Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Badface Investigates – The Royal Wedding (Writing request)

To me Kate’s dress makes her look like a ghost. Not because she is essentially wearing a big white sheet, but because we are one of the last households in England who don’t have digital TV or a decent Internet connection.

Typically, today of all days, the reception is especially awful. As a consequence I can see two Kate Middletons. Both of them are very fuzzy and almost completely see-through, like projection of a ghost on Scooby-doo.

In my terrible television’s defence the double-vision could be caused by the obscene amount of gin I’ve drunk since waking up this morning.

I’m prone to drinking silly amounts when left alone in the house on an unexpected day off, especially when there is something to celebrate. Because today is a special day for Great Britain I’m searching for oblivion at the bottom of a bottle of supermarket gin. I was going to opt for the more patriotic Pimms with a flag on it, but it seemed too contrived.

Also it cost a lot more.

Kate is walking up the isle now. While off falling off the sofa earlier I discovered that I can almost get her to resolve into a single image if I put one leg in the air to help boost the signal.

To be completely honest I don’t care at all what she looks like, I just want to hear her voice when she says her vows. That’s why I’m struggling to watch this on possibly the world’s worst TV instead of lining the streets waving a tiny plastic flag.

I’ve seen her face loads of times but I’ve never heard her voice. I’m secretly hoping it’s something totally unexpected and she has a really pronounced Russian accent or talks like a Yorkshire miner from the 1930s.

Irritatingly there is a delay between the image and the sound so when they start singing hymns everyone looks like they’ve forgotten the words. I mute the TV and see if I can get the Queen to sync up with some Death Metal.

I’m probably a bit drunk now.

When it finally comes to the vows I quickly turn down ‘Hammer Smashed Face’ and crank up the volume on the tele. The Vicar person is doing his long boring bit building up the anticipation before I can finally hear Kate speak. He seems to be unnecessarily peppering it with strained references to the Church and God to string it out a bit. Poor bloke, this is the most people who will ever listen to him.

During the ‘richer and for poorer,’ line I amuse myself by imagining everyone in the church trying to stifle a laugh through their silk embroidered handkerchiefs and perfect teeth.

Kate finally speaks. She sounds educated but not condescending, upper-class but not unapproachable. Her voice sounds much lovelier than I could have imagined, almost deliberately understated - a theme that they’ve clearly carried through into her dress.

I lose interest after the vows when they all start singing again and stumble off to the pub to discuss Pippa Middleton’s arse over a couple of pints.


As requested by

Thursday, 10 February 2011

Badface Investigates - Scarification

Using a scalpel she cuts the first cut across my stomach. Without looking up she says;
“You don't drink a lot do you?”
“I did last night.” I reply.
“You must have a good diet then.”
“Not really, I ate a burger on the way here because I was so hungover.”
“You're actually the worse candidate for scarification ever.” She replies while cutting me with the scalpel.

This is probably a conversation we should have had before we started.

“ Yet, you're hardly bleeding at all.”
I sit up to look at the first cuts and in doing so blood starts to seep out of the bright red wounds.
“There it is.”

For those of you who don't know scarification is like a tattoo. But it's done with a scalpel. And instead of ink you get scars.

That's what I'm having done right now.

I'm being cut with a scalpel to create scars on my stomach.

It's taken me months to build up the courage to do this for your amusement. My head is forced back against the leather chair with fear. I'm staring at the light and trying to hold a conversation.

I can barely feel the blade as it first goes in. I'm pleasantly surprised. But as she drags the knife across my skin the pain increases becoming more and more painful rising to a point of unbearable agony the further she cuts.

It gets worse when she has to cut curved lines because that literally involves twisting the blade.

After I've been cut each line has to be opened up so it won't heal properly creating a better scar. This is done by retracing each line with a series of small jagged cuts, like sketching a line with a pencil — but in my skin, with a scalpel.

I can feel each tiny tug.

Somehow, we're still holding together a conversation throughout the whole thing. Although it's a little bit stop start as I'm in too much pain to form words while she's cutting. Sometimes I manage half a swearword. I'm almost getting used to it when the blade feels like it scratches across my hip bone.

I'm writhing in a silent agony, borne more out of the unnatural sensation than the acute pain. I try to tell her that I think she just touched a bone. But before I can form the sentence the knife goes back in and all that comes out my mouth is a small whimper.

Not for the first time today I consider the possibility that I've gone totally insane.

So much blood has built up now that she asks an assistant to pass her some water. Before spraying the water directly onto the fresh cuts on my stomach she smells the nozzle and passes it back to her assistant. “That's alcohol, I said water.”

We both look at each other and laugh at the near miss.

Once the wound has been cleaned, with water, she points out a fat deposit that she needs to cut out to ensure even scarring. It looks like a fleshy white knot within one of the bright red cuts. She tells to brace myself because it's going to hurt, which, within the context of what has gone before, worries me slightly.

She cuts the fat deposit out of me like you'd remove the bad bit from an apple, twisting and digging the blade underneath it to remove it.

I'm in my happy place, I'm in my happy place.

Except a grenade has just gone off and everything in my happy place is screaming.

Now that is done it's almost time to finish. Just the most intricate cuts left to do, which means a smaller blade. No problems, smaller blade, less pain, I mistakenly think. This blade is worse than anything that has gone before.

Because it's so small it feels like it's vibrating through my skin like wasp stings, on the end of a dentist's drill, being put inside my skin. The whole of the last bit takes everything I have not to scream or beg her to stop. I force myself to focus on my breathing and just take it. All the while thinking, it'll be over soon, it'll be over soon.

Then it is over.

I stand up wearily and look at the leather seat where I've spent half an hour being cut with a scalpel. It's covered in blood and sweat.

Now I just have to clean the wound with lemon juice three times a day for two weeks and it'll be finished.


Badface Investigates – Being Kissed:

I’m in a club with a couple of friends, quite drunk. That’s a lie. I’m biblically drunk. The happy drunk where everything is hilarious and you keep shouting cheers and smashing your pint glasses together.

Did I mention that I’ve pulled?

I don’t really ever pull in clubs, it’s a bit tacky. Besides it gets in the way of all the drinking. Also it could potentially lead to drunken sex with a stranger, which for me is a lot like the azetc zone on the crystal maze. When you’re actually there it’s much more confusing than it looks on the tele, there’s loads of pressure to perform, and a bald man with a jazzy waistcoat keeps looking in through the window.

I should probably consider drinking less when I got out. Or watch less crystal maze when I’m hungover.

The other slight problem with this whole kissing situation is that it’s a bloke.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite a liberal guy, but this bloke is fat and ugly. Also this is totally against my will. He’s literally grabbing me by the head and forcing his tongue into my mouth. This, my internet savvy friends, is actual facerape.

I probably shouldn’t have told him I was gay - all those times.

I was having a jolly old time in the club finding everything hilarious and testing the stress limits of pint glasses with excessive ‘chinging’. When from over my shoulder I hear someone say; “he looks like a right girl.”

I get this a lot so I spin around and say, “pardon mate?”

A short fat chav leans into me and says, ”I said I think you look like a gay.”

Confused by his change of attempted insult and encouraged by my blood alcohol level I decide to deconstruct his attack by launching into a barely comprehensible tirade. I start by complimenting his gaydar and telling him that I am in fact gay, detailing at length my fondness for cock. If you’ll pardon the pun. For flavor I describe in minute detail a fictional homosexual liaison that I claimed to have just had in the toilets.

I can’t remember what I said exactly, but doubtless it was an excellently worded, eloquent display of powerful rhetoric. At the very least I know that I didn’t throw up at any point. I performed with a borderline offensive theatrical campiness that would have put all those gameshow hosts from the 90s to shame.

At this point I recognize a familiar look in his eye and brace myself to be punched.

You may find this hard to believe but I get punched in the face quite a lot. As such I’m pretty good at spotting the signs of an impending punch. People’s faces change when they are thinking about hitting mine.

Instead of punching me he grabs me and forces his tongue into my face.

Well this is new.

I’m not really sure what to do. I want to ask him to stop but he’s sort of got a monopoly on my mouth right now. I decide that the polite thing to do is to let him get on with it and hope that he’ll come up for air eventually.

While he’s kissing me I’m sort of stand there awkwardly trying to work out what has prompted this unusual reaction. I’ve got two potential theories. The first, rather vain, theory is that he believed my drunken faux campness and it awoke his deep-seated repressed homosexual desires that he was hiding behind his blunt butchness.

My second, more realistic, theory is that he knew all along that I was a drunk tosser and decided to call my bluff with a perfectly constructed comeback to shut me up completely.

I secretly hope it’s the first reason because it appeals to my ego – but if it’s the second, his plan has worked perfectly. I’m standing frozen, bolt upright, while he forces his tongue around in my mouth.

Finally he lets go of my face and takes a step back. He’s staring at me blankly.

I decide now might be a good time to head to the bar.

I turn to leave and bump straight into my open-mouthed friend who apparently has been standing there holding two pints the whole time. Great.