Let us begin the beguine at the beguineing: I am what you human beings call “drunk.” I’m at that stage where I’m in my room – oh fuck, it’s not MY room, it’s a four-bed dorm in a hostel – and I’ve just been stood in front of the mirror calling myself a cunt repeatedly. So, yes, ich bin ein bit drunk. Earlier today, before I left Ushuaia, I was in a cafe and that Celine Dion song from “Titanic” came on. It is, as we all know, a piece of shit song. Utter turd. Absolutely shite. Complete wank. Yes, Mum, I used some swear words. But I noticed a couple in the cafe suddenly got a bit more intimate with each other. Their coffees and their sandwiches faded away into insignificance. They looked at each other, and I knew right there that this was their song. Now, as I said, it’s a shockingly bad song. But, who the fuck am I to judge? It’s fundamentally wrong to mock other peoples’ choice of songs to fall in love to. That might’ve been the song they danced to at their wedding. Who am I to piss on that romantic bonfire? Yes, the song sucks big time; it sounds like a vacuous love song with all the emotional intensity of a laminated menu or a Blu-Tacked “Closing Down Sale” sign in a fax machine shop window, but to these two people, that song brings back all those feelings. It churns up the tornado of love in their bellies. How can I piss on that bonfire with my music-snob shite? I can’t, because I’m the same. I can’t hear “Silent Sigh” by Badly Drawn Boy or “Home and Dry” by the Pet Shop Boys without thinking about the wonderful beginnings of a relationship with a specific girl. I can’t hear “The Way I Feel Inside” by the Zombies without knowing that I was an idiot and fucked up a perfectly good relationship, simply because that song was in “Dear Wendy,” the first film she and I went to see together. In fact, any song by the Zombies does that; which is difficult because I fucking love the Zombies; especially “This Will Be Our Year,” which is a problem because at the time, it really did feel like it would be our year. Then my mental state came crashing down around my ears and I callously and needlessly and regrettably ended it. Yes, I’m a twat. But, thankfully for her, she’s now in a relationship that seems to be going strong, and I’m the one who’s just been sat at the bar in a, err, bar in Patagonia, staring at the smiley-face sticker on the front of my iPod thinking, what the fuck are you smiling at? Yes, this is drunken confession time. Woo hoo, strap yourselves in, the Quilmes beer rollercoaster is beginning. Frankly, I’m sick of my life being partitioned perfectly; with different friends separated to fit different parts of my personality. And, oh fuck, why the hell am I typing this into Blogger? I’m sick of the privacy bubble I’ve blown up around myself. There’s so much I hold back from blogging about. While Hanni and I were together, I hardly mentioned her at all on the blog. I didn’t mention Zombies Girl at all, even though we five months together and spent Christmas with her family in Mexico. That was so wrong. I’m pissed off with myself that I did that kind of stuff. It kinda proves that I’m the cunt that the mirror told me I was, and hopefully, I won’t delete this post in the morning, cos I need this tattooed to remind me not to be a dick any more; to remind me that I’m not as great as I think I am. See, I live in this bubble of ego, where I actually think I’m fucking great and incredibly talented. Essentially, though, apart from the odd flurry of stuff, I’ve had writer’s block for a couple of years now. But I know there’s more good stuff there. It just needs to be forced out somehow. I know that there’s more good stuff to go on FFF, and if I could just somehow sell more books – hey, have you bought Atlas, Schmatlas yet? It really is wonderful, but has sold bugger all so far, partly because of The Onion’s damn (admittedly hilarious) atlas being published at virtually the same time – yes, if I could do that, then maybe I’d have more chance to spend less time whoring myself out to do Minipops for dumb advertising campaigns, and I could find that fucking great idea that IS there inside my head somewhere; something so good that the need I have for other people to adore my work will slip away. But for now, I need that heroin of people leaving comments telling me they like what I have said. It’s sometimes disheartening to write something that amuses me a lot, but gets few comments; it’s a reminder that my humour isn’t always the same as other peoples’. But then a post like the last one comes along and I know it’s pretty damn good. It made me laugh a lot writing it. And I was glad that it got comments and emails: fuck, the Internet is a fun thing. And it made me realise that yes, sometimes things like a blog post can be a work of art. Oh, you may think I’m a pompous, drunken tool right now, but I don’t care. What I do care about is the beauty in imagining a thoroughly unattractive woman cupping my balls in teaspoons. That, to me, is as funny as life gets. And since writing “Atlas, Schmatlas” all I’ve wanted to do is write. Drawing holds no interest for me any more. Hopefully it’s a fleeting thing, but it feels weird to not love drawing. It’s always been there for me in my life. Music waned for a while when it became a job. Football bored me at the beginning of the 1998/99 season after the World Cup (just TOO MUCH football). But drawing never did. And now it has. All I wanna do is write write write. And the beautiful by-product of that is you people. You that have bothered to read this far. Those of you that see beyond those fucking ridiculous Minipops. I love you all. Even those of you that are fucking idiots (joke! It’s was a joke, calm down!). You people are golden. And I hope you stay golden. And stay gold is a fucking great phrase from a fucking great film and also the title of, yes, a fucking great song by Deep Dish. A song that I’d happily fall in love to and have played at my wedding, even though the DJ would probably only have the version with Tracy Thorn singing on it rather than the exquisite instrumental original version. And it would mean that I’d have to do my wedding dance to a house record, but I know, I know that beyond my wife’s shoulder, there would be my mate James at the edge of the dancefloor, and he’d catch my eye and mouth the words “fucking tune!” And life would rule the school and rock the bells at that moment.