Don't Do What I Do...

Memoirs of the Tried and Failed and Try Again 

All this will make sense once you read the story 

10th October 2012

Okay so right of the bat, full disclaimers; I am not a writer... Not a good one at least. I'm about as literate as a Charlie Kelly but if you're reading this then you clearly have no taste so no worries- but if you happen to be a literature snob who has had the misfortune of coming across my work, then I apologise, so now you can go fuck yourself up your fat fucking ass.

To tell the story I want to tell I'm gonna have to begin with October 10th 2012, when things were better? I don't want to say better but I've got about as ranged a vocabulary as your local takeaway. 2012 was just the last decent year I can remember; even tough my grandmother died, and I was close to my grandmother she raised me. But her death drove me to live, really live, like follow your dreams type of live. So in the corner of some shitty dinner I don't want to name because they've got enough attention coming their way, I proposed my plan to a prospective business partner.

2009

Ned was a friend whom I could trust; we met in sixth form college. He had a healthy disrespect for the rules, which was a good balance to my complete lack of respect for any form of authority. I always wanted to sodomise the rules like some sort of bootleg James Dean or NHS budget Judd Nelson. When the wardens would hand me an end of term report I'd write it back for them all over their walls, Ned would be the one checking the hallways alerting me to any shepherds or sheep strolling my way. The room was at the end of a hallway so it didn't matter if he warned me, we'd be caught in a corner. Our only hope would be to sit down and act like nothing happened.

Mr. Hall: what the hell is this?!

Anon: I don't know, that was there when we got here.

Mr. Hall: what the fuck?! It looks like someone's report.

Anon: who'd, who'd write out their whole report on the wall?

Mr. Hall: some sort of retard.

Anon: that's a strong word, I wouldn't call them retarded.

Mr. Hall: I'm gonna punch them when I find out who did this.

Ned: really, you'd resort to violence?

Mr. Hall: of course I fucking would look at what they did to the wall!

Ned: where would you punch him?

Mr. Hall: in the stomach.

Anon: how would you punch him?

Ned: show us.

Hall would punch the air for us if we kept asking him; the man had a rocket on him... the type gay guys would shoot up each other's assholes.  

Mr. Hall: I'd.... I'd just punch him.

Anon: like how, like a Ike Turner back hand.

Mr. Hall: no, just punch him.

Ned: like Chris Brown does.

Anon: No, do it like Mike Tyson.

Mr. Hall: I'm not gonna do it like any of them.

Anon: why? Cause they're black?

Mr. Hall: no cause they're wife beaters - wait a minute this is your report!

Anon: what?

Mr. Hall: this is your name Anon, you wrote your name on it!

Anon: ahhh, you know what that is?

Mr. Hall: an expulsion maybe?

Anon: That's art bitch.

I tossed a pen his way maybe that'll slow him down, Ned just stands there; he has something up his sleeve. I'm booking it down the hallway glancing back at the room through it's clear panels. No yeah, he's still standing there.

Anyway I got to start from October 2012 and not keep jumping all over the place. The conversation that would change our lives forever went something like this.

Anon: let's start a company!

Ned: Okay.

There's no way we can fail, that's what I kept telling my self. I was such an asshole. What a lying piece of shit I was. I had no reason to believe I'd succeed at anything; if I was going on the merit of my education I'd make it as far as a McJob, at the time I was jumping from one friend's sofa to another. So what made me think I could change all that. I've looked back at that night a lot in the last three years, Ned and I registered the company then and there on our phones. It was so impractical, Companies House has no mobile format; we had to do it over two times, once cause his phone died, a second time cause we're idiots. I got so much shit wrong on that form till this day HM Revenue and Customs are harassing me about it, but we didn't care. We so firmly believe it'd all work out. Do you know why we believed this? It's simple, we didn't know any better. Ignorance is well and truly bliss. When you don't know what's the worse that could happen you're as brave as a lion.

I don't want to get all woe is me, so I'll get back to the stupid bits. It wasn't until three months down the line when someone asked us the pivotal question.

Human Turd: what do you guys do?

Anon: we do business.

Human Turd: yeah, I know; but what kind of business?

Anon: well I studied theatre and film so... We do theatre and film.

Human Turd: how do you make money from that?

Anon: how do you make money from anything? Adverts, sponsors and profits.

Human Turd: profits?

Anon: yeah, well right now were just in the planning stages.

Human Turd: yeah, I'll say. Why don't you start with an exit strategy?

Anon: you mean like if we fail?

Human Turd: yeah for when you fail.

Anon: no failing isn't an option.

Human Turd: it's you're only option, so you better draw up some back up plans.

Anon: oh you want to know what my back up plan is? Death. That's my back up plan, cause the only way I'll fail is if I die.

Human Turd: whatever I'm a human turd so I have to go crawl up someone's asshole.

Anon: yeah have fun.

Okay so maybe it didn't go exactly like that; but the guy raised some real issues... What the hell we're we gonna make, sell or do?

Anon: we need a site.

Ned: yes a site! Everyone has a site Nike, Apple, Disney.

Anon: okay, which one are we gonna be like?

Ned: all of them.

Anon: all of them?

Ned: yeah, why not? We could be like Disney; it all started with a mouse for them.

Anon: actually it was a rabbit, but then he didn't have the rights so he kinda had to plagiarise his own work and make a mouse.

Ned: humble beginnings man, remember how you told me Steve Jobs and the other Steve started out in a garage.

Anon: yeah! I mean we don't even have that so we should be like twice as successful.

Ned: we should find a place though, the staff in this place always look at me. Like at my face as well, no where else; only the face, like they want to make hateful eye contact.

Anon: yeah that might be a little difficult, I don't even have a home so... I mean this place is okay for now it has free wi-fi, plus they take my luncheon vouchers.

Ned: don't use the vouchers, they always have to call the manager when you do that.

Anon: well they should know better by now.

2014

I found a place eventually, Ned and I rented out a house/office. It was going to be a hub of continuous creative energy flowing throughout all rooms and levels, constantly fuelling the fires of our ambition. Every cubic square feet was gonna be paved with the residue of genius and success! Steve Jobs and other Steve had their garage, Ned and I had 32 Perkins Road, Ilford. This place was pure poetry, do you know how I'd start each morning? I'd awake up, open my sock drawer and pull out my gun. I'd sit on the edge of my sofa (yeah, I was still stuck with sleeping on the sofa) staring at that cold sleek piece of metal in my hand. It had rivets and screws, it was man made and yet I always saw it as a door to another world. A fire escape exit from all you know, all you love, but more important all you hate, fear or need. Who knows what the after life is; but that's the beauty... The unknown, I have no reason to fear it; cause I know nothing of it. Yes, pull the trigger. Click... That's right it's just a replica.

The living room were I slept was, well it's a decent sized room; you could fit twelve strangers in there and it'd still feel comfortable; which was how we always had it filled with complete strangers. I tried to film something in there but that's a story for another time; I had to block out all light coming in for it so I covered all the windows with black bin bags.

Hernando: hola, amigo.

Anon: hey Hernando.

Hernando was my house mate, one of the few people alive who can say 'been there, done that' about anything. He'd been in and out of police cars more times than the actual police. He was the best house mate you could ever hope for, not only was he genuine, kind, reliable and creative but he'd always pay his share prompt and in full. But what made Hernando the best possible person to live with was his generosity; he always had copious amounts of weed.

Hermando: the sink in the kitchen is leaking.

Anon: ah shit, alright; it's probably something to do with the U bend don't worry I'll take a look at it.

Yeah it was leaking all right. I could have opened a water park in the kitchen. Fixing the problem was easy, but cleaning up the mess was the hard part. The water had soaked in to all the food and destroyed any carded packaging; the washing machine powder got it worst. Melted is the only way I can describe it's carton; I'm not gonna defend my writing anymore we all know it's shit. I used up all the carrier bags to wrap up all the other foods; so all that left me with was the clear plastic zip lock sandwich bags to transfer all the washing up powder into. It was a big box so I ended up with eight bags. I know all this is boring but I'm telling a story we gotta go through set up and exposition, okay here's the good bit. So come night I hear a knock and open the door, in burst about five pigs- sorry officers telling me about how they've had numerous reports about drugs in the house. He asks about what business we do in the house, don't worry I understand the irony. The only business I haven't tried is the one I'm best suited to and it's the most lucrative. So I tell him.

Anon: I wish I sold drugs.

Pig: looks like you already do.

He found the washing up powder in the zip lock bags. Fuckaraga, that was a hard one to explain, the pigs really wanted this as well. They would have been the talk of the water cooler back in the station 'did you see who the guys brought in last night, they caught Charlie Sheen's dealer.'

Pig: is there anyone in there?

The pig found Hernando's room, that wasn't good; that was the room with actual drugs. Knock, Knock. Hernando answered. He popped out the room on his knees, half asleep and naked as the day he was born.

Hernando: Hola...

I'm gonna stop this un-educational, un-insightful, un-inspiring, un-anything account of my life here. Hernando and I didn't get arrested, well not in any permanent way (there is a god, you know how I know? Cause they didn't check his room). Until the next entry in my worthless memoir...