I haven’t written anything on this blog for a while, but that’s mainly because we’ve been rather busy looking after The Boy. Love him.
But I wanted to write about how we came to have Coen, because there’s a lot of taboo in this country around fertility and IVF, and maybe by sharing this, other people will feel more at ease talking with their friends and family about what they’re going through.
It’s a story that chronicles a number of years, so it’s a bit long, and for that I apologise, but I had lots to say!
I’ve posted it to Medium, my other blog site, because it looks a bit more professional and open to the public than this hidden little spot in this corner of the internet. The link is below. Do let me know in the comments if you found it interesting! And do share if you think you know anyone who would appreciate it.
I was born thirty-four years ago, dear readers, in 1982. You know those flattering requests for ID when buying booze? They are increasingly rare. Sometimes my back hurts. The hour of the morning at which it is no longer tolerable to lie in bed without needing to piss ebbs further and further from dawn with each passing year.
I am old.
I am but a child of nostalgia.
And yet, sociologists classify those born as early as the late 1970s as “Millennials”.
I am an old Millennial, then – but by golly there’s quite a difference between the decades.
Say what you like about the questionable music, fashion, politics and hair-dos of the 1980s, it won’t detract from my generation’s wonder in witnessing the exponential progress of technology, specifically in computer games.
Conversely, if you were born just a little later, in the 90s, games appeared before your doe eyes in the 2000s with seamless graphics and epic scale as standard, without any hint of how they reached such quality. With the 8-bit retro revolution making an aesthetic comeback among older gamers, you 90s babies must look upon them and frown – “But it looks all blocky and shit?”
Well, yes, you’re right. Games did look shit, in comparison. But, well… just fuck off, will you?
These are the games that influenced me during my formative years. And each and every one of them is beautiful in its own special way.
If you’ve been living in a bunker, with no access to the internet or media of any kind, you may be unaware of the forthcoming EU referendum in Britain, taking place on Thursday. I must say, I envy those of you without access to the toxic hate rags we disseminate in this country in the guise of “newspapers”.
I envy those of you who don’t have a radio, or access to interviews with the bile-belching liars we’ve come to know as Brexit “politicians”. Oh, to be blissfully ignorant of all this fear, all this pernicious paranoia.
Imagine not finding propaganda on your doorstep, filled to bursting with spurious claims, sensationalised graphics and outright deceit. Watch out! Seventy-six million Turks are on their way to the UK! (Oh no, wait, Turkey is decades away from achieving EU preconditions for joining, so that’s a lie. And would EVERY SINGLE TURK leave their country for this grey, racist shit-hole anyway?)
We could buy a new hospital every week with the £350m we send to the EU! (Oops, sorry, forgot to mention our EU rebate that chops that figure down to £190m, not to mention the investment we receive in return and the boon it gives to our economy – but look, we wrote it on a bus, SO IT MUST BE TRUE.)
But here we are, about to vote in a foolish referendum, apparently called to placate the racist whims of a bigoted minority and their loud-mouthed leader, Nigel Farage. What a boneheaded move by our prime minister, David Cameron, to pass this monumentally important decision on to a population totally unprepared to make it.
I want to take a moment to explain to you my favourite day of the year.
But before I go on, I want you to promise to hold your judgement until I’m through, because my favourite day of the year isn’t a bank holiday, or my birthday, or some commercialised national awareness day, like National Crumpet-Hurling Day, or Skydivers’ Bird-strike Awareness Week, or whatever (though they are no doubt worthy events).
No, my favourite day of the year is Drink Like A Twat Day.
It’s 9pm on a Saturday and Swarana and I are once again in Cambridge passing the time before we give Richard Branson a tinkle.
We’ve been doing this every once in a while since 2013; driving up to Swarana’s Mum’s, playing a nice game of Scrabbs, eating dosa or bhel puri or tasty shaak, and nervously picking up the phone to dial the Virgin Dick.
You see, back in the Christmas of 2012, I lovingly bought Swarana two tickets on a hot air balloon from Virgin Balloon Flights. But every time we’ve come up to punch those tickets, the flight gets cancelled at the last minute.
Deviating briefly from travel and fiction, I wanted to post something on this blog about the upcoming general election in the UK. Specifically, exploring why people vote Tory, when it is in absolutely everyone’s interests to do anything but.
It seems to me, there are two reasons one might vote Conservative.
The first reason is that you’ve had your head caved in by a ruthless beating from the right-wing press. You’ve been sold sensational lies and frightening rhetoric, and it has come from sources you considered reputable.
Stress – its thick oppressive tentacles writhing out of the everyday to consume you like some Cthuluian nightmare.
I am experiencing levels of stress that I had not anticipated in giving up work, renting out a house and going to sit on a beach for six months. These are supposed to be stress-quelling events – No more work! Mortgage paid for! Sunshine! Mojitos!
But that’s not the case at all. I attached a countdown to the sidebar of this blog in an attempt to pump some excitement into my cranium, but the ticking clock has not become an app of anticipation, but a widget of worry. Continue reading Tim running out→
In one month’s time, my girlfriend and I are leaving our newly acquired home, quitting our jobs, throwing caution to the wind, and buggering off to south-east Asia for six months.
I’d like to say we had a “Oh, sod this for a laugh,” moment, and it was all off-the-cuff spontaneity. Two free spirits, hitherto chained to the doldrums of perpetual work, escaping in a passionate eruption of carefree liberty…