When I went to New York last year, there were several things on my to-eat agenda.

Despite being top of the list, the Ding Dong was ultimately overlooked because I just never saw one. I did however, eat a knish, a giant pretzel and loads of Twizzlers. Among other things, of course.

The Ding Dong is what Capn’ Crunch and the Tootsie Roll is to me: food I’ve heard about all my life, but have never actually encountered. I mean, I fully expect it to be completely underhwelming. McDonalds was, as was Burger King, aerosol cream and Pizza Hut (perhaps the biggest disappointment of them all).

Coming to England has solved a great many food queries, but the elusive Ding Dong remained (until last weekend) an enigma.

My hopes weren’t high. Having told Hung Hei of my intentions, he said “Hope that isn’t your highlight of American cuisine.”

It wasn’t.

I suppose the appeal was that I just wanted to eat onomatopoeia. The Hostess logo is a heart to boot.

It scores a “shit” in my books.

Pop Tarts remain the leader in digestible foreign plastics.

On September 29th I’ll attend a ceremony at the civic centre.

I’ll sign something, meet the mayor, get my photograph taken and receive a certificate. Also, I have been assured that the national anthem will be played too.

I spent the better part of yesterday crying.
Must be getting old.

I ask if she was white and blonde and he said yes.

She was the child whose “mam” was “in bed” when I was out scouting for the cat. she was about 5 or 6.

I relax and think “Good. If she’s got an electric toothbrush, she can’t possibly be neglected”

and then to replace that thought “`What if she falls while the toothbrush is in her mouth?”

Apparently without buying one of those off-putting banana cases, you’re not going to get one to work unscathed. As if that’s the only fruit that requires an awkward moving solution.

There’s a yawning gap in the every-man market here.

It seems that I have found the most space-effective and easy mode of transport for round, soft fruits (arguably, the worst to carry on your person).

As I nestled a ripe nectarine into each of my gym shoes, I made a very stern mental note to wash my fruit before eating it.

When I arrived at the office they looked impeccable. I put them on my desk with the rest of my crap and then immediately got caught up in trying to get as much work done as quickly as possible.

Half way through eating the first, I realised that I was ingesting my very own gym shoe bacteria.

It’s almost nice to have more important things to worry about than where your food has been.

What isn’t nice is how little I have going on, which is something I realised half way through writing this post.

When you blog about triumphing over foot bacteria, you’re a winner and a loser.

I don’t think it was the sort of teabaging that involves any imbibing; I think it was just the rested-atop-head kind of teabag.

“You teabagged a stranger?!” I shouted (because teabagging an acquaintance is somehow less hilarious) and he said
“Yes. That’s the time I got arrested”

Apparently of the two of us, I’m stranger because I’ve never known a teabagger or teabaggee.

As if I wasn’t sufficiently tickled, there turns out to be a video of the incident in existence (made by drunk people outside the pub) as well as an official recording made by the police in which my friend stares down a camera and explains his offense.

He asked if he could buy if off them afterwards.

“and what did they say?” I asked.

“they told us to fuck off” he said.

I’ve got some new friends.
We spend a lot of time bringing each other up to speed.

That’s all.

I’m plenty scared of seeing bits of things in the dark; things that shouldn’t be there or things that resemble other impossible things, but I’m not usually prone to monster type nightmares.

Once in a while though, when I’m trying to flip the mental switch and bunk down for sleep, I’ll see a whole lot of horrible disturbing shit flashing over and over as if on a mental projector. They’re always faces usually partially bloody or decayed (cliche and yet still horrific) and they’re always jeering. And I can’t switch them off.

They give me the heebies mainly because they’re not the product of a confused, half asleep state. It’ll be a case of having barely climbed into bed being still wide awake when a disgusting rictus blinds me. I’ll be thinking “who is she?” of some yellow-eyed, peeling face before the next, horrible in an entirely different way, springs forward.

Ideal Brown says it happens to him too sometimes.

Last night I must have been dropping off when I was hit with a particularly nasty bastard. How I coped was by shouting out with a back-arching jerk before clouting myself in the face with two fistfuls of duvet. It was a sweaty night from there on out. Sweaty and shameful.

What did the cat think?

I hope I didn’t kick him.