Why I owe Charlie Brooker a blow job

There may be graphs later.

My main reasoning follows the model that Brooker has given me more pleasure than, let's say, a slightly above average boyfriend would have done a given time period. Let's say over three months.

During the last three months, I have read Brooker's book Dawn of the Dumb, followed his columns in The Guardian and watched the first two series of Screenwipe on Youtube. Conservative estimates show that the book made me laugh out loud or gasp in amusement (often in public) on average every three pages, and made me at the very least grin or even snort every page. So let's say that's one moment of true self abandonment-style pleasure every two pages. 338 pages = 169 moments. And a minimum of one per column in the paper – let's say 20 moments there. And on the telly, I'd say I got giddy with pleasure once every three minutes– so, 10 per episode, nine episodes = 90 moments.

An above average boyfriend...well, it depends on how above average, I suppose. Let us presume moderate bedroom talent, and that I am typically demanding my usual three weeks out of four. So, the enthusiastic little chap gives me what I want five times a week – so, that's 45 pleasure points. And he cracks some entertaining jokes a couple of times a week, and, importantly, indulges my warped attempts at humour (this deserves credit) – so, 5 points a week equals 60 over the three months. Assorted additional marks such as making me a nice cup of tea periodically are accrued – generously, I shall assume a figure of 45.

So, Brooker's exceptional 279 plays fictional average boyfriend's measly 150 (and that's even without deductions made for mitigating stress factors caused by undue emotional attachment). And yet fictional average boyfriend has, over this period, received a bare minimum of 24 instances of fellatio. That's one for every six moments of unadulterated, selflessly-given pleasure. The lucky bastard. And what is Brooker's reward? Nothing (save the money he makes from book sales, TV appearances etc.). I say it's unjust.

And that is why I owe Charlie Brooker a blow job. Technically, 46.5 blow jobs, I suppose.

Next: what I owe Sporticus out of Lazytown.

What I am tired of

What I am tired of

 

What I am tired of is my friends not believing me.

 

Periodically, I will try to explain myself. We may be discussing why I'm dreadful with boys, or why I have struggled to make many friends since moving to London, or even why I am terrified of using the phone.

 

"Actually, I'm painfully shy," I tell them.

 

"I am very anxious about talking to people, meeting new people. I get so worried about what they will think of me, I get incredibly nervous. Truly, I suffer with my social anxiety. It's a struggle. I realise it's 95% paranoia, but my worries make me terribly, terribly, cripplingly shy."

 

After a confession such as this, seven times out of ten the friend will chuckle, as though I have made an awfully clever joke. The other three times, they will laugh and then make a sarcastic remark on the lines of "Oh, I can tell, you're soooooo shy! You're such a shrinking violet!"

 

If I insist I am being serious, they act as if I am being melodramatic and/or seeking an ego rub. "Come off it. Shy? How can someone who has the balls to do stand-up comedy/approach David Tennant/do karaoke every week/appear on live TV/sing on stage/work in the industry you do [delete as applicable] be shy? Nonsense" they say, dismissively. And that's it. Case closed. Shut up, Jen, and don't be so fucking ridiculous.

 

I wish they took me seriously.