these are the opening three paragraphs of my autobiography, feedback will play a part in whether I continue this project….oh who am I kidding? It’s a bleeding vanity project, a comical bible of your’s truly’s stupid life x

“My first memory? I suppose I could be coy and demure and extrapolate a genteel image from the back of my imagination, based solely on photographs that I’ve seen of myself. Admittedly when I look back and try to remember my earliest days as a little kiddy-wink it’s pretty bloody hard. It’s gotten to the point where I can now remember things but in a Truman Show sort of way, in that I’m removed from them and I’m watching myself as if I’m a character in a TV show. A pretty bloody good TV show I might add and all, none of this let’s keep Jim Carrey docile sort of malarkey; although in a sense I can relate to Carrey in that Truman Show film because I had quite a sheltered childhood – I was very close to my parents throughout my youngest days as they were loving, happy and indulgent.

I was the first of four children and, egotistical though it may be, I like to think that I may ever-so-slightly be the favourite; the original, unique, one of a kind, maverick Watts sprog, plagiarised by the cruder, younger copies of me. I’m Edward Scissorhands and they’re Johnny Paper-Clip fingers and Rosie Hole-Punch Feet, which are also two terrible ideas for sequels to Burton’s beautiful film, although I still wonder why that Professor gave Edward them Scissorhands, what kind of a stop gap are they? “Oh Edward, I’ve created you but I’m too lazy to give you any hands so have these scissors instead, I’m sure you’ll be just fine and in no way ostracised from society for having potentially lethal digits”, what a silly and remarkable man that scientist were; it’s also saddening that the closest we have to a real life Scissorhands is that punk hook handed Abu Hamza, a man whose soul is as dark as the women’s jeans that I’m currently wearing and who apparently decided to base his look on that of Disney villains…I guess that means Osama is his Smee.

However, like I was meant to be saying, I won’t lie about my earliest memory, because there ain’t no point in stringing you along with a bunch of rhubarb, and so here we go: My dad is asleep on a bed and I, chubby little kid that I was – I must not have been any older than two, stride powerfully into the room, pause dramatically in a spread eagled sort of Colossus of Rhodes style pose, and then proceed to plop out a few childish poops on the floor, a decision that, although at the time seemed like the easiest way of going about things, but in hindsight (a wonderful thing) seems like a lazy, terrible and unhygienic way og going about things. The Colossus of Rhodes could never have got away with that, “Look Jason, the Colossus of Rhodes, one of the wonders of the ancient world…and we’re sailing beneath it!…oh God it’s dropping huge stony shites on our boat! We’re drowning, we’re drooowwwnnning!” Bloody nightmare it would have been, but that is my first memory. I don’t remember much else about it, colours have long faded, but the basic act and it’s players still linger on like a lost Shakespeare play, although admittedly it’s no Macbeth, even though there were several shits in that as well.“