PROLOGUE
Who am I I hear you ask, and why am I reading some nonsensical musings and ramblings of someone that hasn't even auditioned for Big Brother? Trust me, I'm not a celebrity. I'm just an unassuming 35 year old buffoon from a seaside (well, Thames Estuary-side) town that has entirely way too much time on his hands. Why not tell everyone about my life? Hell if Joey Essex can write a book (I assume it's a real book and not a big book of Smurfs colouring book) then I can too. I may not be on telly, but I at least know my ABC's and can count to ten without the use of my fingers. And yes, that is a knock on the state of so-called "reality" TV these days, which may happen a lot during the subsequent pages, and that's something coming from a wrestling fan, as we all know without a shadow of a doubt, that wrestling is real. Right? Right?
Over the next however many pages (I've just started with the prologue and I'm not entirely sure how many I'm actually going to complete before I call it THE END, but it will be bigger than a copy of Razzle, just without the pictures and readers wives sections - if you don't know what Razzle is/was, you never checked the top shelf of your local newsagent, did you?)I'm going to put everything on paper that I remember about my life - every high, every low and all the embarrassing moments I found myself in. And if I feel that it's getting too boring, or too preachy, I'm just gonna make shit up, just like that dude Screech from Saved By the Bell who once starred in a porn film that you can never unsee. So for artistic licence purposes, I would like to end this prologue and start the book off right with the following:
"BASED ON A TRUE STORY"
So strap in, get a cuppa, a bourbon biscuit and get ready for product placement aplenty, as we delve into the life of a Non-Celebrity that will make no sense to those that didn't live it or weren't a part of it. Just take it for what it is, and that's a way to kill time. I hope that one day, my memoirs will be read by people on the toilet the whole world over. It helps to have a dream, and my dreams are minimalistic. And that's my headstone engraving sorted.
Read on dear listeners, and help me in my goal to become slightly more famous than anyone that put on a Teletubby outfit in the 90's (but I still won't go on Big Brother).
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CHAPTER 1: THE END OF THE BEGINNING, OR THE BEGINNING OF THE END?
I don't know if this is the normal way autobiographies start (I doubt it seeing as important celebrity people start from birth (never conception, maybe they too just don't really want to know or imagine their parents ever doing the horizontal hunka-chunka in the first place) but as I'm not a celebrity and merely just some strange fellow from the Southeast of England, I've decided against the norm and to just start this book right now, as in like now. The present. Not the past or the middle. It's a story within a book within a story, but not in a dream like state like that film Inception (was it all a dream?). Sure, by the time you read this it will be the future. So kind of accept this slightly like time travel, just without a hoverboard.
I'm currently 35 years old, though by the time I finish this book who knows what age I will be? I'm writing this as, surprisingly, I've managed to bag myself a real life working girlfriend and wanted to put down some of my life in a way to show her just exactly what she's actually dating in the vaguest of hopes that she'll think I'm adorable, though i am expecting she will just find me creepy as she reads this. Hence the need for artistic licence to amend those paritcular moments in my life in which I just come across like a twat (there have been a few), as otherwise it would be merely cringe-inducing. So I leave it to you dear reader to deduce just what moments are truth, and which are fiction (to my girlfriend, I promise you will be the only one other than me to know the truth!). I can use artistic licence, hell the Americans use it whenever they make a World War 2 film - you don't see us Brits making a film about the Vietnam War with Benedict Cumberhatch playing a grizzled veteran gunning down the vietcong, though I may actually pay to watch that (after all, I have seen Sharknado more than once, so obviously I know a thing or two about films).
For the first time in my life I can honestly, hand on heart, call myself a grown up. Hell, I discussed mortgages last night - what self respecting celebrity would put details of mortgage shopping into their autobiographies? None, thats who. Maybe John Major's retirement memoirs (he was pretty boring after all, especially if you choose to believe what Spitting Image told us). Yep, this former hellraising party animal is now at home sitting in his pants looking at houses to buy, and with me not being an ounce of famous, it means I have to rely on what many in my boat call lower level income.
I work for a soul-less corporation of blood sucking fiends that do all they can to ensure that I stay in exactly the same income and level in order to obtain a nice redundancy payout when they effectively shuffle me off the working coil. I earn enough to ensure I live surrounded by the finest mahogany furniture, and own the largest collection of velour blazers and cordoruy trousers known to man. I earn enough money to live off soup 4-5 days a week, and the rest of the time I spend treating my girlfriend to what can only be described as a chinese meal and maybe a fry up.
I lead a very normal life, somewhat boring from time to time, but thats the same as everyone else in my position. The difference between my life and someone who has enough money to buy everything is simply down to one word - happiness. Whilst I have days of ups and downs, I can happily say that everything I own is mine, and I worked hard to get it. Sure, I'd like a bit more money from time to time (who wouldn't?) but money is not the be all and end all. How many rich people do you know that aren't egomaniacal douchebags? I may be "poor" compared to them, but I don't need stuff. I've got memories in my head and I've done more in 35 years than most people will ever do. So take this as the inane ramblings from a nobody if you will, or take this as a motivational speech. You don't need things to be happy - if you do then you never will be. Though I always will pay out for comfortable pants. Thems a must. Why is it that the most comfortable clothes you own are the ones with holes in them that you really truly don't want to throw away? Why can't they just invent pants that never deteriorate, or trousers that don't split at the crotch over time? One day, some time in the future, that dream will become a reality.
And on that note, I thank you for making it to the end of this first chapter. Chrissie, if you're reading this, this book is for you. I hope it makes you laugh, and maybe makes you teary from time to time (either through genuine feelings or laughter), as you have inspired me to write again. If you're reading this and you aren't my girlfriend, then I can only say cheers for giving me your time, and I hope you enjoy the rest of my unassuming life. I guarantee you embarassing predicaments and cringe worthy moments in the many chapters to follow, and if my life makes the most curmudgeonly of you smile or even giggle, then my work will be done.
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