Got wasted last night with current boytoy. Woke up in the afternoon with a blinding hangover. Decided it's not to go to "work" for another two weeks because I can't be arsed.
What happened to my beard? I don't like her having a life of her own.
Dad's back with his French hooker, so he's got more perseverance than me. I'd have ditched my wife for some foreign totty right away. Actually, I did, that's why I'm divorced. Anyway, dad took a lot of time and care to write me a letter rather than text or phone, so screw him. I hate my parents. Come to think of it, I hate everyone.
Finally realized I was out of booze and chocolate so, despite my incredible blood alcohol level I decided to drive into town and get more raw fuel for my addictions.
Saw something disgusting there - a woman! A fat woman! Wearing leggings! And she was exercising of her own free will! And she didn't once try to sleep with me or beg me for an autograph! Honestly, when did Cambridge stop being identical to Brideshead Revisited and not pander to my every sordid whim.
For some reason found an old book I can pass off as a gift to boytoy. I'm so pleased with myself I decided I deserved more food and alcohol so I went to a wine bar and told my coworkers to divide up the work now they've sacked my beard and my old boytoy. And as I'm not working, they need to do everything for me as well.
Tonight, I'll get even MORE drunk with my boytoy and go on about how I hate my friends, my parents, my co-workers, the town I live on, modern society, complete strangers, and indeed everything and he'll just agree with me.
OH GOD BLESS ME, EVERY ONE!
Monday 6 January
Oh woe is me! I am wracked with melancholic pathos!
I have a mild sniffle! Maybe if I didn't get completely rat-arsed every single night, ate properly and did some exercise I might actually have some kind of immune system! You see what happens when you leave your exclusive apartment? Disease-riddled proles expose you to basic bacteria!
Well, I'm never going shopping again and am demanding Kyle and Luigi do all the shopping from now on. I don't care if they get sick. Of what consequence are they to me? They are nothing!
This is all the fault of heterosexuals breeding! Those things, what are they called, oh yes, children! How I hate them! And their parents! I hate everyone even more than I did yesterday when all my malaise was simply hangovers!
Oh this awful cold means that my plans for lying around for the next month getting drunk and stuffing my face with chocolate are UTTERLY UNCHANGED! Except now I've got an excuse to do absolutely no work, avoid my relatives, listen to the same sodding album and read books about more interesting people than me AND blackmail my boyfriend into fulfilling my every sordid whim.
PITY ME! PITY THE CHATHAM!
Sunday 12th January
Oh alas, it's taken me a week to recover from my mild sniffle! I have been bed-ridden, unable to do anything except lie there and whine about how unfair my life is, so thankfully this virus hasn't hampered my plans to do absolutely bugger all.
I didn't seek any medical help, of course, just lay there on the couch and demanded my boytoy hand-feed and bring me tribute in the form of caviar and grapes and orange juice and cups of tea. I didn't eat or drink any of it, of course. I require absinthe and brandy and bagels to survive, and as soon as I can be arsed I will emerge into that germ-infested plague pit of Cambridge to get rat-arsed at the Mermaid Wine Bar.
Oh I know the bar is overpriced, the service is terrible and it only employs criminally insane sex offenders who molest you while you wait, but I've been barred from every other drinking den because I'm so utterly horrible.
Good. I like to be exclusive.
I've been lying on the couch in my own filth watching Italian films because I can't be arsed to change the DVDs. I think I will go to Italy for summer to perve at some jailbait Italians on the beach, and the fascists love me because of my Aryan good looks. Oh, how I wish Hitler had won the war.
But I'm outraged that the new Doctor isn't replying to my texts! How dare she! How very dare she! I mean, does she think she has some kind of life without me? I've heard there's been an unusual case with spies all across the world being murdered, so it's a good thing I've never done a day's work in my life or I might have been targeted.
I sent to her
h3y d0ct0R
i am f33lng R32L sik. got a c0ld frm sum chAv!
Cure me, b1t<h!
y0Vrs,
83njamn 53bastyan j@mes s38astyan <h@@+hm
And what did I get in reply?
Humanity is over.
You have three minutes to prepare.
And then my mobile gave me a subpar electric shock to my nipple and I emptied loose bowel water all over the floor. Thankfully that's not the first time that's happened, so Julian was on standby with the mop and the bucket and the bleach.
Oh I remember the good old days when I'd text
d0ctoR!
iM b0rrr3d!
and he'd text
Oh Ben you're awesome you're amazing you're the best please come and travel with me through time and space but mainly rural England in the ethnographic present you're so much better than all my other companions like Rose the one with the fat arse who cruelly saw you as a way to stop being a chav or Martha Jones who just won't sleep with me no matter how many times I date rape or or that ginger tart Donna Ignoble who we all laugh at for being a moron and not like you you're awesome come let us take in a lecture on gothic architecture and murder hamsters!
I blame River Song. I bet she screens my calls so she can keep the Doctor all to herself.
Well, fine. I don't want to be friends with the Doctor. She's a woman!
Ugh.
Oh, I'm so exhausted after a week of doing nothing. I think I'll just listen to music everyone else in the house hates so they're miserable and I can feel better than everyone else in the whole world.
Oh dear, my anus has started bleeding again.
LIFE IS GOOD!
Wednesday 15th January
Oh god, I've actually got off the couch and gone into work. I'm not actually doing anything, of course, and I'm getting highly-trained field agents to feed me because I'm more important than anyone else in the whole world. Everyone knows that medicine is for chavs and my gargantuan appetite will see me through.
Apparently someone's using telepathy to assassinate far-right political figures. Huh! Psychic attacks? Ridiculous! What next? Aliens? Time travel? Time-traveling aliens? How utterly far fetched. I've decided that this is clearly a false alarm and thus I can justify not doing a damn thing at work today.
True, the mysterious deaths continue directly because of my inaction but so what? I have books to read on the couch and it's a rainy day. Why should I put effort into helping other people when I'm not happy? Come to think of it, why should I help other people when I am happy? Of what consequence are others?
Oh, dark skies make me miserable. They're part of a long list, I can tell you.
I remember being happy once, but it was 1973 and I'd accidentally ejaculated into a tin of baked beans. Ah, we won't see the like of those days again.
Monday 20th January
Compared to my normal day of lying around, moaning about how unfair life is while I'm pampered hand and foot by unwilling but conventionally-attractive servants, this was arse-destroyingly tedious.
That field agent I've ordered to peel grapes and massage olive oil into my perineum actually had the temerity to say she signed up fight aliens, save lives and experience front-line events and just because I used my supreme executive power to be entirely office-based tea lady because she is a broodmare with ovaries shouldn't impede her career path. I told her to do her job and I wasn't in the mood for that kind of discussion.
You know the type of discussion I'm talking about, where women have rights and other people exist independent of my desires and convenience.
Ugh. Worse than climate change worryworts.
Mother rang me up today to whine about her own problems for nearby an hour. Another woman complaining that just because her husband is on a sex holiday in France and has spawned a litter of illegitimate children and an antibiotic-resistant strain of the clap that somehow her opinions matter. It's a good thing I couldn't be bothered to hang up and instead took some LSD... sorry, FGM... and listened to it all believing I was an ingrown pubic hair in the groin of Sir Michael Foot.
Oh, and my illegitimate bastard half-brother who everyone likes and has sex with and is good at fighting aliens, lateral thinking, maintaining long-term relationships with others and not becoming addicted to everything from absinthe to oven cleaner? Apparently father wants him to join Operation: Delta because he'd be an asset to the team, hugely-qualified in the field and not spend a month refusing to get off the couch and do a hard day's work for once in his life.
How dreary.
You know, I could use my access to all this evil alien bollocks to my own ends. Like this case I'm refusing to work on about a weird boy - how weird? He wears sandals and believe girls can have orgasms - called Nate who telepathically drives people to kill themselves. All the others have managed to capture him, take him to the lab and we're getting that brain-fried convicted drug-dealer Shaky Jake to conduct tests to see if tinfoil hats will protect them, but apparently hanging around me leaves people so depressed and suicidal already Nate's powers don't effect them.
Anyway, I could totally use him to make my brother drive off a cliff.
But that would require moving, so I'll let him live.
Oh how low I feel. I feel stressed. I feel harassed. Woe is me.
I feel bored with my life today.
A disintegrating family, an HR dispute and a psychic assassin on the loose? What a dull routine. I'm wasting my young life away - well, as I can't remember more than a few weeks since I started drinking absinthe, I ASSUME I'm still young. What year is it? 2006? 2007? Oh, one day I might wake up and find myself old and that must never, ever happen. I'll recast myself first?
Living in my expensive Cambridge apartment drinking exclusive Columbrian coffee, finest French absinthe, with an unpaid Italian waiter working day and night doing all the chores while the government and my obscenely-wealthy Nazi-gold-owning family pay all my bills and a loving boyfriend sacrifices every possibly part of his own existence just to make me feel better...
DAMMIT MY LIFE SUCKS! GIVE ME BOOZE, I FEEL!
Saturday 25th January
Have noticed my diary entry one month ago is curiously incomplete...
Tuesday 24th December, 2019
Decided to spend Christmas in a Cornish castle that's been turned into a luxury hotel so I don't have to spend any time with my family or normal human beings. That includes my current sex toy, Adam. Sorry, Craig. No, wait, what am I thinking of? Julian! It'll cost enough to feed and cloth the population of Somalia for a month but I'm worth it, aren't I? Aren't I?
Damn right I am. I'm Ben f{_}cking Chatham and none of you chavs forget it.
Unfortunately, due to my complete lack of preparation the only road to Cragmore Castle was flooded so I had to abandon my faithful Chathamobile on a damp verge and walk the rest of the way while Julian whined how unfair it was to expose him to muddy water. Muddy water, daylight and being fed after midnight are huge no-nos to him, but he's got a mouth like a hoover so I tolerate his ungentlemanly plebian whining.
On the way we heard screams of human suffering from a dark spinney, so we wisely continued onwards and ignored their desperate pleas for salvation. This seemed to offend the screamer, who turned out to be a living skeleton in a cloak. As an experienced time traveler, alien fighter and expert in the super-and-sub-natural I immediately deduced this being was a chav in a rubber mask.
Julian whined that it was clearly the grim reaper, just because it faded away to ectoplasm waving a scythe and speaking in block capitals.
As someone with a degree would say, this was seriously unfunny.
We ran into the incredibly-spooky and haunted looking castle where the receptionist offered us a book to sign in. The last residents had been in 2013, six years ago and though this proved beyond doubt how exclusive the hotel was no one could afford to stay there, I decided to pick a fight. Possibly as a result of this, the receptionist gave us separate rooms and threw a live lobster at me.
"Come on Julian," I shouted. "We’ll sleep in my room, emphasising together!"
"Why did you just say 'emphasising together'?" the receptionist asked.
"Pah, you wouldn't understand, harridan. Different social strata!"
Thus we made our way to the lushly-furnished Victorian bedroom with a waiting bottle of red wine where I started screaming at the lack of modern decor in an ancient castle and that it must be someone else's fault I didn't realize it.
Julian got ratted on red wine and passed out, as he often does when basking in my glory for more than a few minutes at a time. It's amazing how often people drink themselves unconscious when forced to be in my presence.
I then heard a sobbing noise coming from a pitch dark corner of the bedroom, which turned out to be the ghostly figure of a man from a photo on the bedside cabinet who slit his throat and then vanished into thin air.
As an expert in unusual situations and impossible scenarios, I immediately deduced this was down to the owner of the local amusement park with some glow-in-the-dark paint and an ordinary hurricane lantern. Julian's panicked screams of "What the hell's wrong with you, you moron? This place is obviously haunted!" was quite chav-like. "This place is horrible and I'm special!" he lied, flouncing off.
Special? Compared to I, Ben Sebastian James Sebastian Cabbage? Sorry, Chatham!
Anyway, I decided to use my extremely expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera, which definitely wasn't a casio calculator with some pokemon stickers on it. I remember distinctly the day I was issued my expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera by Paul Farraday and Corrine Shaw (who I've both slept with, obviously) and how they said "Look, just go in the corner and play with this, you peroxide retard! Grown-ups are talking!"
Yet eerily my expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera did not work!!! So I decided to run down the stairs in poor lighting with a gut full of red whine and no motor functions. Amazingly, this time someone actually pushed me down the stairs instead of me passing out in my own body waste.
Luckily, I only grazed my lip. And received two compound fractures. And there's been blood in my urine ever since.
Of course, Julian was beside himself with horror that my beauty was tarnished. He claimed that Adam Willis (who taught me how to "give both barrels" in an act that, while highly-dehydrating, sets me above the commoners) was present. How dare he recommend I spend Christmas in a haunted Cornish castle with ghosts and zombies and sour-faced receptionists who disagree with me!
How dare he?
HOW VERY DARE HE?!?!
My retribution was put on hold when we found popular Pirates of the Caribbean actor Kevin McNally lying dead in reception with his head split open by a meat clever. Julian was sickened, as was I - there was no sign of Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp. My hopes that Keira Knightly had also been brutally murdered by the ghosts was sadly dashed as I realized something awful.
Something gut-twistingly horrific that will haunt me to my dying day.
It transpired I'd left my expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera upstairs and everyone knows how important my expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera is. Running the gauntlet of homicidal spirits and certain death or leaving my expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera behind?
I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL FIRST, BILLIE PIPER!
Julian insisted he help me save my expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera. Well, he said "I'm not staying down here alone. I'm young attractive and far too rich to neglect. Plus, I can use your unnaturally-smoothe chest as a human shield and sacrifice your worthless life to save my own."
"You make me laugh at the worst of times," I said.
Which is a lie. I never laugh. Happiness is immature.
Anyway, I went upstairs to collect my expensive top range android smartphone with untra-mega-pixel camera because it cost a lot of money and I'm too cheap to buy another one. I know that might contradict my earlier statement that "one spends and god sends" but who are you? My supervisor? No you're not! BUGGER OFF!
So I went into the room and was taken roughly from behind by some ghastly chav named Craig 'Nob-Gobbler' Harris who would have burgled the entire castle if some meat-clever-weilding woman hadn't gone on a killing spree. I was unconvinced by the story, but why expect some thick lowlife to come up with anything better? Especially if he's got the same name as my unspeakably ghastly nephew so Julian and I decided to call him chavboy and use him as a replacement for Kyle in this narrative. We also threatened him with blackmail and demanded he pray elucidate to us any other strange or unnatural things he hath witnessed.
He didn't have a bloody clue what we were asking. To be honest, we didn't either.
So we decided to head to the basement and blame everything on aliens. That's usually the explanation for any and all Scooby Doo bollocks, apart from the times I'm suffering absinthe-fueled hallucinations. I noticed that when I force-fed Craig some Fox's glacier mints he claimed he was "floating on pink clouds above a purple sea with cascading colours all around him" so maybe I'm actually just taking tabs of LSD instead of breath-mints.
We went downstairs and got the skinhead criminal to open the door to the secret high-tech laboratory with the weird inhuman beings with guns and it all unfolded with such tedious inevitability...
...and that's where it ends.
This is by no means the first diary entry to end abruptly, as though my life is a piss-poor series of plot synopsis some drunken author can barely finish. Oh, woe. Oh, fate. Oh, pathos. Oh... ooh, a tin of baked beans!
Today is looking up...
Sunday 26th January
It's been six days of non-stop drinking so I'm spicing things up a bit with being unconscious.
My awful half-brother is staying at my place because, um, apparently there's nowhere else in Cambridge to put him up and despite my access to stinking huge fortunes I can't be arsed to rent him a hotel room. Or maybe I was too drunk to remember.
I'm convinced my sub-par twin is going to seduce my boytoy. And, be fair, the bastard's got a history of that. And my boy-toys are almost guaranteed to drop me for literally anyone with a functional nervous system and a knowledge of foreplay, as though their pleasure mattered in some way!
Should I perhaps come out and say "Julian, that bastard is going to try to shag you before the end of the week?" and confront things in a healthy, adult manner?
Bollocks I will! There's drinking to be done!
On the plus side, James Bastard Bartlett's working with O: D so my cunning plan to drink myself into a stupor and refuse to go to work means that I will be avoiding him even more than is possible.
I went to the Mermaid and ordered Kyle and Corrine and sit there listening to me explain why I was the greatest of all the Doctor's companions. Admittedly I could only remember Rose (who wanted to sex me) and Martha (who didn't) but who cares about the others? I'm the only one who matters! And that was proven when Kyle and Corrine threw their empty drink glasses in my face and stormed out.
Julian's upset because he's noticed that if I was "not quite 25" in 2005 then I can hardly be "on the cusp of 24" some fifteen years later. He considers this me lying to him! And he's wondering if I've constantly had sex with women all my life, how can I say I was a virgin before I met him?
The ungrateful flounchy sh|t's getting above himself. I bet this minor tension in our relationship will get my evil not-twin down the front of Julian's Y-fronts before you can say... um... something really quick to say. Wow, this absinthe-drip I've installed has really, um, shrunk the number of big words I can say.
Anyway, that psychic kid assassin the team has been working day or night to contain almost murdered Shakey Jake. Big deal, like that matches to my stress. The child has been locked in a lead-lined padded cell and left to starve to death, just in case this turns out to be another revival of The Tomorrow People on ITV.
Life is so stressful.
Chiara told me they're tempted to leave me to drink myself to death just to see if that improves my work ethic.
What a nice girl. Such a pity she has ovaries.
Saturday 8th February
It's taken thirteen days but I finally remembered I am keeping a diary, and even longer to be sober enough to regain the motor skills to write in it.
The most amazing thing happened today. I drank some coffee. I drank it at a wine bar that stocks that coffee just for me. Oh, the wait staff do like to joke that it's actually raw fish pulp they take turns urinating in, but it's nice, it's exclusive and I recognize the taste of Columbian Blue Ridge anywhere.
Just as I was on the prowl for expensive consumer goods to buy affection and loyalty for my current sex-slave, I saw Spartha Jones and nearly fainted! A woman! A BLACK WOMAN! In Cambridge! What vile degenerate poison has entered MY CITY?!?!
If only she'd just been glimpsed, but she saw me keel over in a faint and came striding across the road on some vague pretence she was a doctor and had a duty to help others. Yeah, right. As if. I believe that as much as her diagnosis that me gargling raw fish and human urine every morning could be responsible for my fainting spells. She hasn't changed... the LUCKY BITCH! While I have to repeatedly recast myself as younger and less-respected soap operas to maintain my youth and beauty, she's got the same old humourless face and depressing voice.
Well, she's always looking humourless and sounding depressed whenever she's around me, anyway.
I demanded to know what the foul brood-mare was doing in MY Cambridge and she explained she and her husband Mickey Smith-Jones are recruiting a university professor to try and cure the deadly coronavirus that threatens all life-kind. I demanded more details. And when she provided them, I demanded to know why I should care about the fate of human beings. She responded by asking why the hell she should be discussing her work with a piss-drinking drunkard who'd passed out in his own faeces. How typical of her!
How vulgar, she is. Black. Educated. Heterosexual... DISGUSTING!
Eventually she kicked me repeatedly in the ribs and said if she ever saw me again, she and her husband would force a Sontaran fragmentation grenade up my arse and detonate it. I responded by sobbing and begging for the gentle tears of the Lord Bowie's mercy before throwing up. Revolted, Spartha ran off but I was pleased to get away from the awful girl.
Stumbling into the Blue Angel, I demanded an expensive gin to calm my nerves. Unfortunately, the jazz club frequented by musicians and customers and other human beings was not the silent graveyard of self-pitying alcoholism I craved. I demanded the three-piece soft jazz ensemble to be thrown out and called all the uni lecturers illegitimate inbred scum.
I spent the rest of the day face down in a dumpster with a cymbal lodged in my anus.
Good times.
Anyway, I intend to phone Paul and Corinne to warn them not to discuss our cases with Spartha Jones! Well, actually, I already have done but they said there's no such person as Spartha Jones and anyway they'd have to be dead for three weeks of terminal brain damage before they listened to a word I said and have now blocked my phone number.
Only a lower-class chav would not be pleased at this outcome as it proves beyond doubt the supremacy of Operation: Delta in these matters. Whatever they are,
I now await someone to come home and help me remove the cymbal from my anus.
Fortunately, there's no rush.
Friday 14th February
It’s Valentines Day! Bloody hell, I don't know what was in that oven cleaner but it did the trick! It knocked me out for a full seven days and has left me feeling this strange, unnatural feeling that - after much research and study - is what the humans call... happiness.
Either that or it's wind.
Anyway, my boytoy provided me with an expensive watch to help me "remember the bloody time you drunken wanker" and also a delightful Valentine's Day card of me, beautiful me, oh I am so pretty. It was a picture when I made Julian punt me down the Cam (a euphemism for a spit-roast with the Exhalted Creeth[1] and Magnus Greel[2]) taken last August before my rectum prolapsed. Oh, I am so beautiful in Summer.
I gave the boytoy some roses and some secondhand books I got from a mad Irishman and his barely-hominid milk-fed gimp assistant. He was delighted. Well, he said the words "How delightful" then sneered and threw them into the fire with all the other trinkets I throw at him while screaming "DOES MY HALF-BROTHER GIVE YOU THAT, YOU OPEN-LEGGED SLUT?[3] WHY DOESN'T EVERYONE JUST DIE IN A DITCH IF THEY DON'T WANT MY LOVE![4] I HAVE A DEGREE!!![5]"
For a change, and to really break out of the old routine, I decided to go on a drinking binge and then hurl insults at everyone else because they are inferior chav scum and all chavs must die [6]. True, it's a pity I've been barred from the drinking dens of this exquisite town and the police are under standing orders to break my fingers if I show the slightest sign of resistance, but I bask in the joy of togetherness with...
Oh, bollocks, where's he got to?
I forgot to take my boytoy with me. He's probably at the flat doing unspeakable things with my half-brother[7] with some polish salami and the works of Christopher Isherwood! Just like all my other boyfriends and girlfriends![6] Apart from the ones I fed to giant agitated mutated water voles![8]
Oh well, this oven cleaner is really doing the trick. I'm as high as a kite. High as Boris Johnson's cholesterol levels. High as a really high thing that goes extra high because it's so happy to be high! Oh, all the pain I've been through![9] All the knives in my back![9] Yet what is this strange fear something bad could still happen? Oh, the black dog that has long haunted me threatens to bite again![10]
I suppose I could seek help. I mean, it is Mental Health Week, and the world's full of highly-trained psychiatric professionals that could help me cope with my awkward family history, bizarre relationship crisis and unusually-stressful career path.
No, I think I'll stay as a miserable bastard![6] HA! HA! HA!
That stomach-churningly awful Negress turned up again today[11]. Apparently that psychic tomorrow person kid is killing more people and it is a race against time to stop the death toll rising and she needed information about the university and its staff.
"No, it's staff," I said.
"What?"
"It apostrophe ess. It's. It's staff."
"No, that would be 'it is staff' and I want 'its staff."
You know how I abhor having my grammar or punctuation corrected[12]. It is my English, not that harridan the Queen![13] So I voided my bowels and screaming "I WILL TELL YOU NOTHING OF VALUE AND WILL INSTRUCT MY TEAM TO INVESTIGATE YOU AND HOW YOU ACQUIRED THIS INFORMATION ON AN OPERATION: DELTA CASE!"
"Your staff have been telling everyone at the Mermaid Wine Bar in return for either free drinks or sexual favors. In between complaining about what a dick you are."
"YOUR BREATH SMELLS EVEN WORSE THAN USUAL!"
"I'm not the one who needs breath mints all the time."
"THESE FOX GLACIER MINTS ARE HARDCORE HALLUCINAGENS![14] I DON'T NEED YOU, DARKIE! I DON'T NEED ANYONE! ESPECIALLY THE DOCTOR! EVER SINCE HIS DICK FELL OFF, HE WON'T RESPOND TO MY TEXTS!"
I went on further, but Martha had wandered off some time ago and the police had come over and broken my ribs. They threw me into a dumpster in the back alleyway behind to the most expensive restaurant in Cambridge, the Cafe Le Rivieux, where I am barred for life and meals are complimentary if the customer can prove they've stabbed me in the bladder at least four times.
As they emptied their uneaten slop over me, I thought the French do know their cuisine... well, unless they're called Giselle...[7] and they all are... they come round here, stealing our men... and our women... and our bloody sheepdogs...
Darkness comes with the familiar anal leakage.
