I Wrote a Porno: The INSPIRING and BRAVE True Story of One Idiot’s Failed Three Day Odyssey in The World of Printed Filth


0f4df3a1960a731eb3e421b875473c79No, I’m not Chuck Tingle.

I’m unemployed and, so far as I can see, I have about three months to go until I can hope to see my next pay cheque. With this in mind, I recently began to think about how a person such as myself could possibly generate a little income whilst I am, as I say, in-between traditional employment.

I’ve wanted to be a writer for a long time. A legitimate writer. I have dreams of getting a novel published, of having a TV sitcom commissioned, all the standard stuff for any idiot with a university degree and a copy of Final Draft. After listening to the vastly popular and hilarious podcast My Dad Wrote a Porno, I began to wonder if there was any money to be made in self-publishing online. Obviously, no one but me would be interested in 99% of the stuff I write, my script where a house turns into a giant worm, my epic poem based on the disappearance of Bobby Dunbar that not even my own mother could pretend to care about, but could I treat my passion as a business, and churn out something that someone, somewhere, might actually like? This thought was the first step towards my eventual tumble down the Rampant Rabbit hole of professional word-dirt. It turns out that there are people making thousands of pounds a month writing erotica. Who knew?

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Top Five Songs I Sing to my Dogs (Home on a Friday, Slowly Disintegrating)

A lot of things have been going on in my life in the past week which will all become terrifying apparent very shortly. This means I’ve had no time to write any nonsense to post here as I’ve been writing nonsense to post elsewhere. I’ve also been off work.

These crudes graphs will give you a rough idea of what’s happened to me during my time off.

By Tuesday, my mother was asking what the hell had happened to me. I had become isolated and weird. More so than usual.


So I was hard at work this morning when I thought you know what, I’m going to take a moment away to reach out and to talk about something important.

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The Bedsit: An Illustrated Tale of Rented Accommodation (Part One)

When I was eighteen, I decided I’d live on my own for a year, and so, I began to book appointments to see one room flats and bedsits.beet.png

The first place I saw, I got really excited about it. Beautifully finished, spacious, homely, it had everything. Then the estate agent realised he’d brought me to the wrong place. We were supposed to be looking at the room across the hall.

He opened the door and revealed the dankest hell pit I could have possibly imagined. It was the size of a cupboard, the wallpaper was peeling off everywhere, and all that was in it was a bed with no sheets and damp all over the walls. I’m not exactly a princess, I’ve lived with silver fish, damp, crumbling plaster, carpet-centipedes, and in one place, kitchen beetles. I’ve spent a lot of time in a house that had a hole in the bathroom floor that went right through to the downstairs ceiling. I’ve spent many nights in a bedroom that literally had icicles forming on the ceiling by the door it was so cold. My point is, I’m not soft, but this really was too much.

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I Love the Nightlife: The Art of Dance for Rubbish Human Beings

Apple bottom jeans. Boots with the fur. Got the whole club looking at me because I’m making the spastic movements of a wildebeest in the throes of a violent death.

I can’t dance. I have been known to hide in toilets to avoid dancing in front of family members. I still have hot-faced flashbacks to the time when my Grandad caught me aggressively rapping to NWA’s I Ain’t Tha 1 in my bedroom. My family, I’m quite sure, have the general opinion that I am an idiot, and so I can’t imagine why would I deliberately do something so embarrassing as to dance in front of them. Imagine how stupid they’d think I was if they saw me trying to waggle my arse about to an ABBA medley. I hate when you’re sat somewhere and some song comes on (my mum is convinced it’s always The B-52’s Love Shack) and everyone in your group does that looking at each other and screaming thing and runs onto the dance floor together, abandoning you to your awkward, non-dancing fate.

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What is that Hot Thing and Why is it Steaming?


Do people iron clothes to get creases out or to give them an excuse to do some busy work? Admittedly, there isn’t much call in my life to look smart, but I’ve always found that when I’ve washed something, if I hang it straight, it dries straight. No crinkles. Surely I can’t be living in my own private Narnia, with Mr Tumnus coming out at night and jigging all over my shirts with his cloven hooves, beating out the wrinkles with his banging flute rhythms and leaving me to awaken of a morn to be greeted with only the smoothest of garments. Surely not. It just seems so unlikely. My wardrobe is made from chipboard and came from Ikea. I can only conclude from my own experience that ironing is a waste of time. Whenever I’ve tried it in the past, I’ve always ended up making the previously almost acceptable shirt worse, because I’m crap at ironing. And I’m crap at it because I never do it. Because I don’t have to. And I’m almost certain that you don’t have to either.

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Would You Rather… Fight Dracula or Frankenstein’s Monster?

My friend Chloe and I decided to debate some important issues, this one being probably 10227052the most important. You can read her side of the Would You Rather debate (she’d rather
fight Frankenstein because she’s an idiot) at our special blog designed just for the pitting of one thing against another, here. Anyway, here’s my bit.

I Would Rather Fight Dracula

Dracula. The name inspires terror in the heart, and has been suspiciously browning the seat of men’s pants everywhere since ‘Bram “The Writin’, Bitin’, Dread from Dublin” Stoker first had a wet dream about neck-suckers and decided you know what, I think the world needs to know about this.

Except, wait, no it doesn’t.

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The Pig Faced Man of Nelson Square Or, I’m Only Slightly Drunk but Overwhelmingly Terrified

I’m from Bolton, home of Fred Dibnah, the Kay twins, and “Faa-thu that makes our dot’ir eat t’herring at ev’ry meal until it’s gone,”

Pig Men Pic

That’s a Spring and Port Wine reference. I can assure you, nobody that looked like the divine James Mason ever spent his life in Bolton.

I have one of those “I can slag it off but you can’t” attitudes to Bolton, which is a town in the north of England, in case you didn’t know. The problem with it is, it is quite shit. It certainly does have things I like about it. I like the industrial landscape. I like the countryside. I like the accent. I like that it’s close to Manchester. I like that the people aren’t too bullshitty, I’m looking at you, the south. I was once waiting for a train and a southern man passed me on the platform and said, without a hint of irony, “They have cappuccino in the north now!” I LOVE that when people from Bolton want to say “couldn’t”, they invariably end up calling you a cunt. Everyone’s cunting left, right, and centre. You cun’t resist the opportunity.

But, aside from all that, I don’t think it’s unfair to say it’s a bit crap. I don’t want to give too much away about my specific location, but let’s just say I live near an illegal something, that gives everyone nosebleeds like The League of Gentlemen’s Royston Vasey. All the shops in the town centre are shut, even the legendary Softy’s Hard Stuff, with its thrilling selection of bongs, mags, and poppers.

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