Tuesday, 30 June 2009

No More Mr. Nice-Guy.

I'm not nice anymore. I think I lasted nearly a week and really enjoyed the upset caused by simply being friendly and intrusively courteous. But it's not me. I knew I had given up being nice on Saturday when I saw a man running towards the escalator in London Bridge tube station. He was going down, the escalator was going up. I saw him stride confidently towards it for quite a while knowing fully well what might happen but, instead of being nice and stopping him from embarrassing himself or falling or dying, I just watched him do it. It was fun. He looked a twat for about a second, I felt like a git for an hour. Balance restored.

But what is the point in being nice? Everyone else is a complete cunt so why can't I be? Think about it. Seriously. Do you know anyone who isn't worse than Hitler? You don't, do you? Everyone is a big, annoying, embarrassing, evil cunt so, fuck it, if you can't kill them, join them.

When I logged on to Facebook yesterday there were 5 fucking, fucking, fucking photos IN A ROW of comedians on stage at The Comedy Store with the logo behind them. WELL FUCKING DONE! You utter genius. You managed to phone up people who despise you and grovel for a five minute open spot and a friend who owns a camera saw you there. That logo isn't a smile, you know? That's a detailed picture of Don Ward's toothy sphincter that he uses to eat desperate acts cocks with. So please, new acts (and others who should know fucking better), don't put your head too far up Don Ward's arse, you'll be decapitated.

That put me in a mood, to be honest. So I thought I'd spend the day sorting my house out. I built a bed! Fuck, yeah. I'm a carpenter now just like Jesus and Harrison Ford and Karen and Richard. It's a good way to get all your frustrations out, putting a bed together. It's so fidgety that you have to scream your face off every 9 seconds. Very releasing. Very primal. Probably good for you. I was dumping some old bed crap in the bin when my neighbour pointed out that a fight had started at the corner of our street. Good old Lewisham. Such a civil place.

She was right. A man was grabbing a woman by the head and trying to shove her into a flat. She was screaming (obviously) and he was shouting the language of the pissed at her. I phoned the police while I approached them. He stopped hitting her and said everything was fine. I disagreed. Luckily, our country's finest only need to be told 85 times where the "disturbance" was taking place and they'd send someone round right away-ish. In the meantime, I stood by the angry, drunk man and listened to him dribble his explanation. I said that he needed to tell this to the police not me. He then hit her again. She went into the flat and closed the door on him. The police arrived! Then drove right past. Eventually they got out of their car and started to walk directly into my neighbours house. She told them it was the house at the corner they wanted. You know? The one with the shouty drunk man outside it. The then briskly marched to the house at the corner. It was the WRONG corner. Again, I pointed out that it was the corner with the shouty drunk man. Fuck's sake.

The man was cuffed and taken away. I saw him this morning (about 9.30) coming out of his flat drinking a can of lager. He said Hello but, to be honest, I don't really want him as a friend. I bet he DEFINITELY has a photo of him beside the Comedy Store logo on his Facebook page.

So, back to being a cunt for me. It's the only way to fit in. Shame because during my (near) week of being nice I met some really nice people that just seemed so friendly and lovely (though they're probably faking it) but since I gave up nice on Saturday I seem to be surrounded by cunts. Maybe it's me?

I said I'd leave the subject of Michael Jackson but I saw the latest copy of Q Magazine yesterday. Jackson is on the cover and the story inside is about his upcoming O2 gigs with the claim "The Comeback of 2009!" Also on the cover is a story titled "Dead Rockstars Exhumed". Surely they regret all of that?


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