writers block
carl's writing a book about his life. there's a little snag: carl doesn't have a life. no much of one anyway. he's still living at home with his mum and dad. I went round there last night to see how he's getting on and he tells me he's got writers block. it doesn't even occur to someone like carl that to suffer from something like writers block you really do need to have written something at some stage in your life.
"i've written stuff," he says, when i angle this little chestnut in his direction
"oh right, yeah, sorry i forgot you sent a postcard to your mum a couple of years ago when we were in Benidorm"
"look, just because you haven't seen anything i've written ... don't mean i aint written it does it. "
"well prove it then."
"alright i fucking well will" he says.
then he just sits there staring into space.
"carl, it may have passed you by but there's a little thing called life that some of us are busy living," i tap my watch "so if you don't mind ..."
"come round tomorrow night and i'll dig out some of my poetry."
this cracks me up. carl writing poetry? carl might be a friend but at the end of the day he's a potato and you know as well as i ... potatoes don't write poetry.