a beautiful revolution: blog

Why Go Out?

Why go out?

Stay in.

Friday nights are great.

I love them.

Sit at home. Pour yourself a glass of wine. Watch fuck all on tele. Spend a drunken evening talking to the bucket of Prozac pills resting between your knees. Order yourself a Chicken Tikka Masala. Browse the Guardians lonely-hearts section. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find someone whose whole miserable life; has been waiting for a boy like you.

Hurrah.

Then you can get married. Have a baby. She can have a fling. You can have a breakdown. She can book you both in to see a marriage guidance councillor. You can give it one last try. She can have a fling. Then you can have a bitter divorce and spent the next three years of your life tied to a tree dressed in a Batman outfit.

‘It’s not fair’ you can cry ‘The British justice system has something against me’

The News of the World will take your picture.

Channel five will make a documentary.

Then every psychopathic ex you foolishly slept with will come out of the closet and tell the ‘Max Clifford’ truth about your wonky cock.

Why go out.

Stay at home

Be a sad fuck like me

The Sad Jihad

I was sitting on my doorstep, tying my lace, when a little Pakistani Lady dressed in black burqa and red Nike trainers walked passed.

I nodded my head, but she was too afraid to nod back - it made me think: Muslims and the manic depressed have a lot in common: Both make no eye contact. Both find confident Americans slightly nauseating and both like to wear black.

I’ve got a gun – nobody smile

They are trying to get me

‘Who?’

Happy people.

Just lately, I’ve found myself in the company of a few. It is very unnerving. They laugh. They smile. They try to tempt me over to the ‘other side’.

‘Holy Prozac’ I hear you cry

Fear not my fellow manic-depressive; we at the Sad-Fuck-Café are on to them. It will take more than a bottle of cider and a couple of 12inch discothèque tunes to catch us out. Oh yes.

Honestly, aren’t the happy people nice – it makes me quite cross - I’m really tempted to shoot a couple of the bastards from my bedroom window. So bloody nice - So bloody trusting.

‘Hello mate’ they naively say ‘it’s really lovely to see you’

Don’t they realize that the person they’ve just innocently greeted with a smile, is secretly planning to rob their house, poison both their cats and run off into the sunset with their utterly unfulfilled lover?

‘Fools’ I tell you ‘Fools’

Now where did I put my pellet gun?

A very dramatic moment

I was just about to turn the light on when he grabbed me by the leg and wrestled me to the floor.

My SAS manpowers immediately kicked into action  'yeah ... come on then you bastard thief ' I screamed.

I grabbed his skinny arm, managed to elbow him in the rib, and used the weight of my manly physic to pin him to the floor. 'No drug dealing fucker's having my Macintosh computer' I squealed, keeping his head pined to the ground whilst I desperately fumbled for the light switch.

I turned the light on.

I'd forgotten to put the vacuum cleaner away.

Think I've grazed my knee

Every breath you take.

I can sense him sitting there, in the corner of the room, smoking his Havana cigar, vigorously noting my every move in his moleskin pad. The way I smile. The way I almost allow the opinions that fill my head to scatter across a room full of strangers. The way I flirt, curtsey; humbly bow to anyone that looks me straight in the eye. The way my shyness covers the fear of contributing to the debate. The way he shakes his head as my confidence builds. The way he checks his watch the moment my heart begins to fall. The way he knows my deepest secrets - if I don't play your game - you can't beat me. If I don't raise my hand - you can't reject me. If I don't stand up - you won’t notice me. If I tell you I'm stupid - you'll never see how smart I sometimes think I am. He's always watching. Always. I hope he isn't watching me tomorrow ...

Hot tin roof

Mother has gone on holiday [Portugal]

I am looking after her three cats

Every time the phones rings all four of us dash behind the settee in a state of blind panic.

I feel that we are bonding.

Bearded Italian Icon

Dear Sweet Baby Jesus

I realise that now isn’t a good time for you but I can’t sit here any longer GODDAMNIT [sorry] twiddling my thumbs waiting for something good to happen to me. And don’t pretend you’re not reading abeautifulrevolution.com because I know you are – everyone reads abeautifulrevolution.com – even your Father once send me an emotionally charged, deeply personal email – but I told him not to worry: George W Bush will eventually die and Oprahs popularity is bound to fade - Anyway – Jesus – when is something good going to happen to me  – I’ve been sitting here for 38 years eagerly waiting to inherit the earth but fuck all has happened. I’m beginning to doubt you and your slap dash Italian ways?

I want peace, love, and a busty blonde angel by Friday or I’m off to have a word with Allah.

Yours sincerely

Andre.

Just leave me alone

I am skinny. Puny. Meek. But I am not weak.

Most people misdiagnose this part of me.

When I say most people - what I mean is - women. And when I say women I don’t mean all women, no, that would be chauvinistic, and wrong - I mean a particular type of woman that is attracted to my skinny, puny, meek ways. I am talking about women with a Borderline Personality Disorder.

Now, I know you’re all sitting there, reading this, thinking Andre’s playing the self-deprecatingly fool again but I’m not – this is not a fable – it’s a fact – even the Blessed One [my therapist] agrees. Ladies with a Borderline Personality Disorder are completely infatuated by me.

It's beginning to piss me off.

Irritating child

I haven’t had sex for almost 38 years - Am I doing something wrong?

I shall be 39 in November

When is man-sperm no longer suitable for breeding with - not that anyone would want my man-sperm – I mean, who wants a manic depressed toddler crawling round their front run?

‘Nobody wants to play with me’

‘Daddy hates me’

‘I’ve pooed my pants’

‘I can’t stand the shame’

‘I want to die’

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