Doze Snooze Sleep

On a recent walk down the street, I was delighted to be approached by a foul smelling homeless man who offered me a freshly printed edition of The Big Issue, in exchange for a mere pound.

‘Please sir, ‘elp me put a roof over my ‘ead for the night! It’s so cowld outside ‘n the rats nibble somethin’ rotten on me testicles, look…’

As I examined the scarred, and surprisingly soft, testicles of the homeless man, I cupped them gently in my hands, like a pair of freshly laid bird eggs. I took care to note how many pedestrians gave me a funny look, or ignored me entirely. But what they failed to note was that, in print, their ignorance and funny looks are easily construed as jealousy.

You’re probably thinking ‘what a surprising story, ’. But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise; at least, not for me.

Throughout my life, I’ve regularly had my bags packed for me in the supermarket, or had my post delivered right to my house, all by people I don’t know. Once, I was walking down Canary Wharf when a pigeon shit on my head; I didn’t know the pigeon, and hadn’t asked anything of it; whilst another time, in Englefield Green, I bought a sausage roll from a fair, only to have my money refused by the elderly proprietor, who was having a stroke.

Another time, as I was walking through London’s Portobello Road market, I was tapped on the shoulder and presented with a beautiful bunch of flowers. It doesn’t matter if they were immediately snatched back due to a case of mistaken identity, that incident actually happened.

And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to receive such treatment, the donors always do the same thing: They ignore me, preferring instead, to simply imply, that my chiselled jaw, flawless hair, turquoise ‘oasis in the desert of your face’ eyes, smooth skin, winning smile, wrinkle free forehead, succulent lips, pearly white teeth, great personality, and inherent modesty had made their day.

While I’m certainly no Danny Mcbride, I’m tall-ish, somewhere between slim and athletic, brunette, and, so I often tell myself, a good-looking guy. I know, that you know, that I know, that you know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to being this fucking awesome – and that is, that everyone hates me for no other reason that my ‘better than Jesus’ looks.

Or maybe ‘God Like’ – hmm… - ok, let’s go with that:

But there are downsides to being this fucking awesome – and that is, that everyone hates me for no other reason that my ‘God Like’ looks.

If you’re a person who exists, and you’re reading this, then firstly, Well Done! You Exist! And secondly, I’d hazard that you’ve already formed your own opinion of me – and it’s probably that I’m so amazing you must hate me. I’ve never studied Psychology (despite demanding that all my mail be delivered to DR Watts), but even I know that this is textbook stuff. People hate me because I shine so brightly that their own failings are highlighted. A classic case of a Countered Ultra Narcissism Template. Better known as C.U.N.T. Syndrome. I’m like a big, luminous cunt highlighting other people’s flaws – and it’s unfair that people hate me for it.

I’m not ugly and I’m not poor, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by many friends (read: two friends, one parent), who all felt threatened by my gorgeous existence. If their partners dared talk to me, an awkward pause would always ensue.

And it’s not just most people who dislike me. Insecure parents have grounded me and sent me to bed without supper, just for looking like I do.

And most poignantly at all, not one boyfriend (no homo) has ever asked me to be his best man (probably worried I’ll be the ‘better’ man per se).

In the next segment I’ll be utilising a narration technique known as ‘flashbacking’. As a fully qualified writer, with merit, I have been trained in the art of narration, dating all the way back to the Viking tradition. In short, here’s what happened when I turned up unannounced at a co-worker’s party.

*

The last few cocaine particles flew up my nostril, bidding farewell to the portacabin homes they had, only moments ago, set up on my credit card. My eyes bulged and my heart quickened as I rolled up my sleeves, and slicked back my hair.

Feeling like that guy out of Miami Vice, not the remake, I strode through the front door of Martin-From-Work’s moving in party.

I spied a free bar on the kitchen counter and made a beeline for it, taking note that pretty much everyone from the office was already here. I guess that now I had arrived – Mr T.Watts AKA Mr V.I.P. - the party could really start.

I grabbed a bottle and took a swig,

‘What the fuck man? That’s my beer!’

‘Thanks,’ I replied, flashing a high powered, aggressively gleaming, smile at the offended party – a rather attractive and petite little blonde, an intern most likely, and on the scale of ‘attractiveness relative to me’, maybe a six and a half in five beers time.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Aurora, I’m new’

‘Oh cool…’ I said, feigning interest, ‘what would you shorten that to…Rory?’

‘Excuse me?’

I sighed audibly; to show her how exasperated she made me. I knew that she may be a six and a half in five beers time, but I was four down and even-three-ly I would need two do a number one.

‘Your name dear, your name’

‘Oh, well it’s Goldie, actually,’ giggled the increasingly perky blonde.

What an odd choice of name, I thought to myself

‘What an odd choice of name,’ I said aloud, ‘….Why?’

‘Because the first two letters are Au, the chemical symbol for Gold’

‘Fair enough’

I smiled, but internally all my alarms were blaring the word ‘Nutter!’ repeatedly. Suddenly, I was yelling! Louder and louder and louder,

‘Nutter! Nutter! Nutter! Nutter!’

I had become so carried away with own internal monologue that I had subconsciously started yelling my own internal alarm out loud. Aurora had frozen stiff. Her eyes narrowed and her nose flared, like a pair of jeans from the 70s or from That 70s Show.

‘Did I say that out loud? Oh, I’m terribly sorry! It’s just I’ve got these oh, so beautiful cheek bones, you see’

‘So what? You’re still a prick’

‘Well, being beautiful means that I’m automatically better than you, and that you should forgive me’

‘You what?’

‘Really? You want me to repeat myself to you? Did you know, that I can hear a train from over a mile away – my ears are that perfect. And you? You can’t even listen to my wonderfully pronounced sentences?’

I left the rhetorical question hanging there, like a fishhook tantalisingly hanging, like a slightly different fishhook tantalisingly hanging in a sea of awkward silence.

The hook dangled, and dangled, and dangled some more, we all agreed later it was the longest dangle we ever did saw.

‘You should see someone about that, get some grommets or something,’ I said to break the silence, albeit at the cost of the arguably more effective rhetorical question.

Once again my pristine, better than Ken (of Ken and Barbie fame don’t you know), looks had thwarted any chance I had at normalcy.

‘Wanker,’ came a shout from the crowd.

It was quickly followed by another, and another, until I was being rained down upon by some almighty curse-word rainstorm.

Well I wasn’t going to stand for that. Not from these peasants…

*

I once read somewhere that an effective writer enters midway into a scene, and leaves before it finishes. Well, if that makes a good writer, then judging by the quality of the ‘flashbacking’ episode above, the forced entry and the abrupt exit, then you better lock me up for multiple life sentences, throw away all the keys, soak the sponge, grant my last request, and then electrocute me, because I am guilty as charged.

It’s a shame that so many people are biased against beautiful people, such as myself and possibly Demi Moore circa 1992. I mean, it’s a well-known fact that in Ancient Greece, beautiful people were often drugged and then dipped in liquid marble, before being dripped dried into the statues we marvel at today. And what about Pompeii, the most beautiful town to have ever existed? You think a volcano buried so many beautiful people under ground? No, it was a traveling group of makeup artists, who applied so much mud to the Pompeiians’ face masks, they were buried alive.

So, now I’m 23, and only likely to become more beautiful as I become more refined with age, and maybe, just maybe, people will eventually learn to love and worship me, as they probably should. I’m a nice guy ,and as much as you all think you hate me, deep down, you all know that, my chiseled jaw, flawless hair, turquoise ‘oasis in the desert of your face’ eyes, smooth skin, winning smile, wrinkle free forehead, succulent lips, pearly white teeth, great personality, and inherent modesty should be a national treasure.

Unfortunately, only time will tell.

Feel free to use this ‘Cut out and keep Tom!’ mask to look as beautiful as me.