ITEM: I think I need to reboot the year. All those New Year Reso(vo)lutions I made at the start of 2012 – well so far the only one I haven’t broken/have succeeded in, is the whole not going out with Kylie Minogue thing, and that always was a banker. Right then, Pete’s New Year, which is derived from a little known variation of the Julian Calendar, begins now. And if that doesn’t work, I can always start again, and again, until something sticks.
ITEM: I’m gutted. Last week I found out that the women in Ben Dover’s films are not actually bona fide members of the general public, but actresses. (For those not in the know, Ben Dover is a porn star who goes out with a video camera and asks complete strangers to have sex with him.) So, it appears that creepy middle-aged men are not irresistible to members of the opposite sex after all. Who’d have thought it? As I said, I’m gutted – it was something I was kind of depending on. Oh man, this is almost as bad as when my mum told me there was no Santa Claus. It was the absolute low point of the eighties for me.
ITEM: It’s only been a week, and I’m fed up with the cold weather already. The osteo-arthritis in my thumb is playing up and I’m shivering as I leave the heating off as much as I can in an attempt to keep the fuel bills down. In people over fifty, liking winter weather is either the first sign of senile dementia or means that you have an executive position on the board of a power company. Will all those people who keep blathering on about how scenic it all looks kindly take a hike, preferably to the North Pole.
ITEM: I had a very strange dream. I was lying in bed, and Spider-Man was stuck to the ceiling up in the far corner of my room. He dropped down and grabbed hold of my foot and tried to pull me out of bed, but gave up when I kicked out. Then he removed his mask (he looked just like the actor Tobey Maguire) and pulled my fawn polo neck over his head. That was when I woke up.
It reminded me of a Spider-Man story I read years and years ago, and which really choked me up at the time. He was in this boy’s bedroom and chatting to the little fellow, and the boy asks if he can see his face so Spider-Man takes his mask off and tells him his real name, and inside you’re screaming, ‘Spidey, don’t do it! You’re putting the kid’s life in danger!’. Then the last panel of the story shows Spidey webswinging away from a white building, and there’s a sign saying Cancer Ward, or something like that.
So, either my subconscious is telling me that I’m seriously ill, or sending a subliminal message that it’s past time for me to wipe those cobwebs off the ceiling in my bedroom. I think I’ll go with option two.
I also had a dream in which I was nekkid and doing sex stuff with a woman I hadn’t seen in over seventeen years and never particularly fancied even back then. I discussed this with Miss P, and we both agreed that you never seem to have sexy dreams that involve people you fancy. Now why is that I wonder. I’m sure the psychologists have an explanation for it.
ITEM: Strange things continue to arrive in my Inbox. Last week Google alerted me to the existence of a Peter Tennant who ‘has been a dairy farmer all his life with a passion for Clydesdale horses.’ Apparently he’s ‘still game’, whatever that means. The Internet – it’s like the multiverse, but with free porn and funny cat pictures. If I get a Clydesdale horse will this other Peter Tennant cease to exist?
And only yesterday a spammer offered to add three to four inches to my penis. Like I don’t trip over enough already.
ITEM: This morning I entered a contest to win a romantic night away for two in a luxury hotel. Part of the prize was a complimentary £100 wine voucher, to go with the free meal. In pondering which of my female friends to invite to accompany me should I be fortunate enough to win I almost immediately zeroed in on the only one who doesn’t drink. Make what you wish of my motives…
The Imaginary Girlfriend would be no good at all – she drinks like it’s going out of fashion.