Survive being Single: Angel Gold from Myspace

I want to hear you holla, hear you scream my name, as the Spice Girls once sang (sans Geri Halliwell), but aside from that some of you may be SINGLE.

Yes.  This means you never go on holiday and noone cares whether you get home alright or how drunk you get when you go out with your mates.  YES! It also means that sometimes you buy Jammie Dodgers just to see a friendly face (Thanks Jeff Green, always reference your stolen gags, gag fans).

Some of you may be perplexed by this state of affairs so it’s only right as my duty as internet philanthropist, I show you some of the advantages of being single.


1.  No one leaves wet towels on your bed anymore

2.  It doesn’t matter that your bathroom door handle is broken.

3.  No one walks over your white rug anymore with their shoes on.

4.  No one tampers with your car stereo or touches the buttons just to annoy you.  This also applies to the passenger seat of your car. 

5.  You don’t have to stay up until 1am on a work night having an ‘discussion’ (argument) until you finally relent and agree with them because you have to be up in 6 hours. 

6.  If you get really drunk when you’re out with your mates, no one sulks the next day because you didn’t phone when you got in.  As this obviously means that they mean NOTHING to you and are INSIGNIFICANT and you were too busy having fun/getting off with someone/snorting coke off supermodel’s backs.

7.  There are no shoes in the hallway unless you put them there.

8.  Your garage no longer has loads of shit in it (but sadly, no one to mow the lawn anymore). 

9.  You automatically lose a stone in weight.

10.  You remember that you had ‘hobbies’ once upon a time. Hobbies are things that take up time that are pleasurable and make you feel good about self for those in relationships. 

11.  You are allowed to go to parties where there might be people you have hithertonow snogged/dated before.  You are also now allowed to speak to these people without fear.

12.  You don’t have to pretend it’s OK when somone messes up/breaks your stuff.   

13.  You don’t have to worry about the age-old ‘photograph dilemma’.  You look hot on a photo, they look like a serial killer.  You want to display said photo as, hey, you look great and that’s what matters, right?  They want photo to be burnt unceremoniously under cover of darkness.  This can also happen vice versa.  You go around to their gaff and discover a photo of yourself gurning like a loon while they look like bronzed god/goddess. 

14.  You don’t have to pretend you like White Musk from the Body Shop anymore, as you’ve been bought it by their mum four years in a row for Christmas.

15.  Fellas, you can get that tattoo you always wanted that your girlfriend scowled at when you mentioned.

16.  The ‘whose mates do we spend New Year with? ‘ dilemma is avoided, as you know, your mates are better. 

17.  Fellas, you avoid the ‘Poppodum Dilemma’ completely.  You can now get poppodums without fear of them being stolen when you go for a curry.  Your girlfriend will insist they are ‘fattening’, then proceed to eat all of yours while she waits for her main course. The Wench!

18.  Girls, you can wear your ‘fake tan’ pyjamas any night you like!  You can also store nail varnish and perfume in the fridge to optimum application benefits.


Hope that clears things up for you.  Until next time


As an ongoing Angel experiment, I’m going to try and write a story out of the generated words that come up when I hover over the World of Sheds RSS feed. These are the words that were generated today:

Fat Heads
Sky One
Bank Account
Sky Plus
Wire Rack
Hair Plugs
Game Puzzle

Here goes

The Game of Life, Part One

Janowski coughed.  This event was not unusual in itself, but today it brought its own problems.  The pain shot through his head and he raised one meaty hand to his scalp.  It was as he feared, his coughing had loosened his hair plugs.  One of the hairs became wrapped around his fingers and he delivered the dislodged plug from his fat head to a wire rack for safe keeping.  He put his fat, beading head in his meaty hands and sighed.  That’s where she used to put his favourite lemon drizzle cake.  She loved baking.  The Bitch.  He loved her and now all that was left from their six years together was this fucking wire rack and the Sky plus that she had ordered so she could watch America’s Next top Model on sky one.  She’d cleared out his bank account and spent it on a boob job to keep her latin lover, Armando, happy.  Armando told her she looked like an ironing board.  Janowski loved her the wiry, bony frame, and what he wouldn’t give to iron a shirt, or maybe some pillow cases, on her once more. 

Janowski himself had the hair plugs done to excite the interests of younger girls.  Those blank, staring, glossy, blonde bitches with their heavily laquered eyes and their square nails at Speed Dating night. They regarded him much like one would regard an annoying crawling insect.  They looked past him, through him.  Looking around to see who was next.  It had to be better than this guy.  Meaty, sweaty, past-his-prime. His paunch sausaged into too-light-to-be-trendy Asda denim and a shirt straight from the Officer’s Club.  Where were their heroes in Dolce and Gabbanna, smelling of Issey Miyake with feathered, indie boy hair?  Alls they had shaking in front of them was a broken man, with a whiff of desperation, chip fat, cigarette smoke.  What their mums might have called ‘the smell of dirty houses’.

Janowski didn’t know how to do anything for himself.  Even the washing machine seemed like the most enormous game puzzle, especially when he had to remind himself to breathe as the pain of his loss engulfed him.  He gagged. Hot tears stung his eyes.  Those plugs had cost a couple of grand and now his head resembled that of a baby doll. Tiny Tears. 

More soon…