Buggered Moron

I seem to have reached some sort of decision, a life changing, turning point if you will. I’m sure most of you will be able to empathise with my little episode. We’re all familiar with that inescapable feeling when we have to make a change in our lives aren’t we?

I can’t quite put my grubby little fingers on what exactly brought this on.

It could have been my recurring nightmares populated by haggered, wailing pensioners. Perhaps that cheap, “unhappy” chicken I bought induced more than just stabbing pains in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, it was a conversation I had with a local shop keeper, where he pretended to be mute just so he could refuse my requests for a hug, pushed me over the edge.

All this despite my clumsy efforts to communicate through that universal language: charades. Desperately throwing my arms around an upright newspaper stand, the closest thing my muddled mind could identify as a makeshift “human” prop, made little impact.

I left unembraced and quite cold.

The impetus for my erratic behaviour was simple; I had become morose.

The morbidly obese had ceased to make me giggle in public; scratching crude images of spunky penises into bus seats, accompanied with predictably oversized balls, failed to elicit even a snigger.

So what to do, what to do?

Dieticians claim what you eat can have a significant impact on your state of mind. But giving up my nightly feast of popcorn and muddy coffee seemed a little extreme to me, so I’ve taken a slightly different route.

I bid farewell to my bad characteristics.

Yes indeed. I bought them a one way train ticket, lovingly packed them all up and then saw them off at Kings Cross; handkerchief flapping in the wind, tears streaming down my face, as I ran alongside their carriage.

From now on, its “Ta ta” to my moronic tendencies. Well, not tendencies per se. Rather my constant ability to be a moron. Not an easy habit to change you understand, for all non morons reading this. Having talked the problem over with other morons, I’ve been assured the success rate for change is somewhere between nil and fucking never.

And sadly, there’s little support offered on the NHS. No scientists are working round the clock to find a miracle cure. No, if you’re a moron it’s really down to you. You have to scale that mountain by yourself, fling off the precipice and see if the fall equips you with some wits.

Or whether you’ll be smashed to bits.

Now I am not stupid. In my time on this world, I’ve debated politics (out loud), read a number of so called literary classics, most of the way through, and I even managed to appear on the BBC news; giving a highly informed soliloquy on the scourge of drunks that plague London’s mucky streets.

They asked, so I told them. I wasn’t sober at the time either, so was quite pleased with that particular performance.

I’m just not wise.

I’ve stumbled through this life; habitually make the same very simple mistakes over and over again.

Then, just when you think the penny’s dropped, I’ll make them some more.

Take money for example. I currently work for an organisation that informs today’s youth about the financial monsters lurking along their very own yellow brick road.

We cover all kinds of evil here; pay day whores, credit card munchkins and even debt wizards. For the most part, the kids lap it up. Only problem being; I’ve been two pounds short of bankruptcy my entire adult life. Oh the irony!

I nod and do my most passable impression of an understanding person during my 9-5 day, trying to conceal my dirty truth.

But when that school bell rings, I run for the nearest exit; waving tenners aloft, screaming for London to eat me up and leave me for dead.

And it kindly obliges. Because London is an utter shit.

If London were a person, they would be overweight, probably locked up in prison and hell bent on buggering anyone stupid enough to venture into its cell.

Someone like me.

And I would ask for more.

‘More rape please’

In the right surroundings though, I’d swear you can see a glimmer of twisted beauty in its gargantuan features.

If you hear a better analogy about London, I’ll eat your lying face.

Then again, while your financial orifices are being savagely rogered by your very own moronic tendencies, you’ll do anything to find a happy place.

That’s what I tell the kids anyhow.

Having forced my eyes opened my eyes to my true nature; I’ve made a very conscious effort to avoid being a moron and in turn stop being morose.

Despite my best intentions, it hasn’t worked.

You see, being a moron is genetic; something the NHS could have told me, if they’d bothered to manage their resources properly.

I can’t change it.

I give some money to a homeless person, before telling them to try this charming little bistro around the corner. I volunteered my babysitting services to a very grateful friend, then watched them recoil in horror as I asked what time “it” will be asleep as I usually masturbate around eight.

It’s hopeless.

So I’m not going to fight it anymore.

I imagine I’ll evolve, as all humans must do. It’ll just be in a moronic way. In a few months I’ll be buying cars from Gypsies. That’s right, plural.

All I’ll need is for someone else to do the gears if I’m driving a manual.

I’ll probably organise an eighties music night at a Turkish mafia owned club In a few months, that’ll no doubt end with one of my legs going missing.

Don’t help me, I am beyond it.

Words by Tim Green, illustration by Amy Ferguson

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Dates ‘n stuff

April 2011