated certain clothing items to certain genders, if a man wants to wear a skirt, it doesn't make him any less masculine, it's often funny as fuck, but I wouldn't think any less of him... because if he's brave enough to do that he'd probably knock my brittle frame in half.

Anyway, let's get to the fucking story...

I was walking to work the other morning at exactly 9.23am and my walks to and from work are always quite interesting. This is because from where I live is a shit-hole rife with unhappy married couples, students and drug addicts [that's me by the way], yet where I work is a rather upmarket, Tory voting [SCUMBAGS!!] area. For example; When I start my walk to work, I get the joy of seeing a man stealing clothes off a washing line on a Sunday morning. And when I'm five minutes from my house on a walk from work; I get the pleasure of seeing a group of junkies shooting up on a set of steps on a Thursday night [and yes those things actually happened].

And on the other hand; minutes after leaving work I pass a house with four cars on the drive [and none of them are up on bricks!]. And once before work I was in the local shop [that closes for a few hours midday, in this fucking day and age!] buying some Lucozade to power me through the onslaught of shit I was about to receive at work, and I was clearly second in the queue and while waiting an older middle-class lady [aka COFFIN-DODGING TORY CUNT] entered the shop, picked up her Daily Telegraph [aka FILTHY FUCKING TORY RAG!] and proceed to try and get served before me, but I'm a fucking gangsta... when it comes to retail etiquette... and I wasn't standing for any of that shit and she actually scoffed at me when I get served first... BITCH, I WAS SECOND IN THE QUENE BEFORE YOU EVEN STEPPED FOOT IN THE SHOP, YOU CUNT!

I kinda got rambling, but you get the point; I encounter a mix of people on my journeys to and from work, so on to the bloke in the high heels.

So once again; let's get to the fucking story...

I was walking to work the other morning at exactly 9.23am and I was almost at work, while descending quite a steep residential road coming up against me was the bloke in high heels [no homo]. When I walk to work I don't listen to music, just the noise around me and the thoughts in my head... and on this day; my thoughts were disturbed... and later on those disturbed thoughts were disrupted by the sound of high heels, yet when I glanced up from my iPhone expecting to see a female, I in fact saw a male!

I was slightly confused. Look, 9.23 am is not my “peak time”, I achieve my “peak time” after about four beers and two zoots, so if I'm working early; 7:45pm, working late; 1:30am, day off; ASAFP [the F stands for Fucking]. So, at 9.23am I'm usually feeling the effects of getting to and beyond the previous' day's “peak time”... what I'm trying to say is; I'm not too on-point. It takes a little time for things to register.

Although I'm slight be-puzzled, I glance at the man's footwear as he approaches me, maybe he's wearing some fancy winklepickers...
“They do look like high heels.” I think to myself, as my heavily bagged and still bloodshot eyes view the man's choice in foot attire.
I look away as he gets closer.
“Nah, he's not wearing high heels, you're seeing things you alcoholic stoner!” I think to myself. But I should have another look for conformation...
“Yep, he's wearing high heels! This man, is wearing high heels!”
Yet I still don't believe what I'm seeing, so I go for another look. And lone and behold this bloke is in high heels.

By this point the bloke in the high heels had noticed I taken notice to fact he was a bloke in high heels, and he shot me a dirty look... the kind of judgemental look a narrow minded individual would give to a bloke in high heels. But I'm not some narrow minded individual, yes I was giving the bloke in high heels a judgemental look and it was in part because of his choice of footwear but it has fuck all to do with any hatred towards his life style choice... it's all simply based around the fact he had his bicycle with him!

He was obviously pushing his bike... because he was in high heels! Who the fuck rides a bike in high heels, that's ridiculous! It's like this dude's seen the ending of Jurassic World and thought;
“Fuck it, if that bitch can outrun a T-Rex in high heels I can ride a bike in them!”
… but you can't, you twat! You was fucking pushing your bike, the fact of the matter is, if you were actually riding your bike, I wouldn't have noticed the clippity-clop of your heels sounding like a tap-dancer having a fucking seizure on stage! Which wouldn't have made my drug-addled mind constantly glance at your footwear, which in turn; wouldn't have got you thinking I was judging your lifestyle choice... which I totally wasn't, you cross-dressing twat!

The End.

Pussy Problems Part II: Pussy Parental Predicament

aka How I Stole a Cat and Made a Little Girl Cry

Hello, obviously you've all read my outstanding literary piece; PussyProblems, for those of you that haven't, it's worth checking out, one review stated; “better than your usual shit, but still not good”. So that's… almost... good, I suppose.

To be fair, you don't have to read it as I'm going to catch you up here anyway;

[Read in Ominous Voice] Previously on Pussy Problems; our protagonist finds himself embroiled in an action packed cat-sitting favour for a friend.

So now you're all caught up, let's scan read the rest of this shit, like the link of Facebook and get back to our miserable lives. 

"Ben, if I do this cute face will you stay home from work and play laser pen with me all day?"

 

So, you know the deal, I've been looking after a friend's cat for a while now and over that time I've got slightly fond of the greedy bag of fur, in fact I'm so fond of the thing it's perhaps that only thing I've ever loved more than myself [and yes, my girlfriend does read this blog, and she's come to terms with this]. So when my friend finally sorted out her living arrangements and got her life back on track she obviously wanted her cat back. [Re-reading that makes it sound like my friend had some major drug problem, that wasn't the case... at least, I don't think it was.]

Now, I knew this day would come, although I'd try to convince myself that it wouldn't. Although I expel a negative attitude towards 99.8% of everything inhabiting this doomed rock rotating around a dying star, deep down in what constitutes as my 'soul', I'm actually an optimist, an extremely lazy optimist. I thought things would work out for the best.

So upon my friend requesting a day and time to come and fetch Fiona, I simply ignored her messages. I wasn't trying to freeze her out, I was just biding my time, trying to muster up the correct turn-of-phrase for; “I love your cat, she loves me, she's my cat now, let us be happy and get out of our lives forever. No hard feelings.” But trying to find the right words proved difficult [luckily, it's not like finding the right words for a subject is something I'm basing all my aspirations on... oh wait, shit!]. Once I finally opened up a dialogue with my friend and tried my best to explain my case, she wouldn't yield on her determination of retrieving [what she considered to be] her cat.

This obviously left me in a slight predicament; a pussy parental predicament, you may say [Get it? That's the titled of the blog, wow, I'm clever]. My friend was unquestionably the mother of this cat [not biological], but Fiona had become the Lilly to mine and my flatmate's roles of Mitch and Cam, and we'd become a little Modern Family as we'd began to feel like her fathers [me and my house-mate are not gay, by the way, despite the rumours]. Although we were arguing over Fiona, I completely understood my friend's side, we both had legitimate claims to the cat and we both weren't going to back down.

Now, I don't like confrontation seeing as I'm a man in his late[-mid-] 20s trapped in the body of a nine year old girl [in a none paedophile way]. So with this weighing on my shoulders along with the agonising decision on whether to give up what had become a significant part of my life, I was starting to get a little overly stressed and emotional... over a cat. It seems stupid, but if you tried to get between me and Fiona I'd happily kick your face off, even with my tiny little girl legs!

I will probably not [willingly] add the overpopulation of this dying society by providing offspring, so Fiona is the closet thing to a child I've had before and will probably ever have. I don't want children, I don't have the time to take pictures of it and upload them to Facebook [I'm pretty sure that's all parenting a baby is nowadays*]. I need to project my life lessons and ideologies onto someone and seeing as I'm yet to find a human worthy of such a mammoth task, it'll have to be Fiona. I couldn't let her go now, she has so much more to learn.

I like to think of myself as quite a decent bloke, despite what's written about me in numerous female public toilets across Derby, so my actions in with-holding Fiona tested my morality. I knew I was what I was doing was wrong, but because of my bond with Fiona, it also felt right. It was difficult and frustrating.

And after a continuous back and forth with my friend, both of us pleading our cases, the day finally arrived and she came over to my flat to claim her cat.

We sat. We spoke. Calmly.

She was surprised at how big Fiona had gotten, or in her [and my girlfriend's] words; “fat”. Which is totally not the case, it's all muscle. Relaxed muscle. 

"Ben, are you really taking an unflattering photo of me now? You prick!"

 

We discussed all of Fiona's character traits, the ones that's she's long over; bringing mouthfuls of food from her bowl in the kitchen to eat in the living room, her fondness for tipping over bins, along with her new ones; sleeping in open drawers and her excellent moth eliminating skills.

After a while, we had a private chat, in which my friend relinquished ownership of Fiona onto me. I'm not sure what did it and I didn't want to ask. Whether it's the fact that my friend saw Fiona was really at home with us, or more simply she just realised it'd be difficult to leave my flat with the cat while I was clasped to her ankles a sobbing mess. Either way it was an upsetting scene, I felt ecstatic that my alarm clock/greeter/lap warmer would continue her major role in my pathetic existence, but I was also upset that my friend had to make a such a sacrifice for my happiness.

But I'm glad she did.

Because Fiona is awesome. She's my little right-hand man... but female and a feline. They say cats choose their owners, and I honestly think Fi made the decision that I'm her owner after I returned from my holiday to Majorca. She was so excited to see me, or at least I think she was. She didn't leave my side for the week after that, following me everywhere I went, solidifying the bond we'd created.

So now she's mine. My little furry bundle of joy. And although her shits could have saved Hitler millions on his gas bills and she wakes me every morning to be fed by either sitting on my back/head or poking me with her paw in the face, she's my family now and until the day I die and she eats my corpse. 

"Ben, my fur is purrr-fect, you could have run a fucking comb over your head before taking this! You're embarrassing to be seen with! You prick!"

*Sounding old and grumpy there.

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.