Hello fuckers! .
I’ve got a bit of an update for you, but first, let’s have a little refresher.
Last week on ‘The Life & Loves of Harrison Chase’
“I’m three dates in at the moment, but I’m not spilling the beans on this one as he may or may not be sticking around. The man has got me on rations, releasing infrequent text messages like they’re fresh eggs in 1942. I’ve got a big appetite man, I’m not sure I can handle it much longer.”
Well I’d lost my appetite for the manky war eggs before we even met last night. There we were, drinking wine in a restaurant that had all the charm of a submarine corridor. He was like “I think it might end up as relationship, but I’m probably not going to be in touch if I don’t feel like it” and I was like “Erm, fuck off”
I was wondering how I could escape when suddenly they started playing Paul Simon’s 50 ways to leave your lover in the restaurant. There was no hiding my mirth.
Anway, thanks for the tips rhyming Simon. I appreciate you trying to help me in my struggle to be free, but I ended up just cutting the night short and chucking him by text message the second I got home.
Now, time to message that Elon Musk look alike I’ve matched with on Tinder. I know, I KNOW it’s weird, I can’t help it, he builds space rockets and shit.
Harrison out…..oh and listen to this.
Let me make it all about me for a bit.
Do you know when a fridge suddenly switches off and it’s only then that you realise it was making a terrible noise for a very long time? I’m feeling that kind of quiet and calm now.
The very high pitched nasal whine of an exhaustingly persistent mood hoover has stopped. I wonder how I ever put up with it in the first place. How did I ever take arguments so seriously when it sounded like beaker from the muppets was shouting at me from the other side of the door.
Here’s a thought….
We were always getting post addressed to Mr Harrison Chase and Miss [insert slut case here]
I used to think it was because people thought he was an abbreviated Janet, but maybe the confusion arose when they heard his miserable lady voice on the phone.
Anyway, enough of that lying sack of hate, we’ve got a proper divorce agreement now, and more importantly he looked like utter shit when I last saw him, which is the most important thing is it not? I looked fucking great by the way.
I am back on the dating scene now, as I was way back when I first erected my magnificent column. I’ve had one date so far, he was very handsome. I mean he was very handsome six years ago when his profile picture was taken.
This all sounds very negative, but things are actually amazing. I feel happier than I have in years. My new flat mate is a real joy to live with, I have abs that my gran could wash socks on and I finally found that checkered suit.
Anyway, watch out everyone. I’m back, and this time I’m in slim fit MacCallum tartan.
Welcome to my most miserable post yet! Excited? Well grab yourself some Prozac and a Tramadol and we can get started.
Things have gone tits up since my last post ‘The Happiest New Year’
The hangover has kicked in, and it’s persistent. The love thermometer (that’s not a sex toy by the way) rose too quickly. It has blown up in my face (not a euphemism) and now there’s glass everywhere. I’m pretty sure no amount of uhu will be able to fix it.
This is even more disappointing than the Snowcoco Malibu. Even my new 50″ 3D TV telly hasn’t thrilled me as much as I’d hoped it would.
There’s always a plus side though, and here it is….
I had an unexpected surprise this morning. David Bowie has got a new album coming out. I thought I’d heard the last of him. The single, released today is called ‘Where are we now?’, what a strange coincidence. That’s exactly why I’ve been wondering since Friday morning.
When I was younger I was obsessed with the Thin White Duke. I bought the coat he wore in the Man who fell to earth. I used to watch Ziggy Stardust the motion picture with my mouth open, my eyes open even wider and my hand pressed against the screen.
I get very enthusiastic about the things I like. I met Adam Ant once and collapsed like a little girl at a beatles concert. I wasn’t a little girl at the time, I was a fully grown man in Scala at Kings Cross.
Right enough whining. I can’t dawdle, I’ve got television to make.