The Red Menace and the Seven Years




‘I’m not a concept. Too many guys think I’m a concept or I complete them or I’m going to make them alive, but I’m just a fucked up girl who is looking for my own peace of mind. Don’t assign me yours’

A lot can take place over a seven year period. Personally I don’t like 7. It’s an odd number. I’m one of those people who turns the volume up on a TV to an even number. It just seems safer in my mind. Why go up to 11? 10 is good. 10 is safe. Nice and roundy and perfect.

For the last seven years of my life I’ve been in the company of one of the universes greatest achievements. A girl in fact. Someone who ticks every box and surpasses anything I could of hoped for in my teenage angst years. Over seven years I’ve grown from a sex crazed, spotty, thin little runt with an ego the size of Australia to a laid back guy in his mid twenties aspiring to be a writer and working an everyday job in Soho.

To say that I could of made the transition easier without this girl would be impossible. She has been my rock through some of the  toughest times in my life as well as the happiest. All this in just seven years. Why seven? Because thats when it ends, at seven. Seven is enough. It’s not a nice rounded number, yet despite this, it’s a huge achievement. I’d be lying if I said I wanted to end at seven, but thats how things have to be.

So what happens after seven?

I have no idea. Due to the nature of our living together and the income we earn separately, we’re unable to move apart for some time. So we’re friends. We’re Ross and Rachel, we’re Simon Pegg and Jessica Stevenson. A fresh start. Something new, something different.

What happens after seven scares me. Is this the slowest break up in history? Will I crack when we do move on to new pastures? Will we see other people? Will we get back together? ‘Will she get off the plane’?

No idea. It’s in the lap of the Gods. And quite frankly I think it’s unhealthy to even consider the notion of the future. Because seven is just a number. Like any other. Odd or even, it doesn’t matter. Every day should be lived like its day one (and by that I don’t mean exiting a vagina), live today like no other and take it all in no matter the fear. It’s okay to be scared.

So yeah things are going to get hairy. She’ll be spooning another guy, sucking his cock and laughing at his jokes with you becoming a seven year memory in the back of her mind. Did you want to hear that? Probably not. But hey! We’re not playing numbers here. We all want to be happy, right? So be it. Be excellent to each other.

Life is too precious to worry about seven’s. Worry about today. Eat what you want, drink what you want, smoke what you want, read what you want, fuck who you want but most importantly —

Just live how you want.


I’ll leave you with this…

The Red Menace and the Yorkshire Christ




There are many things I’ve learnt from my father, one being the golden rules of pub socialism.

1. Never talk politics.

2. Never talk religion.

3. Never talk football.

I agree wholeheartedly on this, by all means laugh until your tasty beverage spews from your nostrils, talk Breaking Bad and about that girl/guy you like, stretch across the wet table to show me some funny cat videos on YouTube. But don’t ask me (after 1 pint of lager) ‘What is comedy’ and certainly do no ask me (after 4 more) if I believe in God.

After a week of Soho shenanigans, I come to the John Snow, a Samuel Smiths pub with a pleasant feel and great atmosphere. A pint of cool lager on the brain and a catch up with a friend. Together we catch up and talk about the insignificant things in our lives. Unfortunately, our conversation joins another with two strangers across from us. My super social powers take control and I see the red and black of the Red Menace – a power long dormant and left in the bowls of the Edinburgh fringe.

I engage with a big mouth and tiny heart to ensure laughter from the table, my ego guides my conversation consisting of quick wit (fart), thoughts and punchlines racing a hundred miles an hour through my mind, a million references to films and music blinding me from harsh reality of the world outside the Jon Snow. And then he strikes. The Yorkshire Christ. A villain intent on destroying the world of social gatherings with his feckless charm and goatee, and all it took was a stare to the left and one word to break me. Nigeria.

‘Why does anything you say matter when there’s terrible things happening in Nigeria?’


I’d met a new villain. Something new. A cunt radiant with the light of Christ and the pomposity of my old enemy, The Hipster. Suddenly my film references were ruined, my silly noises and opinions were dropped and weighted down to the ocean bed. I struggled to retain my ego’s feelings. Looking back at the Educator for help, swift eye contact and quick trips to the bar to fire up my engine again, looking for a weak point, a shaft to fire my torpedo down to blow this thing and go home (Nerdgasm).

The Red Menace in me doesn’t give up the battle of wits, hit left and right by plasmic Yorkshire laser blasts. I had to think different, I had to think crazy. A turn in conversation leads to Christ conveying his nonchalant views on his inability to feel anger, so I decide to gamble on a peanut which lands into his fresh pint. The anger is released. A hit. A very palpable hit!

As Christ’s socially awkward friend tags in, The MI5 man, we move our attention to the adjustment of the English syllabus by Michael Gove. MI5 makes a mistake. A very silly mistake, claiming Harper Lee’s ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ should be cut from education as it contains weak female characters and was written by an arrogant white middle class American man…

Here is a photo of an ‘arrogant white middle class American man’.


Harper Lee everyone.

The fight was won but with dire consequences. For the first time the Red Menace felt doubt, questioning himself over his existence and his own pomposity. Would he ever be needed again? Had the Yorkshire Christ destroyed him. No. The important thing about the Red Menace is this. He can do whatever he wants, he is an extension to the normal human being, a Loki-esk being with incredible social powers that can silence or lighten up a room. The Menace can’t bleed or die. The Menace exists because it has to, it can be the mask to hide behind when I’m scared to talk, scared to be social with strangers.

So whats the point of this first blog? Maybe I’m being cathartic, maybe I fancy a good old British moan. Maybe I just need to exaggerate the dull aspects of my life in glorious CUNT HD – because in all honesty from looking back at this blog – I do come off as one. Maybe. I just know it feels good to get it off the chest, like many people I tend to put up with a lot of shit. Yeah I’m facetious, but damn it feels good. As one famous clown once said, ‘Why so serious’?

And so I’ve issued a new rule to add to his fathers three.

4. Don’t give cunts the time of day. Especially me.

Thanks for reading.