Welcome to the entertaining world of poet, enigma and serial adulterer, Mr If. You've never read anything like this before. You never will again.
I don’t want people to think I’m miserable,
Just because I’m miserable.
I don’t want people to say, stop complaining,
There are people starving and living on the streets,
While you’re sitting on your couch,
Eating your beans on toast
Like you’re the Earl of ******* Wessex.
I want people to say, this fucker’s got a point.
Let’s not discriminate.
He has as much right to be unhappy
As anyone else.
Good clean fun
She was a mother of three. Her husband was at work and her kids were downstairs. It
was like a scene from Confessions of a Window Cleaner.
She instructed her brood, “Stay in the living room while I take this man up to the
bathroom and show him my pipes.”
She had one of those Carry On laughs – somehow both repressed and liberated. It
made me wonder if our culture would ever move away from treating women like objects.
She stood with her back to me, leaning against the wall, her face buried in the towel rail,
her skirt hitched up to her waist.
When we were done, she giggled like a naughty schoolchild and said, “I can’t believe I
just showed you my bottom.”
I kissed her, clutching onto her hands. She’d made my day, and I’d made hers.
That afternoon in the bathroom, we were just two people having a good old-fashioned
laugh, knowing in our hearts we had not done anything wrong.
A tragedy of epic proportions
You don’t love me for who I am, she says.
You don’t love me for what I look like either.
You just love me because I love you.
It’s a straight swap. The ultimate barter.
What’s more, she says,
I don’t love you for what you look like.
And I don’t love you for who you are.
I just love you because you love me.
It’s a real chicken and egg scenario.