Billy's Log , livre ebook

eBookPartnership.com - Dougie Brimson

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

198 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Bridget Jones's Diary... for lads!For Billy Ellis, life is one series of disasters after another. His haemorrhoids have just cost him promotion, his new boss is threatening to move in next door, and on the very occasions he need a condom, he can't even buy a packet without almost getting arrested. As if that wasn't bad enough, he's suddenly woken up to the fact that he's almost thirty, still single and has the looks that give a new meaning to the word 'average'.But at the end of last year, as always, Billy read his 'Log of Life' and vowed to make things better.And this year, he succeeded. Eventually.Billy's Log reveals the frustrations of life for a single male and the never-ending battle to understand the workings of the female mind.

Sujets

Humour

Informations

Publié par	eBookPartnership.com
Date de parution	01 mai 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781908400017
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0124€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Billy’s Log by Dougie Brimson
The hilarious diary of one man’s struggle with life, lager and the female race
For Billy Ellis, life is one series of disasters after another. His haemorrhoids have just cost him promotion, his new boss is threatening to move in next door, and on the very occasions he needs a condom, he can’t even buy a packet without almost getting arrested. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s suddenly woken up to the fact that he’s almost thirty, still single and has the looks that give a new meaning to the word ‘average’.
But at the end of last year, as always, Billy read his ‘Log of Life’ and vowed to make things better.
And this year, he succeeded. Eventually.
Billy’s Log reveals the frustrations of life for a single male and the never-ending battle to understand the workings of the female mind.
* * *
“The most humorous portrayal of the male psychosis since High Fidelity ” Blind, Stupid & Desperate magazine
“ Men Behaving Badly meets Nick Hornby in a hilarious look at male inadequacy” pickabook.co.uk
* * *
www.dougiebrimson.com

Published by eBookpartnership.com
www.eBookpartnership.com
About the Author
Born in Hertfordshire in 1959, Dougie Brimson joined the Royal Air Force where he trained as a mechanical engineer. After serving for over eighteen years he left the forces in 1994 to forge a career as a writer.
Now, having written 13 books and co-written the multi-award winning movie ‘Green Street’ starring Elijah Wood, Dougie is firmly established as one of the leading experts on the culture of football. However in recent times he has become equally well known for his outspoken and stout defence of the male of the species against the onslaught of feminism and the laddette culture.
A defence which started with the publication of a book entitled Billy’s Log.
* * *
www.dougiebrimson.com
Dedication
For the lads who inspired this book.
Acknowledgements
With huge thanks to Tina, Jacque and the girls at JEM. Onwards and upwards!
Chapter 1 - The Wake
Friday 31 December 1999
16.30 p.m. - At home
Bollocks. If I wasn’t depressed before, I sure am now. Why the bloody hell do I put myself through this every year? No one else I know keeps a diary, so why the hell do I? I mean, it’s not as if I’m Richard Branson or David Beckham or that life is a constant whirl of parties and loose women. In fact, if the evidence of the last 365 days is anything to go by, my life is shite.
What really gets me is that I had such high hopes for 1999. I honestly believed that the two aims I set myself this time last year were achievable and for once, when I looked back, I’d be able to congratulate myself on a job well done. But no. Instead of a smug feeling of satisfaction, I have the all too familiar gut-wrenching ache of failure. I wouldn’t mind so much if those ambitions were anything special. It wasn’t as if I wanted to climb Everest or fly a Harrier jump jet. As a healthy, heterosexual male, is it really that unreasonable to want a bit of female company? And shouldn’t everyone be looking for promotion at work?
But aside from a drunken fumble almost nine months ago, I’ve had sod all in the way of sex. And even that was more down to luck than judgement. After all, it’s not every day that you bump into a drunken twenty-two-year-old Essex girl who’s just found out her bloke is having it away with her best mate and has convinced herself that the most obvious way to teach them both a lesson is to have sex with the first available male she meets.
At least I almost got promotion. In fact I probably would have if that bastard Sean hadn’t shown me his copy of Maxim. That’s where the idea to photocopy my arse came from and I’m still convinced that bastard knew they’d put CCTV cameras in the copy room. Of course, it did briefly elevate me to comic genius status, which is something I suppose. Although things might have been different if anyone had twigged on to the fact that when I said I was taking a picture of my chocky starfish to see if my piles had cleared up or not, I was actually telling the truth rather than taking the piss. The high-ups on the top floor weren’t impressed, that’s for sure. I knew I should have gone to plan B, and told them that what I had actually been doing was using my initiative to save the company time and money. After all, a quick flash of their copier works out a damn site cheaper than a day on the sick.
Mind you, much as I’m pissed off about it, 1999 wasn’t all bad. The trip to Wembley and winning promotion with the Hornets was one of the best days ever. And I did discover the delights of Sabrina The Teenage Witch , although I guess I really should be more concerned about that than gratified.
The other big plus of 1999 was that I finally got rid of the flatmate from hell. I still can’t work out what I was thinking of, letting my spare room to an Australian minge magnet. Did I really think, or hope, that his formidable sexual prowess would in some way rub off on me? If so, I must have been bloody raving. Listening to some antipodean stud rogering his way through the entire female population of south Hertfordshire may be strangely arousing at first, but after the sixth consecutive night, it becomes a major pain. And walking into the kitchen to find a different semi-clad female eating their way through the contents of your fridge each morning does tend to make you feel frighteningly inferior. In the end, it was a bloody relief when immigration tracked him down and sent him on his way, although I still feel slightly guilty about that. How was I to know that he wasn’t here legally? If he’d told me, I wouldn’t have tried to register him as a tenant for the Council Tax. Still, it’s an ill wind. You don’t appreciate your own space until some other bastard invades it.
But really, aside from those rare glimpses of happiness, the plain truth is that, once again, the highs of last year were well outnumbered by the lows and it’s becoming increasingly clear, even to me, that things can’t go on like this. Not for much longer anyway. For a start, there were far too many references to hangovers, take-aways and wind-ups at my expense and at twenty-nine going on thirty, that’s not good. In fact, it’s bloody terrible.
Of course, I could blame Maria for all this, and indeed have on numerous occasions. It’s true that nothing’s been the same since we split almost two years ago now and, if I’m honest, I settled into this rut because it was easier to do that than not do it. But blaming her isn’t fair. Not after all this time. I don’t even miss her that much, I just miss the sex.
But I can’t rely on good fortune supplying me with a rampant Essex girl again and, in truth, I can’t hang about for it either. I’m in this rut because I’m lazy. Pure and simple. And at the moment I can’t see any kind of future except more of the same and that has to change. The problem is, where do I start? And how?
Oh well, whatever it is, it’ll have to wait. It’s New Year’s Eve and tomorrow will be a whole new century. Maybe change is on the horizon, who knows? At least I have a party to go to tonight. The delights of my old mate Budweiser beckon.
Chapter 2 - January
Tuesday 4 January
10.15 a.m. - At home
Bloody hell, I feel rough. No, not rough, worse than rough. So rough in fact, that I can’t even think of a word to describe how rough I feel.
Why does a hangover feel a thousand times worse when you close your eyes? I’ve been asleep for hours without even the remotest hint of a problem but now that I’m awake, every time my eyelids drop, the noise in my head increases and the throbbing feeling from my bladder becomes increasingly urgent. I wonder if, rather than sit here, I should just get up and go to the toilet. Then again, rather than move, I could just wet myself. I live on my own so no one would ever know. And I’ll need a shower later on anyway. But if I do that, I’ll have to wash the chair and the carpet. Not an attractive idea.
Unusually, my stomach feels all right. There must be a reason for that, although it escapes me at the moment. Mind you, much the same can be said for everything else that’s happened recently.
I think I need to go back to bed. Looking at this screen isn’t doing me any favours at all. Mind you, after three days on the piss I don’t know why I’m surprised by that.
11.15 a.m. - At home
I’ve given up on bed. Every time I begin to drift off, the bloody phone rings and, by the time I get up, it stops. I can’t even find out who it is because the number has been withheld. Although it can only be someone who has not been with me. Otherwise, they would also be suffering a thousand slow and painful deaths. Much like they will do anyway if they don’t sod off.
13.30 p.m. - At home
If there is a god, I have obviously pissed him off somehow because he is focusing every single ounce of vengeance on me. Not only have I found a message on the machine telling me I have to be at the old man’s by 7.00 p.m. tonight to meet the latest in a long line of women, but I finally caught the phone to find Kev ordering me to meet him and the lads at the Red Lion in an hour. Why can’t people just leave me alone to suffer alone and in silence?
Still, at least I know why my stomach isn’t giving, me grief, although finding that on the doorstep when I picked up my milk wasn’t pleasant. Maybe if I leave it long enough, someone else will clean it up for me.
14.45 p.m. - At home
By all accounts I excelled myself last night. Not only did I get totally bombed, but I was thrown out of the pub by Terry when first I tried to pull his daughter, then his wife and then dropped my trousers and urinated up the bar. As a result, I have been banned from the Red Lion for ever. Something Kev and all my other so-called friends were well aware of, as they were all waiting for me to turn up just so that they could witness the obviously amusing spectacle of one of their mates being physically ejected by a maniac of a landlor