Thursday, 31 July 2014



A friend and I once convinced someone that we were really angels sent to put him back on the ‘righteous path’. We only looked like Nathan and Mike, but we were angels.

It was easy because the guy was stoned off hit tits and, if I must be honest, a bit of an idiot.

Why did we do it? Not sure.

Sometimes it’s fun to lie. Sometimes kids lie for attention, adults lie to sound more intelligent than they are, and I suppose some people tell a lie they reckon will make then appear cooler.

Apparently, writers tell lies to reveal deeper truths about society and the human condition… don’t know about that one.

The internet is 90% porn and 9% lies. And maybe I’m being presumptuous about that 1% of truth.

One of these lies is that there are certain ‘superfoods’ that can prevent cancer. It’s all stuff that you hated as a kid - Beetroot, ugh. Broccoli, gross. Green tea, have you tasted that shit?


Sure, eating fruit and veg helps. You’d be foolish to think otherwise. But the term ‘superfood’ comes from the mind of marketing scumbags, not scientists. Cancer is complex, and no one food is going to make much of a difference.

The truth is that being boring goes a long way: Don’t smoke, drink less, get some exercise you fatsack. Simples.

Another old wives tale is that sugar fuels cancer cells.

Remember when your mum used to say: “Don’t eat sweets, they’ll give you cancer!”… What? She never said that? Something about rotten teeth? Oh, my mistake.

Anyway, internet mums are saying that sugar feeds cancerous cells and makes them stronger. But here’s the truth: All sugars are carbs and whether it’s from “carrot or cake” (or carrot cake) these carbs get broken down to release glucose and fructose and provide energy for us to live.

Sure, cancer cells use glucose too, but so do all our cells. And there’s evidence that cancerous cells use this energy differently so…

And then in July this year the University of Exeter discovered that smelling farts cures cancer.

Okay, they discovered that “the targeted delivery of a compound called AP39 caused more hydrogen sulphide to be produced by an ailing cell”.

Hydrogen sulphide is the gas that makes farts stink and in small doses can prove protective to cells’ mitochondria. This would help resist the progression of diseases such as cancer.

It’s produced naturally in our bodies and only has “implications for future therapies”. So don’t go sniffing turds, it doesn’t work like that.

Of course, the greatest cancer myth is that chemotherapy is some kind of hairy superhero who pees fire… Honestly, who are these dickheads?

Oh yes, and on 31 August I’m SHAVING MY HEAD FOR CANCER RESEARCH so scientists can bring us more facts and less bollocks.

Monday, 21 July 2014

Blood in the Toilet Bowl

On my ‘Bad Morning’ scale this ranks above ‘stubbing my toe’ and maybe a teeny bit below ‘there’s an axe-murderer in the kitchen’.

It’s the first day of 2014 and the toilet bowl looks like a slaughterhouse floor.

Like bad modern art.

Like the aforementioned axe-murderer isn’t in the kitchen. He’s inside my arsehole swinging like Babe Ruth.

I ask myself: How much did I drink last night?

The other me. The me with small horns on his head and tiny sharp shark’s teeth. He laughs. Pats my shoulder. I look into his obsidian eyes as he whispers, “You’re going to die.”

Over 42,00 British men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer this year. It’s New Year’s Day. Maybe I’m the first.

One out of every eight men in the UK will get it. So why not me? What makes me the exception?

The answer is, nothing. One thing I know about myself is that I’m not exceptional.

I tell myself it’s nothing. I’m not eating enough vegetables or drinking too much Jack Daniels. Something like that.

I’m too scared to tell my wife. If there’s one thing worse than your impending death it’s the impending death of a spouse. Someone you’ve decided to spend the rest of your life with dropping out half-way.

So don’t tell her, I say. Don’t tell her unless there’s something to worry about.

This idea is worth about as much as a chocolate fireplace or, say, a waterproof teabag.

She knows me too well. Hell, she knows if I’m lying about her bad coffee-making skills.

Me: Great coffee, pumpkin.
Lucy: You're lying.

See what I mean.

It takes about two seconds for Lucy to know something’s up.

Me: Good morning, my beautiful monkey-pie.
Lucy: What’s the matter?
Lucy: Okay, talk to me about it when you’re ready.

So I tell her everything. Honestly, I think she works for MI6 or something. They call her in when the guy who pulls fingernails out isn’t having any luck.

She’s worried, and tells me to see a doctor.

I talk to a doctor’s receptionist, and then I talk to God… sorry, I mean Google. I talk to Google.

Google tells me that Prostate Cancer is more common in black Caribbean or black Africans than white people. He's a dirty racist. He’s one of those English Defence League dickheads you see dragging their knuckles down the street, shouting abuse at everyone.

Google also says that Prostate Cancer has ‘short man syndrome’. It grows faster in taller men.

It is also a fattist.

The rest of the information I couldn’t quite understand. What can I say, I’m more than just an ugly face. I’m stupid too.

Then I’m in the doctor’s waiting room with the usual suspects. The hypochondriacs. The screaming kids.

And me staring at the coalface of Death, on the precipice of the Great Beyond thinking: What have I done with my life?

Melodramatic, but that’s how it goes.

The doctor tells me to roll into the foetal position. He lubes up. Pops a clothes peg on his nose.

The snap of latex on his wrist tells me it’s Time.

I close my eyes and try to think of Batman. Not in that way. Not sexually. Hey, I like Batman but… I mean, imagine his sex toys. Dangerous.

I lie back and tell myself Batman could do this. He’d be tough.

It’s what I always tell myself when I’ve got to do something unpleasant. It’s what I tell myself when the dentist is standing over me with a Black & Decker in his hand.

Batman could do this.

I used to think the dentist was awkward and uncomfortable. A prostate check blows that right out of the water.

The doctor feels for swelling or lumps. Checks the size of my prostate. He rummages around inside my anus and when he comes back up for air he says, “Looks fine. We’ll take a blood sample just to be safe.”


No cancer. I’m not going to die.

But for a short time I was. I mean, I am. We’re all going to die. One day.

And I could still be diagnosed with prostate cancer. One day.

It made me think about all the things I haven’t done.

I haven’t finished that novel.

I haven’t told Lucy enough times that I think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world.

I’m lucky.

Lucy thinks that shaving my head to raise money for cancer research is brave. She thinks I’m doing it because I have a good heart.

It’s not brave. It’s not even altruistic.

One day I might not be so lucky. And if you DONATE it means that there’ll be more money for research. And if there’s more research then it’ll be less stressful the next time the toilet bowl looks like a scene from Friday the 13th.

And when evil horned me leans over my shoulder whispering in my ear I can casually punch him in the face. knock his pointy teeth out.

DONATE HERE. Or if you can’t afford to, share this link.

Saturday, 19 July 2014

Cancer, Goldilocks and Superman's Pee of Fire

Cancer is a motherfucker.

He most often turns up as a tumor. Just walks into your body like he owns the place. Sits in your chair. Sleeps in your bed.

Like Goldilocks if she were a fat smelly parasitic crack whore.

Cancerous tumors are mutations of our own cells. These affected cells start dividing uncontrollably - a cockroach’s bursting egg sack sending its dirty babies out to deliver carnage.

OMG! Goldilocks is a giant cockroach crack whore pumping out cockroach babies!

And cockroaches are fast. They race past your bodies defenses. It’s called asmetastasis. The cockroach spawn find their way into your bloodstream, spread through your whole body.

Cells from malignant tumors can invade many different tissues. They’re not choosy. They can get to your lungs, spleen, bone, everywhere.

Each metastatic cell sets up camp. Goldilocks going global. And forms a new tumor in the new location.

Put simply: If this happens you die.

Your body can’t support the growth of so many tumors. Your organs, working so hard to keep you alive, get a big fat bastard sitting on them. They can’t work anymore. They stop and YOU DIE.

So you think, fuck this shit, and call in Chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy is grizzled angry Superman without the dorky costume who really, really hates Cancer. Seriously, if cancer were on fire he’d pee on it only because grizzled Superman’s pee IS MORE FIRE!!!

Chemotherapy is designed to kill rapidly dividing cells. All those cockroach babies. Grizzled Superman uses his telescopic vision to spot them and then uses his fucking huge fists to pound them into oblivion and then just to be safe he pees his FLAMING PEE all over them.

The problem is some of those rapidly dividing cells aren’t cockroaches. They’re beautiful butterfly babies that only want to kiss and be nice. They’re normal healthy functioning cells. They’re your hair follicles and stomach lining.

That’s why chemo patients lose their hair and feel like puking most of the time.

Grizzled Superman has to kill just enough cells to kill the tumors, but not so many so he kills you.

And then he pees on them. Did I mention that grizzled superman PEES FIRE? He does. I mean, FIERY PEE!!! Awesome!

So because I love grizzled Superman and fucking hate cockroach crack whore Goldilocks I’M SHAVING MY HEAD ON THE 31 AUGUST TO RAISE MONEY FOR CANCER RESEARCH. 

They need money to make grizzled Superman more awesome and make his FIERY PEE even hotter.

Give generously. Don’t be cheap. Someday Goldilocks might sneak through your window. Sit in your chair. And pump her cockroach crack whore babies through your body.