the struggles of being a disorganised bastard

If you have plans with me currently, and have known me for some time, you probably expect me to announce at the last moment that I’ve fucked up my life and have quadruple-booked the day, arranging to spend it in four different corners of the country with seven different people. I am actually really sorry to all the pals that I have had to cancel on last minute, it’s a really shitty trait to have. If I do manage to stick to plans I am a serial latecomer, and most of my friends – and my workplace – have learned to expect me at least half an hour after the agreed time.

Beyond the personal pains of being unreliable and pretty much a completely shit mate, the struggles of being an disorganised wanker run pretty deep.

Firstly, everyone in the life of a disorganised person assumes they’re either a crackhead or a really shit mate who’s not actually that arsed. The truth of the matter is, though, that as appealing as the crack pipe may be to some it has never quite floated my boat, and i do infact worship all my amigos. It is merely the sheer love and adoration for those sexy bastards that pushes me to schedule to see them all on the same day even if they live hundreds of fucking miles apart. It’s absofuckinglutely nothing to do with my shady calendar management skills and lack of a functioning brain.

Secondly, am I really to blame for adulthood? ‘Cause that’s what this whole shitty scenario boils down to when you look at it from an (admittedly tenuous) wholly valid point of view.

Becoming a so-called “adult” seems to scare people away to far corners of the country, and my nearest and dearest are now spread thinly over the British Isles and beyond. Some absolute wankshaft at the government also made the (fucking shit) rule that in the “adult” world you have to do something mindnumbing and incredibly shit for at least 40 hours a week, so the only time I have to squeeze in any life loving and friend smooching is the weekend. We all know that a weekend is way too short to actually do anything fun beyond drinking yourself into a stupor and eating Golden Grahams from the packet, so it really is difficult to stick to my well-meant promises of company.

Combine this hideous life equation above and you’ll see that in fact it is the fault of life in general and – inadvertently – the fault of the government (shock) that I end up trying to fit so much shit into my measly two day weekend. Yes, you’re right, I’m trying to make it look like I am not to blame for my shit personality defect by blaming life, which is a completely valid explanation… Life.


To my friends who have had to suffer without my glorious, glowing aura of serenity and undying beauty over the past two years, I apologise. I can only blame David Cameron in the hope that you will all side with me and realise that it is actually his rules on adulting – not adultery – that have led to me being such a diabolical mess of a person (everybody loves a bit of melodrama on a Friday afternoon) and I am yet to make good on my weak promises of fun rendezvous-es. Is there a plural for rendezvous? Because I just made one up if not and why the fuck not.

If I currently have plans with you please anticipate my lateness, or perhaps my lack of attendance and a gruelling, grovelling apology. I love yas.


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