Escape from the abyss

Reports of my death have been exaggerated, but not by much. I dodged the swiping scythe of death as he rode legs akimbo on the beastly back of the devil griffith that is manflu.

When one faces down the Grim Reaper it makes one reflective of the world and one's place in it. The great organ grinder in the sky saw fit to spare me. What should I do with His gift of life?

So far I have made and gobbled spaghetti bolognese. A fitting tribute, yes?

In case it is not enough I have made a list of the smells that I am grateful for.

1. Tippex
2. Petrol/diesel
3. Red wine
4. Desperation

R.I.P.

Dying of flu. If I don't make it, tell my family I sort of loved them.

The Butterfly Effect

What could have happened today:

After work I go to the gym. I change into gym clothes, plug in my earphones and work out to the inspiring musical stylings of MJB aka 'The Voice'. After working up a suitable sweat I hop a train home. I eat tuna salad for dinner and feel healthy and content.

What actually happened:

After work I arrive at the gym and discover that I forgot to pack my jogging bottoms. Frustrated, I catch the train home. On the way I buy a takeaway and dine on an inhuman amount of Chinese food for dinner. I feel shame and disgust.

Ties that blind

A new government, the first coalition government in decades.

Now of course, policies are important. Budget cuts, schools reform, political reform. But consider this. The Conservatives are blue; the Liberal Democrats are yellow. The text colour of their coalition agreement? Green. Nice.

On the important topic of colours, although I'm warming to David Cameron I'm not warming to his ties. Watery blue tie after watery blue tie; isn't it time for some bold blues, glamorous greens and potent purples? That's what people voted for. Britain is at its best when its Prime Minister's ties are at their boldest.

By the way that last phrase is trademarked, you can't just use that.

The colours of summer are the colours of bare flesh, shirtless men shimmering in the glinting sun. This is proof, if proof was needed, that not all men are created equal. Some have more of the clay of life than others; clearly in this regard more is evidently not better. Others are slim and sculpted, and will therefore have no defence in court when they are savaged by randy heat-crazed plebs.

Picasso was one of the greatest artists of the 20th Century, creating masterpieces that blew apart convention and shook the art world to its very core. Today I rearranged the hoops in my Cheerios to spell 'oooooo'.

Karma chameleon

I don't believe in karma, but the last few weeks have had an unexpected symmetry.

Good: I'm offered a job
Bad: Inexplicably I turn it down, making Gordon Brown's job prospects stellar by comparison

Bad: Randy foxes wake me up at 4am
Good: Royal Mail finally concede and give me my £4.95 refund

Good: I resolve to stop eating so much junk food
Bad: Immediately afterwards I buy chocolate and crisps

So on the karmic scoreboard it's a virtual draw, though arguably declining the job offer makes it Life 1, Dexter 0.

Who knew foxes were into dogging. I'll just have to make my garden less sexually appealing. I need to construct some sort of sex scarecrow, or rather, anti-sex scarecrow. This will be hard, as we all know how sexy scarecrows can be. One can't help but be drawn to their cold, lifeless eyes. Don't deny it, I speak the truth. I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking.

Master of the Arts

A good lie is easier to believe than the truth. Lying is a skill like any other: if you want to maintain a level of excellence, you have to practice. For example:

• I say 'No, no you look fine'; I think 'I'll look good by comparison'
• I say (to Bank of Scotland call handler) 'Thanks for your help'; I think 'Useless fuckclump'
• I say 'Sorry I didn't answer your call, my phone was in the other room'; I think 'I was busy eating cake'

I'd like to set up a lying academy. The Peter Mandleson Academy of the Dark Arts: the truth is just an excuse for a lack of imagination.

Word of the day: Psychonaut - sailor of the mind

Gratefulness Meditation

Drawing inspiration from a giant of the blogosphere (really, she's massive), I have decided to perform a gratefulness meditation. This is when you focus on what you're grateful for in your life. Here goes.

1. My iPhone, without which I am nothing.
2. Flowers, they reaffirm my sexuality when unwanted abstinence calls it into question.

It is probably quite telling that all of my gratitude is for material possessions.

I'm also grateful that Britain is being governed by a gay couple for the first time. Turning Great Britain into Fabulous Britain. All it needs a tank-top and a negative body image.

Hairdresser of Doom 2

Another month, another haircut. And who pads up to satisfy my needs? My Nemesis. The same man who so totally fucked it up last time. I really need to listen when the receptionist tells me his name so I can avoid him in future.

One of the homosexuals at reception takes my coat and umbrella and I'm led by a young woman to the sinks. Here she takes out her menstrual aggression on my scalp and directs me to a chair where My Nemesis will do his evil work.

'I think I cut your hair before' he muses, as I wonder if what makes it so memorable for him is the same as what makes it so memorable for me. 'How was that?' he asks. 'Yeah, fine, more or less' I say, hoping desperately that he'll take the hint.

As he gets started he asks 'what have you been up to this week?'

'Well I've been off this week, so not much' (I don't think he could handle the concept of education days and a graduate scheme. This would take too much explanation and require continued conversation.)

The rest of the appointment proceeds without words as I silently contemplate my follicular fate, fearful sweat gathering on my forehead.

Nearing the end now, I tell myself, praying to a god I know doesn't exist. Suddenly he asks 'how's that?'

'Fine, though could you even out the sides a bit more?'. He obediently sets about his task, taking an unnecessarily long time to justify his fee and satisfy his patron. Telling him what to do is paying off.

Growing in confidence I issue more commands.

'The front, shorter', I snap, as he hurriedly moves his graceless hands to the necessary position. Clearly this man is heterosexual.

'Dust my nose. Brush my neck. A cosmopolitan, now.' Dance, puppet, dance.

Shaking and frightened, he lifts the mirror to the back of my head.

'Acceptable'

There's only one word for my performance: Leadership.

In other news, apparently there's been some sort of election. The blues came out on top, followed by the reds and the yellows. After a marathon election programme I have only one thing to say.

I agree with Nick.

Sadly, not enough people did. Some people didn't even get to vote, with long queues at polling stations. People blame the returning officers, but I blame the lazy morons who couldn't be bothered to turn up before 9.30pm. Let's have a Stupidity Tax, just tax the stupid people. That'll teach them, or it would if they weren't so stupid.

The British Electorate 101

Following Mr Brown's unfortunate encounter with Gillian 'I'm not a bigot' Duffy, I've decided to give some helpful points to remember when dealing with the British voter.

Avoid voters who:
- say 'I'm not racist but...'
- have a monobrow
- are wearing a tracksuit when it's the middle of the day
- live in Liverpool
- have earrings you could hoola-hoop with
- think Trident is just a gum

My vote goes to whichever party is tough on noisy horny foxes, tough on the causes of noisy horny foxes.

The man with the yellow tie

'The man with the yellow tie. Do you know what they say about men with yellow ties? I can tell you' a charity person says. 'Actually it's gold' I think as I walk on by. Bitch.

One thing they may say about a man with a yellow tie is that he's Nick Clegg. It's sad that my surname doesn't have quite the same pop as his when turned into a mania: Cleggmania. Sounds like some hideous sexual compulsion. I don't think my hideous sexual compulsions have names. Oh yes, that's right. Homosexuality.

Another odd dream last night. I dreamt I was at work and I was shot in the stomach and through a lung. 'You need to stop the bleeding', I said. My colleague replied that the grated zest of a satsuma would work. Luckily there was one nearby.

I'm a puzzle.

Proud of the NHS

Treatment of snoring on the NHS: 'Enquire if snoring is worse on back and if so implement simple measures to prevent this (e.g. half tennis ball sewn into back of pyjama bottoms)'

Who says socialised medicine doesn't work?

Favourite story of the week - 'BNP facing Marmite legal action'. You either hate them or you hate them.

Oh penis, where art thou?

Strange dream.

I dreamt I was going to have my penis removed.

The possibilities:

a. My subconscious is telling me that if I'm not going to use it, I may as well not have it
b. I secretly want to become a woman
c. Eating cheese late at night causes odd dreams

Clearly option b is unpalatable. Option a hits a little too close to home. Therefore it must be the fault of the cheese.

Mystery solved.

Zoo Gym

It's been a while since I last went to the gym. I'm getting lazy. Lazier. The mind is willing, but the flesh is flabby and uncooperative. I have the back of an old lady, the blood pressure of an old man and an overdraft that would turn Alistair Darling's eyebrows white (finally).

Really, only people who are already fit go to the gym. Stupendously pretty people with arms; real arms, not the fleshy pipe cleaners of mere mortals. And all they do is walk around marking their territory, spraying their scent (Tightass, Calvin Klein) on the machines. And makeup. Who the hell wears makeup to the gym? Do they think they'll meet Mr Right inbetween page flicks of Hello and OK? Let's face it, pretty gym people are only good for one thing. The best you could hope to meet is Mr Right Now Quietly in the Changing Rooms (does anyone have his number?).

Segregation is the key. The pretty people should all go to separate gyms where they can frolic and pose, leaving the rest of us in Zoo Gyms grunting like the sweaty beasts we are. Gazelles be banned; welcome, Elephants. But watch out when we flap our ears, we are either angry or horny. Either way, you're gonna get trampled.

My day in letters

Dear Pope Benedict XVI,

I was not abused as a child. Is there something wrong with me?

--

Dear Loud Skanky White Trash on the Train,

I understand that you are going through a particularly difficult time at the moment. It would seem that Steve is dissin you to all his mates init. I'm sure that deep down he doesn't really think you're a 'ball buster', perhaps he has oedipal issues. A course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy may help him work through these issues. You may also wish to consider if therapy could help with your OCD. Repeatedly saying 'whatever' may reduce your anxiety but it's not healthy.

And get tested, because he probably is cheating on you with 'that bitch'.

--

Dear Lady Gaga,

I have not been telephoning you.

Taxonomy of bitches

I found this useful taxonomy of biches. I especially like no. 2 'ain't got no ass bitches' and no. 25 'Spanish bitches who think they all that cause of their hair'. And I would like to add 'noisy bitches'.

The Miracle of Easter

Jesus died on the cross for us and every year he comes back in chocolate egg form to nourish our bodies and souls. Though I'm not religious, I like to fill up on chocolate Jesus at Easter. And eggs are a good source of Omega 3.

But I can't help but feel a bit pissed at Jesus for resurrecting himself so quickly. He gave us eternal salvation but couldn't he have given us more Bank Holidays?

Most days I watch Deal or No Deal over dinner, taking pleasure in screaming 'deal you moron!' whilst simultaneously and elegantly shovelling another piece of pasta into my gub. Today a man no dealt £20,000 just before totally obliterating his board. He left with £3,000. Didn't he hear me say deal at 20k? Still, £3,000 is a lot of chocolatey Jesus.

I also watch Masterchef. I'm pretty sure I could do what they do. Like all cooking appliances, my hob only cooks well if you shout 'FUCK' really loudly at it. Do you think Gordon Ramsay swears just to look cool? No, although of course it is cool. Swearing is a fundamental principle of cooking. Cunty Carbonara, Buggering Bolognese. Got to work the fundamentals.

I expect a Michelin star any day now.

Everything is closed on Easter Sunday. If it wasn't for Tesco Express I'd starve to death.

It Could Be You

Well it wasn't. Not even a tenner.

On to career plan B.

Well and truly licked

As I licked 41 envelopes at work a familiar thought entered my head: I'd make an awfully good secretary/administrator. The whole office marvelled as I quickly and deftly folded the letters to the precise size required to allow the address to show through the plastic window. And I'm terribly helpful on the phone.

Unless you are one of the three mobile phone networks that carry the iPhone. My contract is up next week and I thought I'd shop around for a better deal. But it seems that Apple's Great Leader, in his infinite wisdom, has deals with these networks that means they can't have different prices and can't make offers to keep or entice customers. The best I can hope for is to persuade O2 to give me unlimited txts. Or I could switch to Orange for the same as I have now plus unlimited txts and a new handset. But no option of spending less per month.

Now a cynic might call that anti-competitive price-fixing. I would never dream of saying such a thing.

However I can and will curse them all to hell.

Deal or No Deal has an Alice in Wonderland theme this week, with all of the contestants dressed up as characters from the book. As the player chose one of the boxes, Noel said to the contestant 'Alice! Thank you for allowing us to come into your wonderful land'.

Definitely no double entendres there. I've checked.

25 is the new 80

I have the mind of a 25 year old, but the back of an 80 year old. And just such an 80 year old asked me if I was ok on the bus the other day as I retired early with silly amounts of pain. I'm like a gran without the purple rinse.

I also left my keys in the fridge last week. Maybe I have the mind of an 80 year old too. But will they let me travel for free on the buses?

To comfort myself re my premature aging, I bought some French pinot noir today on the way home from work. The label is 'Kiwi Cuvee', which had me searching the Australia and New Zealand section. As I did so I noticed Morrisons had an interesting take on geography. Apparently Italy and Spain are in Eastern Europe. I wonder where Britain really is.

Utter Balls

Ed Balls, Secretary for Children, Schools and Families, was on The Andrew Marr show this morning talking about the education budget. He didn't answer one question on substance, spending all of his time throwing mud at the Tories. I'm no Tory, but I can't stand when politicians avoid detail and the real issues. Balls by name, Balls by nature.

I do like shouting at the TV though.

Now That's What I Call Jesus

'Jesus gave his life for many', the Jehovah's Witness leaflet reads, and sagely asks 'why did he need to do this?' and 'what must you do to benefit from it?' Cynically I expected a request for money, but I was wrong.

Inside, like a cross between an American TV evangelist and a QVC salesman, the author asks 'How did Jesus, by his death, provide a ransom? Why was this necessary? For whom did Jesus lay down his life? And what can his death mean for you?' I'm not sure what they mean by ransom, maybe Jesus was in some financial trouble, too much catalogue debt perhaps, and either killed himself or faked his own death. This might be difficult for some to accept, but we must face the truth, and who better to tell that truth than a religious group?

I was impressed with the artist's impression of Jesus on the back of the leaflet. Interestingly Jesus was a white 6ft American with burly biceps. I would.

I think Jesus fans need to develop some new slogans for the modern era. 'Jesus saves...room for potato salad'. 'Jesus saves...money on his car insurance'. 'Beckham shoots, Jesus saves'. The church really should hire me as their PR man.

Personally I am quite a vigorous atheist, a Dawkins Disciple. The only religious aspects to my life are my pilgrimages to Ikea. Though I suppose I do drink a lot of blood of Christ.

Masterchef

I am a connoisseur of fine food. My speciality this week has been beans on toast. But not just any old beans on toast, this was M&S beans on toast. Actually it was Heinz, but beans are beans. I also enjoy salt and vinegar pringles and red wine, 'family size' minstrels and 'giant' buttons. Giant? I'll be the judge of that.

I'm thinking of opening my own chain of restaurants called 'Fuck it, that'll do'.

Speaking of food, that Heston Blumenthal is quite something. Half chef, half scientist: all twat. He ain't got nowt on our Delia.

Oh, bums!

Behind me at work sits a senior manager. Very smart, very knowledgeable and a nice person to boot. But what I like most about her is her random utterings. On the phone last week she suddenly declared 'oh poo!'. Today as she dropped something on the floor she exclaimed 'oh, bums!'. It had me in stitches. Then I got back to pretending to work.

My exclamations tend to be a bit more expletive. Son-of-a-bitch is especially enjoyable. I also like 'fucking fuck' and the classic 'god damn it'. A less sweary one is 'jackass', it's very phonetically satisfying and is given added oomph when preceded by 'fucking'. And apparently swearing increases your tolerance of pain and reduces stress, so I'm just looking after my fucking health, jackass.

Segwaying seamlessly from bums to breasts (I have a breast theme going on this week), I saw a woman yesterday who at first glance looked like, instead of the normal two, she had a single giant breast. A superboob, if you will. Turns out she had a baby strapped to her chest under a large overcoat. Two questions strike me. Why wear an overcoat on the first warm day of spring and, more importantly, how did that baby breathe through her massive bosom? I imagine he/she used a straw in a periscope-like fashion. Smart kid.

Bra update

Just realised that I should have said that the Edinburgh Moonwalk is on June 19th. Please donate - do it for breasts everywhere.

Edward fucking scissor hands

When I'm getting my hair cut there are only two rules:

1. Don't talk to me
2. Don't make a fucking mess of it

It seems those are a bit hard to follow for some. I got my hair cut today and the guy tried to make conversation. I easily batted that away. But he seriously pissed all over rule no. 2. I was left with a fringe like a pair of net curtains. Had to sort it out at home with a pair of scissors. Not what I paid £20 for (would have been £30 if it wasn't for an offer). The fucking fuck.

Anyway, nothing that a good Rioja can't fix.

Double D

I've always been a bit weary of bras. Don't really understand them. I mean yes they hold the norks up, but I've never really been much of a ladies man. Despite my powerful masculinity and love of sports (tennis counts), I am of the sexual persuasion of the ancient Greeks. More give me head Beckham than on me head Beckham. He's the footballer, yes? The one with Posh Spice? Astonishing woman. Invisible to the naked eye.

So, like any red-blooded male (shutup) I'll be donning a bra. A double D no less. But it's not because I like to dress up in women's clothes, except for that one time when I wore my mum's high heels as a kid (I just liked the noise they made as they clip-clopped on the floor), it's for charity. Through the streets of Edinburgh I'll proudly march to help protect bresticles everywhere. It's at midnight, so I'll have the bra over a t-shirt so I won't have nipples you could hang your overcoat on. It's called the Edinburgh Moonwalk and it's for breast cancer. If any of you have breasts, or know people who do, and can spare a little in these times of economic apocalypse, please visit my fundraising site - there's a link on my Facebook profile.

Shit. There goes my secret identity. And I was going to use it to fight crime as well.

Bigfoot

Bigfoot stomps around the forest, hoovering and cleaning, filled with misplaced self-righteousness.

Dexter eats. Bigfoot strides in and faffs around. Strides out again. Dexter rolls his eyes and turns up Deal or No Deal with flower-power pygmy Noel Edmonds.

Dexter finds a frying pan in the dishwasher. Bigfoot has got it wrong again, silly beast.

Dexter returns to his lair, with some nice wine. Bigfoot is an endangered species. Soon the forest will be at peace again. Dexter is thankful for unexpected mercies.

Old

I have no thoughts today. Hm. Could this be early onset dementia? Or Alzheimer's? No, I put my keys in the fridge because it's getting warmer and I wanted to stay cool on the way to work.

Like a virgin

The name of this blog is a little pun on the title of a book I read not so long ago, DC Confidential by Sir Christopher Meyer. He's the former UK ambassador to Washington, hence 'DC'. But aha, those are also my initials. Hilarious.

So you would have thought that my name on this blog would be DC Confidential, makes more sense than dexter right? But like a blogger virgin, touched for the very first time I didn't realise you had to have a name at all. And it seems that some jackass already has DC Confidential as a blog address, so I used dexter since I was watching that at the time. And now here I am, unable to erase my mistake. I feel just like a pregnant teenager. Except then I wouldn't be a virgin.

In other news, I have recently been outed as a massive fag. I dressed up as a giant cigarette in my local high street to promote a stop smoking event. I'm living the dream. Despite the dizzying heights of being repeatedly asked if I had a light, I am considering alternative occupations. I like 'lottery winner'. Got to be in it to win it! That's probably where I'm going wrong.

The essay is dead. Long live the essay!

As an NHS Management Trainee I get the intense pleasure of spending most of my weekends writing essays. My latest literary jaunt involved evaluating my recent experience as a patient. Spinning 'it was a bit shit' into 4000 words took some doing. I poured my heart and soul into it, before pouring wine into my heart and soul. They say it's good for your heart.

So, I sit here drinking some wine and trying out this blogging malarky. A blogger friend of mine recently attended a seminar the basic thesis of which was that performing acts of kindness helps you live longer. Maybe, but who wants to take the risk? I'll stick to the wine thank you very much, I know that will make me live longer. Incidentally, people who give up alcohol for short periods of time are often secret alcoholics. Luckily I've never done that, so I must be fine.

I finally yield to the cat's incessant yelling and top up her dish with fresh filtered water from the fridge. I've decided it's high time she start pulling her weight around here. We'll swap lives for a week, she can get to work on my next essay and I'll lie around the flat all day licking myself inappropriately. She'll get her food when I get my 6000 words.