SHORT ‘N CURLIES – #0
The other night I dreamt that excessive levels of HATE could cause haemorrhoids.
Not in the obvious way – like the more you loathe stuff the more arsegrapes you sprout – but in the impersonal sense: like a weapon. Oh-ho-yes; what fun. I needed merely to turn my misanthropic revulsion on people around me (in this dream – don’t ask why – it was Judie Garland circa The Wizard of Oz), and they’d be groping for their trousers with a yelp like a poodle falling off a treadmill.
It was a good dream.
I’m Si Spurrier, and this is an introduction. Oh hai.
I know exactly what inspired the dream. Whenever my fiancée catches me glowering at some irritating dickwit (a chronic snot-sniffer, let’s say), with that special “Oh God I Haaaaate You” glare – the one that comes naturally to Jack Nicholson, Maths Teachers and all Russians everywhere, but just makes me look constipated – she tells me off and asks how I’d feel if it turned-out I’d accidentally given Said Dickwit a dose of Psychic Cancer. To which I dutifully have to lie that I’d be mortified – oh yes, guilty as sin, sob – then go back to industriously setting fire to kittens or whatever I was doing before the HATING first took hold.
Quite how “Psychic Cancer” transformed into “Comedy Bum-berries” in my dream, I don’t know – other than to assume my subconscious has a better sense of perspective and a more clearly defined grasp of Anal Humour than the rest of me.
The point is: I’m Si Spurrier, and I HATE quite a lot.
It’s in danger of becoming My Thing, in fact. For several months I’ve been cheerfully milking my latent ability to turn minor irritations into full-blown psyche-sodomising cases of Overactive HHHHHATE via the medium of Twitter. @Sispurrier has gone from a slightly awkward social tool for catching-up with my fellow Comicky-People (in strangled, 140-digit Gatling-gun bursts of spandex nonsense), to the gloriously therapeutic home of the “HATING OF THE DAY”: a chance to vent about whatever asinine annoyances tweak at my soul. I still occasionally get replies from people along the lines of “don’t you think that’s a really minor thing to get so worked up about?”, or “what, you think you’re so fucking perfect?”, or even worse attempting to defend the HATEE in question. These people are entirely missing the point:
HATING Stuff – as long as you never actually act on any of it – Is Fun. It’s a healthy and safe way to enjoy oneself when alone, and doesn’t involve all the extra costs normally associated with solo activity, like milk-flavoured lube, lemon-soaked Kleenex, gasmasks (to muffle the sobs), three kittens and a bottle of lighter fluid.
To the best of my knowledge, HATING does not cause Haemorrhoids in anyone, even the ones who deserve it. Myself included. But for all its obvious benefits, HATING is fast becoming my curse. Let me explain:
I’m Si Spurrier, I live on a gorgeous Spanish Island in the middle of the Mediterranean, have been a professional comics writer since I was 19, have set the Silver Surfer against Organised Religion, created an Indian version of Ghost Rider on a giant flaming elephant, and published 5 Broadly Successful novels. I’ve met the Queen, worked as an Art Director for the BBC, have backflipped through narcotic reality more than a Few Times, have a heartbeat of 45 b.p.m, recently escaped my hometown of London by driving across Europe in a fucked-up Renault Clio without fully-functioning brakes…
…and yet I’m best known for a daily Cheap Gag on motherfucking Twitter.
So here’s the salt in the wound. One day I get invited to contribute a weekly column to this snazzy new BleedingCool website, nestled like a greased-up ferret between the soapy dugs of Rich Johnston and Adi Tantimedh, and somewhere below the suppurating mutant nipple of some bloke called “Ellis”. On what subject? I ask. “You can use it to hate stuff!” says the Editor.
The Editor, if there’s any justice in the world, now has haemorrhoids.
So, instead of just Hating Stuff, here’s what I’m proposing. In subsequent weeks I’ll chop my rambly nonsense into a series of small bite-size bits, which will hereafter be known as the SHORT ‘N CURLIES. These may – nay, probably will – be suffused with a general seasoning of misanthropy and sarcasm, but won’t be focused solely on hatables, loathages and revulsionism. I’ll even attempt to organise them into recurring Topic Categories, just to impose the illusion of clarity onto the chaotic arsebilge. In the future, collections of each topic will be gathered into stocking-filler albums at Christmas Time and the aforementioned Editor will get rich on my snarlings. I’d be annoyed about that too, but he’ll need all the money he can get for Preparation-H.
The topics, in no particular order, will look something like this:
THE KEYBOARD IS MY FUCKMONKEY: News, rumours and gossip, but probably mostly just sleazy anecdotes and highly suspect Pearls Of Wisdom from the crazy hazy world of Getting Paid To Write Shit. You want advice on Breaking Into Comics Really Really Slowly and Not Becoming A Superstar Overnight? You want to hear about the World’s Nastiest Rejection Letters? You want to chart my descent into frustrated Literary Cloggage as I write the next novel, or hear about the Hilarious Time I Embarrassed A SubEditor In Front Of His Boss By Claiming We’d Shared Fluids? Then this is the place for you.
NEWS FROM THE SPURSPHERE: In which I will astound and amaze you with tales of terrifying Spanish haircuts, engage your sympathy with in-depth discussion about my beachside, gin-drenched, tapas-guzzling routine, and keep you abreast of the Reality-Shattering Projects I’d totally be working on right now, if I wasn’t so busy being a beachside, gin-drenched, tapas-guzzling bastard with a terrible haircut.
BRAINFARTS: Which doesn’t need much of an explanation, really, but may often be culled from the pages and pages of notes I’ve accumulated in moments of alcoholic (or other) inebriation, along the lines of: “Squawking + Screeching + Singing = Scrawnching”. One day whole societies will be constructed upon such sage utterings.
KULTCHA: TV, Novels, Movies; you know the drill. In this section I propose a ground-level moratorium on the Evil, HatedHATED assumption that “high quality” instantly equals “entertaining”. For instance, I recently suggested to a group of Learned Individuals that while The Godfather is undeniably a modern masterpiece of acting, pacing and tension, it is sorely lacking in Pesticide-Being-Sprayed-At-Fairies and utterly void of all Birdshaped-Hats-With-Mexican-Accents; and that consequently I’d rather watch Bowie camping it up in The Labyrinth any day of the week. To which a Celebrated Writer of my acquaintance, whose name I’m too modest to mention, publicly hoped for my death. KULTCHA, plainly, is a divisive topic.
I FACT YOU RIGHT IN THE FACE: In which I shall endeavour to provide you with conversational catnip in the form of dazzling ejaculations of Trivia – an ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain! 11am is peak-time for suicides on the London Underground! Darwin was a committed Morris Dancer! – most, but not all of which may actually be true.
PLUGGED: Echoes from the Uddernet. I’m not a cyberphile by inclination, so don’t expect any technological marvels, first-look Reality2.0 astonishment, or hilarious links to sombrero-wearing hamsters farting the national anthem which you haven’t already seen 50 times elsewhere. But news of my Highly Talented electronic chums, rumours from the digiverse, and shout-outs to the better class of ViagraSpam: YES.
THE AUTOCUE SAYS KEEP FILLING: World Events! Newz! Important matters of socio-political relevance to all our futures, which together we shall distil down to a kaleidoscope of Hottest Female Politicians, Most Deserving Natural Disasters, and the eerie fascination we all inexplicably feel for the Popemobile.
And, of course, because the Editor Knows Best:
THIS WEEK I HAVE BEEN MOSTLY HATING: In which a matter of minor significance is exploded into a life-consuming, dribble-specked, bloodvessel-popping, haemorrhoid-baiting rant.
So, yeah: there you go. I probably won’t be including aaaall those topics every week, but hopefully they’ll all crop up from time to time. Let me know if that works for you. Pop-in to say Oh Hai in the forum, and above all Don’t Strain While Doing A Poo, because – really – haemorrhoids are no laughing matter, none at all, and can be remarkably painful.
I’m Si Spurrier, and I promise to stop talking about Rimlumps next week.
P.S: I’ve been advised by the legal department to mention that we at BleedingCool Do Not accept allegations against us regarding Psychically-Induced Anal Nuggets, and should any reader feel thus afflicted they are cordially invited to take photographic evidence of the said condition, having first inscribed “I’d rather watch The Labyrinth than The Godfather any day too” in marker-pen across their buttocks, then send it to “Warren Ellis, C/O Avatar Press, 515 N. Century Blvd, Rantoul, IL 61866, USA”.
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