The day I turned gay, and became a serial killer

“He always loved cushions…I should have known". I like cushions

Published: Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Its seems to be indicative of the human condition when we relate symptoms to what conditions we may have as humans. Fact. When we observe the health sections in topical favourites like Glamour or Vogue - those high-brow numbers – we digest whatever symptoms they allude to in describing the designer disease of the moment.

Just last week I was reading a copy of a woman’s magazine and I’m pretty sure I don’t have the abola virus. To my knowledge my organs haven’t liquified and come hurtling out my arse at a rate of knots. In fact it was fallout from the latest night out.

We all do it, we read about some in-vogue disease and develop the symptoms mid-article. I’ve diagnosed Tourette’s from motherf*cking, dickphantic, nostil shagging mags.




Investing just 15 minutes to this one magazine I self-diagnosed measles, irritable bowel syndrome and the plague. Only 45 rational minutes passed before I was cured and realised that the last hour could really have been better spent.

The most tenuous link between him and I results in the deepening of my conclusion. I am a serial killer. He wore glasses and everything

It is testament to the insecurity of mankind that we rely on womankind’s base literature to enforce or nonsense our physical well-being. Every time I have a rash or a build up of dry, enlarged pores I get a glass and check for meningitis. Silly isn’t it.

Maybe I am the most insecure impressionable person around, but don’t these apprehensions we speak of relate to other zones in life no? I refer again to this same drab literature, the kind that rests on the table in the dentist’s waiting room.

At the feature section I read about a man married 34 years before realising he was gay and running away with a neighbour. As I read the article I became more and more convinced I too was gay and that his personality mirrored mine.

Sentences like: “he always loved cushions…I should have known”. I like cushions.

“He was great in the kitchen and always did the clearing up”… I’m great in the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the landing. And I don’t like mess.

“Sex was never a big part of our relationship”. Call me the slug.

By the end of this drivel I was not only infected with everything from arthritis to zoophelia but was gay into the bargain. That’s all I need when I’m soon to have an older man in my mouth.

Oh but the main point of this waste of valuable porn time was to tell you about the night I became a serial killer.

I came in from work late one Tuesday night fed up, cold and wet. My desire to be satisfied by garbage TV fulfilled with aplomb by an exciting episode of The FBI Files.

Some serial killer in Alaska had raped, tortured and killed some prostitutes leading to a big man hunt where the FBI utilised all resources yadda yadda yadda … and expert police psychology yadda yadda to catch him.

Now this killer was profiled by an expert drafted in from California who described a man with a friendly, amicable nature. (Hello.) With some self-esteem issues in his youth. (Tick.) To all who knew him he was a quiet, friendly man probably with a steady girlfriend or wife. (Are you reading this Sarah?)

It went on: he will have shown the makings of a power complex (this editor gig is going to my head…) And he will probably be a keen marksman. (I hit the bowl almost every time with my razor sharp urine.)

This man is likely well educated. (Bachelor of Arts and a Masters thank you very much.) He probably keeps a trophy room with pieces of girlfriends and victims clothing and jewellery as a reminder. (Zoë you think you’re getting that DVD back? Get…)

We see a pattern emerging. The most tenuous link between him and I results in the deepening of my conclusion. I am a serial killer. He wore glasses and everything. So now in conjunction with bad Arthritis, emphysema, zoophelia, and my sodomy complex, I have to get help for my rabid urge to maim women because I like having the TV remote in my hand.

What to treat first? What will the doctor say? Do I get it all out in the open in one visit or go several times? Do I go private? I’ll get treated quicker so I can become a rational and functional member of society; free of piles, nits and murder.

Wait, I’m constantly reading about the failings of the NHS and procedures supposedly go wrong when you go private, I’m sure you‘ve read or watched those plastic surgery ruined my ears type stories.

I’d have to get a back-street doctor, no reputable quack in the world would keep this information to himself, confidentiality or not. That’ll cost me and they wont come with any stamp of approval. Panic sets in, I’ll need an appointment before one of my ailments kicks in, rather sodomy than piles.

I soon develop nightmare visions of Dr Nick Riviera counselling my felching issues.

After about an hour I manage to convince myself I’m not a crackpot serial killer and life becomes normal. I text all the prostitutes in my phone and convince them they aren’t in any danger – I’m cured. I write in the diary that I wasted another two hours today on phantom ailments – I really should stop. Watching high brow television and reading those glossies, they do make you think.