My Life in F.R.I.E.N.D.S Quotes

So no-one told you life was gonna be this way

*clap clap clap clap*

As anyone who knows me even a little bit will tell you, I am a massive Friends fan. Remember FriendsFest in London last year? I was there with my own group of Friends.

And it was amazing.

So, a common question among Friends fans is “which character are you?”

My answer has always been Chandler with a hint of Ross… but then it got me thinking. I am probably like all the characters in different ways. Then it got me thinking again… would I be able to describe myself, my life and my personality, using only quotes from the best sitcom of the 90s?

Well, here is my life as told by F.R.I.E.N.D.S:

Every time I read an email with a grammatical mistake:

When I get asked to do something on a Sunday:

Sundays are for sleeping, eating, watching films and drinking tea.

See, Chandler gets it:

And when I don’t get invited at all:

Me in any meeting longer than 30 minutes:

Any meeting over 30 minutes should include an unlimited supply of coffee

When my work phone rings at 5:29 on a Friday afternoon:

And then someone answers and says “I’ll just get him for you”:

Every time I see someone wearing camouflage:

This joke will never not be hilarious

Me after one drink:

And then I drink some more:

When I really should go home:

The morning after:

And not long after, the existential crisis kicks in:

Don’t drink, kids.

When I make a cup of tea only to find there’s no milk left:

I accept no blame for this.

That time my lunch disappeared from the office fridge:

Meeting someone for the first time:

How my future wife will probably introduce me to her friends:

Penis jokes are always funny:

When you search Ugly Naked Guy in Google Images to write this post:

Me when F.R.I.E.N.D.S came to an end:

But I’m over it now, can you tell?

And finally, when Chandler summed me up in 6 words:

 

This was fun, we should do it again sometime.

DC

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My Life in F.R.I.E.N.D.S Quotes

Writing from memory.

I have, since March, been working on a new novel.

As The Whisper That Rose Through Darkness ticks over in the background, this other book has somehow taken over. I feel immensely guilty.

Anyway, I thought I would start using this blog for more than just a few poems and the odd short story (let’s pretend it hasn’t been months since I uploaded either). Escape from Reality will also become a platform for me to just talk. About things. And stuff. You’ll see.

So, this new story.

It is boy meets girl, without the middle part. It is two young people in London, experiencing life. One is kind of famous, and the other is swallowed up in his own angst.

I want it to be funny and moving but, most importantly, truthful.

When I look back at being eighteen, I think of myself as a mess. I drank way too much way too frequently. I learned how to be selfish and put myself first in most situations. I made stupid decisions and shunned responsibility and somehow blagged my way through my first year at university.

I also remember how much I cared about, well, everything. Homesickness was a constant nag in my mind. Proving myself as intelligent was imperative to my happiness, to the point that I regretted studying French (foreign languages not a natural talent of mine) and almost resented having attended comprehensive school (although this was also a side-effect of studying alongside several privately educated peers). Most of all, though, I wanted everyone to like me. I wanted to please everyone and just fit in.

I even started speaking posh.

There was also a General Election during my first year at university and I was so passionate, so hell-bent on making sure all my friends and even some strangers in bars shared my political opinions, that the eventual result devastated me.

How times change.

Do I still care what people think of me? Hell no. Am I still passionate about the political party I support? Not really. Am I still selfish? Nope. Do I continue to resent the schools I attended? Not even a tiny bit.

I do still enjoy the occasional alcohol binge, though.

So writing in the perspective of eighteen-year-olds is challenging. It means I have to think back, dig into memory, and emulate those emotions. And there were a lot of those.

Remember how we all resented going to school and then, after one week of full-time employment, wished that we were back in the confines of educational institutions. The taunts of classmates, in hind-sight, more bearable than the mundanity of nine-to-five. The school holidays a distant memory after your first night shift. (I mean, some people miss it so much that they even grow up to be teachers!)

That’s how I feel right now. If I could be eighteen again, I probably would. Okay, I never could decide if I was ecstatic, content and happy, or miserable, lonely and desolate. But man, life was good.

So, the point of this blog post? I’m not sure there is one. Except, sometimes it’s healthy to remember how it was to be young. It’s even okay to wish you were back there, living it all again.

But also it’s important to appreciate that, and this will go for, like, 95% of people, you are a better person now than you were when you were eighteen. If nothing else, you are more you.

Anyway, after 600 words of procrastination, I’d better get back to writing this new novel.

Laters,

Dan x.

Writing got me like

Writing from memory.

No Love, No Good, No Better – A poem written in song titles.

Here is a poem, written using song titles from my iTunes.

Full list of artists below, try seeing how many you can get before looking!

***

Hello, Ho Hey, Say Something

Give Me Love, Stand By Me, Sing

My Girl Livin’ On A Prayer

Baby, Fall, I Know You Care

 

All I Got, it’s Sad But True

I Wish, I Want, Only You.

We Are Young, Larger Than Life

You Ain’t The First, Laserlight

 

Chasing Pavements, Chasing Cars

Stay You, Just The Way You Are.

No Matter What I’m Me, I’m Yours

Feel The Love, Hurt, Human – Flaws.

 

Teenage Dream, Climb On Board

Jizz In My Pants, Rock Me, Roar

Pump Up The Jam, Praise You, Shout

Paradise City, Pass Out

 

Wake Me Up, Grow Old With Me

I Will Wait Tik Tok Happy

Without You I’m Half A Heart

Fly Away Encore Une Fois

 

Goodbye To You, Let It Go

I Knew You Were Trouble, Low

 

Internet Friends Under Pressure

No Love, No Good, and No Better.

 

***

LIST OF ARTISTS:

 

Martin Solveig & Dragonette, The Lumineers, Great Big World & Christina Aguilera

Ed Sheeran, Ben. E. King, Travis

The Temptations, Bon Jovi

Justin Bieber, Ed Sheeran, Ellie Goulding

 

Newton Faulkner, Metallica

One Direction, One Direction, Ellie Goulding

Fun., Backstreet Boys

Guns n’ Roses, David Guetta feat. Jessie J

 

Adele, Snow Patrol

Rihanna feat. Mikky Ekko, Ed Sheeran + Wiley, Bruno Mars

Boyzone, Lil’ Wayne, Jason Mraz

Rudimental, Johnny Cash, The Killers, Bastille

 

Katy Perry, Labrinth

The Lonely Island, One Direction, Katy Perry

Technotronic ft. Felly, Fatboy Slim, Lulu

Guns n’ Roses, Tinie Tempah

 

Avicii, Tom Odell

Mumford & Sons, Ke$ha, Pharell

David Guetta feat. Usher, One Direction,

Lenny Kravitz, Sash!

 

Ed Sheeran + Dot Rotten, Idina Menzel (Frozen OST)

Taylor Swift, Flo Rida

Knife Party, Queen

Eminem feat. Lil’ Wayne, The Prodigy, Lorde

 

(I just wrote what I had on my iTunes so if I’ve missed any featured artists or have listed a cover version well, stop being pedantic.)

No Love, No Good, No Better – A poem written in song titles.

A Tidy Mess (Part Four)

Part one

Part two

Part three

***

 

Katherine felt sick as she looked upon her aunty and uncle’s house. Her dad had died inside those walls. Her father’s death was a memory that she did not hold and yet, in that moment, she was reliving it.

 

Harriett was shocked when she answered the door to her niece whom she had not seen for over a year. Wordlessly, she welcomed the surprise visitor into her home and offered her a comforting embrace.

 

‘Darling, I am so sorry,’ said Harriett.

Katherine looked up into her aunt’s dark green eyes. They were almost identical to her father’s.

‘Wh-where?’ Katherine stuttered.

‘Where what, darling?’

‘Where did you… where was he?’

Harriett sighed, gazing at the broken girl standing before her. She looked over her shoulder towards the bottom of the stairs. Katherine walked slowly over to the spot where her father had taken his last breaths just one week ago. She fell to her knees and began to cry.

 

It had been the slowest week of Katherine’s life. The police were no closer to finding out who had murdered her father and she was growing more frustrated each day. It did not help that nobody else seemed to care. Her mother tried to comfort her with effortless hugs and meaningless ‘I understand’s while Rob seemed to be avoiding her completely.

 

The police had questioned Rob, Katherine knew that, but she did not know what he had told them. He must have had an alibi to keep them from suspecting him and yet Katherine still could not trust her brother. The murder investigation had consumed Katherine to the point where she could not distinguish between her grief for her dead father and her anger towards the mystery murderer.

 

That was why she had decided to visit the place where Tim had died.

 

Harriett did not want to see Katherine and so when she had turned up uninvited on her doorstep, she was annoyed. She knew that her niece would ask questions, and Harriett was fed up of giving the same answers.

 

She had been the one to find her brother’s  lifeless, bloody corpse early on Monday morning. Her husband, Martin, was paying the taxi driver when he heard her scream. The pair stood in the doorway, unable to fully open the door blocked by Tim’s body, struck by devastation as they realised instantly that Tim was dead. Martin phoned the police immediately and their nightmare began.

 

They had been due home from holiday late Sunday night but due to a ‘technical fault’ their flight had been delayed. When the police first confirmed Tim’s approximate time of death Harriett and Martin could only wonder whether, if their flight had been on time, they would have been home before the incident. Would Tim still be alive or would they have still been too late?

 

When they were finally allowed back in their house, nothing was out of place. It was exactly how they knew Tim would have left it: immaculately clean and tidy with everything in it’s place. The rug had been straightened, all doors had been shut, and the cream carpet was clear from any traces of dirt. Nobody knew exactly what had been used to kill Tim, either: the ornament of the violinist was on the window sill, cleaned from Tim’s blood.

 

Harriett and Martin were the only people, aside from Katherine, who felt truly saddened by Tim’s passing. Living in the house had become almost unbearable; they expected him to arrive home from work every evening, Harriett still laid three places at the table, and they felt uneasy all the time. Somebody had broken into their house without leaving a single trace, and that worried them more than anything. They changed their alarm and their locks, they triple-checked that everything was locked even when they were inside their house. And yet, none of their extra security measures helped.

 

Katherine left a few hours after arriving, emotionally drained yet feeling somehow less anguished. Harriett began to prepare the dinner, ready for when her husband arrived home from work. She turned on the radio to distract her from her thoughts, and hummed along as she peeled, chopped and sautéed. Her mood lifted slightly after an emotional afternoon.

 

As Harriett plated up two hearty meals, she accidentally splashed her  chest with the boiling hot sauce. She tore off her top and splashed cool water on her burning skin. Annoyed, she made her way upstairs to change into something else. She looked into the mirror on her wardrobe door and realised how tired she looked. Sighing, she opened the door and pulled out a dress and her make-up bag. She wriggled out of her skinny jeans and donned the flowery purple dress.

 

Harriett closed the door and glanced back into the mirror. Two reflections stared back. She went to scream, but a hand clasped over her mouth to prevent any noise from escaping. She struggled and kicked her legs back, but her attacker was too strong. A hand slipped down from her mouth to around her neck, the thumb pressing forcefully against her windpipe. She looked in the mirror to see her attacker grinning maniacally, both of them watching as she lost her grip on the world.

 

Harriett’s limp body fell to the floor. Her murderer looked down upon their victim and admired their work.

 

‘Two down, one to go.’ 

A Tidy Mess (Part Four)

A Tidy Mess (Part One)

Tim yawned. He did not care that a customer had approached his till with the Sunday newspaper, the correct change clutched tightly in the elderly woman’s wrinkled fist, nor did he care that his manager’s beady eye was fixed on him. He absentmindedly scanned the barcode, flipped the paper in half and exchanged it for a few silver coins. The old lady ambled away from the counter and Tim’s manager marched towards him.

‘I’ve told you before about not ironing your shirt before work, Tim,’ Trudy said in her sharp, shrill voice. ‘And don’t yawn in front of the customers, it makes you look like you don’t want to be here.’

‘It’s 7am on a Sunday morning, I don’t want to be here.’ Replied Tim simply.

Trudy sighed, unable to find the energy to argue with her most stubborn employee, and sped off towards the bread aisle.

Probably going to find someone else to moan at, thought Tim. Warm saliva circulated the taste of last night’s beer around his mouth. He grimaced and greeted his next customer, responding with only a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as the middle-aged suit struggled to make jovial conversation. The day was going to be slow and painful, Tim was certain.

 

The top of Tim’s thigh began to vibrate. He glanced around and, no manager or customers in sight, lifted his vintage Nokia half-way out of his pocket. It was his daughter, Katherine. He made a mental note to call her on his break and released his phone.

Only eight more hours, Tim told himself. He detested the inconsiderately visible clock that faced the counters: keeping track of the time made it go even slower, it seemed. His third yawn caused tears to gather in the corners of his eyes. He shut his eyes and slowly dragged the palm of his hand down his face. When he opened his eyes, a young woman was standing in front of him, talking rapidly and loudly into her phone and thrusting a two pint bottle of milk and a scrunched up five pound note at him. He carried out the transaction silently aside from a forced ‘thank you’ as the chatty brunette shot him a smile and darted out of the automatic doors.

 

Eight hours trundled by until Tim was finally free to go home. He was sitting in the car, fumbling with a pouch of tobacco, when his phone rang. It was his Katherine again.

Shit, I forgot to call her back!

He answered the phone, letting the filter tip drop from between his dry lips.

‘Alright, love?” He asked gruffly.

‘Dad, listen to me. You can’t go home.’ His daughter sounded panicked.

‘What? Are you alright, Kat?’

‘Dad, just promise me you won’t go to your house. Something bad’s going to happen,’ She pleaded.

‘What do you mean, something bad? Don’t be silly Katherine, I’m fine.’ He was met with silence, and then a deep exhale.

‘Okay then, dad, just call me when you’re home okay?’

‘Will do, bye love.’

‘Bye dad.’

 

Tim would have been disturbed by his daughter’s phone call, once upon a time. But not anymore. Katherine phoned him at least once a month with a warning (or ‘vision’ as she liked to call them). Since she was fifteen, Katherine was convinced that she had some sort of psychic ability to see into the future, but her prophecies hardly ever came true and those that did were never more than coincidence. Tim shook it off, rolled and lit his cigarette, wound down the car window and drove out of his parking space, the thought of a cold, refreshing beer and  comfortable sofa propelling him home.

 

He pulled up on the large, gravelled driveway fifteen minutes later and stepped out of the silver Porsche 911 Carrera. Upon entering the boastful house, Tim deactivated the alarm system and locked the door behind him. Stepping into the front room, the middle-aged shop worker knew something was different.

 

Tim was a very particular man and everything had to be perfectly in its place. But it wasn’t. The rug was not straight, the door leading to the kitchen was ajar, and a letter was on the floor. There was no way that Tim would have left the house in this state; just looking around made him feel uneasy. Then again, he had had several beers last night. Maybe he had woken up still slightly drunk and failed to realise the mess he had caused. He doubted it, but it was possible.

 

Unworried, Tim walked into the kitchen. Everything was perfectly in order, it seemed: The floor was immaculate, one clean tea towel hung from the cutlery drawer handle, the blinds were all three-quarters open and the breakfast bar was gleaming. He opened the dishwasher to find a clean mug and began making himself a cup of tea. As he poured water into the kettle, he realised that he had not been to the toilet since before he started work. Suddenly, his bladder felt ready to burst. He put the kettle on and rushed towards the stairs.

 

If Tim had not been in a rush, he would have noticed the faint footprints on the cream carpet. He would have heard shuffling. He would have noticed that the ornament of a woman playing violin was no longer on the window sill at the top of the staircase. Unzipping his fly as he dashed into the bathroom, he did not bother to lock the door before emptying is bladder with a satisfying release.

 

He could hear the kettle bubbling from the kitchen, and so he did not hear the shuffling from the bedroom next door. After he washed his hands, Tim gazed up into the mirror. He realised how tired and old he appeared. He was only forty-two and yet he looked at least fifty. His daughter joked that he should dye his hair because the grey was becoming more dominant that the light brown it once was. He wondered what his daughter would say if he turned up on her doorstep with all the grey entirely eclipsed. Maybe he would dye it blue to shock her. He smiled at the thought and turned off the bathroom light.

 

The kettle was roaring through the house, coming to a boil. Tim walked across the landing but stopped suddenly. He could faintly hear something else. Creaking. Shuffling. He turned quickly, but nothing was there. Mentally shaking himself, he arrived at the top step. The kettle clicked and stopped  boiling. A floorboard creaked. Tim span around and froze. Someone was there. He squinted through the darkness, trying to make out the shadowed face.

 

‘You?!” Tim exclaimed in shock.

 

A heavy object struck Tim around the cheek. He whelped in surprise as he was knocked backwards by the force of the blow, toppling on the step before losing his balance completely, tumbling down the staircase.

 

As he lay at the bottom of the stairs, heavy footsteps descended upon him. His attacker stopped, took a deep breath, and brought the ornament down with great force onto Tim’s skull.

 

Tim’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Katherine, calling to see if her father had arrived home safely.

 

To be continued…

A Tidy Mess (Part One)