The Last Of Us has turned me into a filthy, filthy hypocrite

This posts contains serious spoilers for The Last Of Us. Don’t be dumb and read it if you’re playing through it.

Four in the morning, slumped on my living room floor laying up against the front of the sofa, PS3 remote in my hand, still gripped readily as I’m still anticipating some sort of curve ball.

Maybe I was living in denial for a brief second that the game ended on such a cliff hanger, maybe I just didn’t want the experience to end, fuck knows. But I was so on the edge of my seat that I literally wasn’t even on the seat any more.

The Last Of Us, was in my recollection the first, and so far only game that I wanted to immediately go through again but literally couldn’t because the original play through emotionally drained the fuck out of me.

The narrative by now is overdone. Infected people fucking shit up in a post apocalyptic land, but people are the real threat, someone can’t get infected, yada yada yada, it’s been done before.

The Last Of Us though delivered this with with an extra dose of brutality, letting you briefly play as Joel’s lovable daughter before killing her within about twenty minutes.

The moment the prologue comes to an end you’re already aware you’re in for one hell of a fucking emotional roller coaster. There were tantrums, tears, anguish, a few doses of happiness, and all out fear throughout the game. Worrying about the fate of a character the moment you met them, whether they’d die, turn evil, or make it through the affair.

I could compile a list of my favourite gaming moments, and fuck it. I plan to in a future blog post, and The Last of Us can easily fill up a few. Sarah’s death, Joel’s rampage through the hospital to save Ellie, encounter the Giraffes.

So once the credit came rolling in, my reaction was a lot like everyone’s….

………….What the fuck?”

You’re left tittering on a cliff. Even though there was no obvious cliff hanger the questions were left dangling in front of you with no means of any answer in sight.

Joel and Ellie’s story was littered with highs and lows, and every single part of me wanted to return to TLOU’s universe.

Here’s the thing though, I was more than happy to leave Joel and Ellie as a mystery. As far as I was concerned their story was over, they’d live happily ever after with Tommy and that was that. Ambiguous or not.

Plus, a destroyed world 20 years in the future is ripe with possible storylines.

I was itching to play a campaign as Ish (Ishing to play, you could say) the guy who lived out through notes in the sewers.

You could have played as a simple Firefly in their rise to fame, or Ellie’s mom and Marlene in the early days.

Hell, The Last Of Us has Universe has thousands of stories to tap into. Even Joel’s as a prequel, everyone probably has an ideal scenario in their head.

Now we’re here. I’ve just found out about The Last of Us Part Two. Reuniting with Ellie (After what would appear to be quite the killing spree) And Joel.

It’s like seeing two old friends you’ve not even thought about in a while, but the moment you see them you remember the good times and just want to spend the afternoon with them again.

Everything I once thought about leaving Joel and Ellie as a mystery, about their story being done, my desire to still play in that universe but as someone else has been disproven in a two minute video.

I’m prepared to get my heart broken by Naughty Dog again. More than fucking ready.

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Questions and Statements I get a lot.

I suppose to a degree I’ve always been a fan of the unexpected. I shun away the mundane and like a child I walk into the unknown. This can be in any form, a drunken adventure, an unusual romance, or simply a visit to a town I’ve not been to before.

Unfortunately, the unknown hasn’t got much of a habit of following me and life can somewhat become an echo chamber of the same sentiments and questions that I get.

Some of these questions are far and few between, whereas I’ll find myself answering some of them on a weekly fucking basis.

Maybe you’re reading this as a life long friend, or family member and you know exactly what’s coming.

Perhaps you’re a new person in my life and this is simply something that you’re eventually going to be hearing me whine about constantly.

Or, perhaps you’ve no idea who I am, you’re just reading this because “why not” in which case kudos to you on that one.

Here are….


This list will be formed in reverse, from least mentioned, to most…. Just an FYI

6: “Oh, your eye’s weird”

I have Heterochromia iridum. Basically, my right eye is half green, half brown. Split right in the middle like a little pie chart.

You can pretty much see it here.

You can pretty much see it here.

On the odd occasion in which I can be bothered to maintain eye contact during a conversation, there is a…….psssssh, I dunno… One in ten chance that the person I’m talking to will notice this. Maybe reasonably more when I’m on a date or something.

Thing is, whilst it’s sometimes a rarity that the person in question will notice this, the reaction is almost 99% the same, every single time.

The person in question will be mid conversation, gazing into each others eyes. Suddenly, they’ll fade out of their conversation, into a second or twos silence. Shortly followed by.

Oh, your eye’s weird!”

or conversely

Look at your eyeeeeee!”

Oh….Yeah, one’s like halfy green, halfy brown, isn’t it?” I’ll reply both awkwardly, and casually. 

Oh, I never noticed it until now”

This is then followed by them coming in for a closer look at I explain that it’s got an official name in which I can never pronounce. Which let’s be honest, I can’t half the time.

DanFact: I’m relatively sure I nearly snogged a charity worker because of this, but that’s a blog entry for later.

5: “You’re really hard to read”

Full disclosure: I’m still trying to wrap my head around this one.

Come this February, I will have been single for two whole years. In this time I have been on quite the slew of dates, developed some both wonderful, and woeful romances, and experiences.

You will be able to read about these in my Blog Series The Single Life Of Dan

Now, a lot of self discovery has been made in this series which we will go in depth with. However, a grand, scathing criticism I have had is that I’m nigh on impossible to read.

This surprises me, personally. If asked, I am quite the open book. Yet in more cases than one I’ve been accused of having a bit of a poker face.

I am going to post for you, an honest to god transcript of a conversation between myself and a past romance. I’ll let you make up your own mind if I was hard to read or not. (Names, obviously filtered because I’m hard to read, but not that much a dick).


Can I say something a bit blunt? I normally wouldn’t before saying but I’m trying this new thing called tact ?


You may!


You drive me nuts, and not in a good way (well…most of the time)


Well I apologise

I should have made you read the small print.


And what’s the small print?


I can be irritating 85% of the time

sweet about 5%


It’s not that at all!


the 10% is probably unfiltered sentences


I can’t get my footing with you, so to speak

I’ll think I have a read on you and then you completely cock up my evaluation of you. It’s unnerving and infuriating


Oh I apologise, it’s not the first time I’ve been told I’m hard to read! Even in friendship terms.

Honestly, a lot of the time it’s unintentional stupidity on my part


Well I’m normally pretty good at it which is even more infuriating. You don’t have to apologise you dolt!

The even more annoying thing is I know I’m an open book!


Ironically, I always thought I was myself


Well then I can’t read ?


Or the text is too small


Like now, I have no idea whether I’ve made you uncomfortable or not ?

Like I said I’m apparently oblivious to this, but I’m going to shut up and move onto the new entry because I’ll never get a bloody date again otherwise.

4: “What’s with your hair?”

In fairness to this one….My hair is all over the fucking place on more than one aspect. As of most of 2016 this was my hairstyle.

This, for probably a decade was what friends and family alike had been clamouring for.

Throughout, pretty much my entire life my hair has had three styles.

1: Short and sweet. Occasionally spiked casually.

2: Overgrown and out of fucking control (Currently sporting this look at time of writing) 



3: Spiked up way too much.

This means, on a routine basis I’ll get the following quips and quotes…

Woah, you need a haircut”

What’s going on with your hair right now?”

That’s some crazy hair”.

I Know.

I know it’s wild, I know it’s ‘rogue’ and I know that it’s all over the place. BUT. It’s currently -2 degrees. I have a constant warm hat in the name of my hair protecting my scalp. It’s staying for now.

Once upon a time when it was spiked, a holy shit was it fucking spiked, blunder year picture coming up right now…..

Dunno why I'm holding a Waitrose pen to be fair.

Dunno why I’m holding a Waitrose pen to be fair.


I very routinely got

Oh, you look like you’ve had a shock, hur, hur, hur”

You should go out as Edward Scissorhands Hur hur hur”

For those who think that they’ve seen it at it’s worst here is a personal tour of my previous hairstyles, because they’ve been tragic, as best.

3: “Christ, you’re happy”

Other variants include “Bloody hell, you’re a chipper one” or occasionally “I’ll have whatever you’re having hyuck hyuck hyuck”.

I work retail. And as you can imagine a good nine times out of ten it’s nothing short of a fucking nightmare.

However, I am good. Like….Literally almost too good at putting on a really polite, chipper, chirpy, happy go lucky front. To the extent where it’s almost condescending.

This reflects when I serve people in work, to the extent where I pretty much abide by a default script of……

WHOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooo’s NEXT THEN PLEASE?! =D =D =D”


And so on. And then the script can go off topic to pleasant one off conversations, orrrrrrr I can completely and utterly make up a complete bullshit lie to relate to said customer (There will of course be blogs about said lies coming up in the future).

As a result of being the number one treasure in the public eye, this has gotten back to me in terms of acknowledgements, usually all in the same formatting of

Bloody hell, you’re an ‘appy one”

to which I’ll 99% of the time reply with “Oh, that’s because I’m only about a minute into my shift, come back in an hour I’ll be grumpy! HAHAH” When I’ve literally been on the checkouts for about four and a half hours.

It’s not all bad, because my old work used to be located near all the clubs and pubs, which literally meant that when people saw “Happy shop guy” out they bought me a cunt load of shots and alcohol, so I was a pseudo celebrity just for pretending I didn’t fucking despise most people, and being good at it to boot.

2: Are you gay?

Boy howdy, do I get this one a fucking lot. And to be fair, I guess it isn’t their fault for assuming such things. For one.

I have a subtle little lisp, which seems to be quite a heavy gay stereotype for some mental reason.

I am flamboyant as fuck. From my mannerisms, my overuse of hand gesturing, and 90% of the time my posture. I was at a house party the other day explaining that most people thought I was indeed gay, when one girl pointed out that one hand was sassily on my hip, whilst the other hand was waving around as I explained said reasoning. Exhibit A I guess.

Some people actually straight up refuse to believe I’m straight, as they mentally prepare themselves for years for the news of me coming out the closet, some people have actually considered me a challenge within the gay community.

Other things that probably do not help the situation at hand would be my love of Disney, musicals, and really shit, cheesy 90’s pop ballads.

To see a man, in his twenties, in a pink shirt singing his little heart out to S Club 7 with a pitcher of Glitter-berry cocktails, then you can pretty much be forgiven for assuming such things, I guess.

Snapchats like this don't help, I suppose.

Snapchats like this don’t help, I suppose.

Pretty much all the time when asked if I’m gay the response is always

No, but literally everyone thinks I am” to which they’re probably justifying their thought with “Well, there’s no smoke without fire”.

On a night out, I had got talking to a girl as we shared a fluorescent green cocktail, she then looks into my pie chart eye, takes a sultry sip of her cocktail and asks says those magical three words

Are you gay”

Upon informing her I was not, she asks her next question…….

1: Are you foreign?

I go into a pasty shop, hungry and hungover. My hair still a mess from the night before, but hey. That’s pretty much the entire point of my earlier list entry. I order a large steak pasty, and the woman serving as lovely as she is strikes up a conversation.

So where’re you from then?”

Oh, Plymouth, haha”

No no, I meant originally”




She stares

What about your parents”

Plymouth too, well my dad’s from Liverpool originally”


I’ll tell you what! Just in the interest of saving time. As far as I know, every family member is Plymouth way”


I know, if it helps everyone thinks I’m foreign thought”

Well yeah, I thought you were a Paki at first”

………………..Well, alrighty”

I eat my pasty, disdained that is was now a racist pasty.

You saw the hair pictures, I guess to a degree it’s safe to assume I look at best, of varying ethnicities, I suppose my accent doesn’t help which for some reason ranges quite a bit.

However, this means that on a bi-weekly basis I get some sort of misunderstanding about my country of origins. I have kept a list and I have indeed been mistaken for the following nationalities.







South African


New Zealand



Sierra Leone

That last specific one wasn’t even a joke, someone possibly trying to boast their Geographical knowledge just asked if I was originally based there, to which my answer was a confused “………No”.

A lot of the interactions go very much the same was as the “Are you gay?” question, them, puzzled just bite the bullet and ask, I say no but make them feel better by painting them all with the same brush and saying I get it a lot. And we move on.

Sometimes, however it’s not quite a case of “Are you foreign?” as it is a much more…..angry approach.

Going back to entry 3 on the list. I painted a picture that every customer under the sun loves me.

This is not true, as many fucking hate me. Some with good reason, some with no reason other than my perceived nationality.

The bloke looks at me, skinhead, donning his best trackies for his supermarket trip to just buy a half ounce of Cutters choice. “Hate” tattooed on his knuckles but for some reason didn’t bother with “love” on the other hand.

With a lifelong football stadium ban, and quite the chip on his shoulder there’s a look of disdain in his eyes. The three cans of Special Brew he had for breakfast compelling him to say the next words to leave his mouth.

So what’s wrong with your own country”

Here we fucking go.

I roll my eyes and act puzzled despite knowing how the interaction will go down.

What’s that sorry?” the bloke now more angry that he has to repeat himself to a foreigner.

Why don’t you just go home?”

…….Because I’m at work and I don’t finish til 6”

He gets angry at that potential ‘Paki sass’.

No I meant where you came from”

You mean Plymouth? Where I’ve literally lived my whole life?”


Yep, lived here all my life bud, parents too before you crack open that nutshell”

Then his entire demeanour will change

Sorry mehhht, I thought you wuz an immigrant”

Then we’re torn really on trying to decipher if he was one of those racists who thought all brown-ish people were both stealing Englishmen jobs and benefits at the same time.

My racial tyranny isn’t limited to just work however, should I be in a kebab shop waiting for an order, I’ll most likely be asked what time “you” shut tonight.

Some people make quite the mistake in thinking I’m a really exotic European type and ask If I know anything about Salsa/jive dancing.

There’s actually far too many examples to list, 90% of the time thankfully it’s just a simple case of “Are you foreign”


Oh, sorry you look it”.

As opposed to the whole racially abused thing! But, to be fair I haven’t really been around any UKIP rallies, so maybe I’ll pop over to the next one and see if I live to tell the tale.

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That Time I Drunkenly Got Locked Out.

How many times have I, or will I in the future start a blog entry by describing how dazed, confused and hungover I am?

Well here’s another one.

Only this time, instead of being awoken by the suns optimistic shine to start my hangover, I woke up to my friend Jodie trying to Facetime me.

Fully clothed, on top of my duvet with no recollection as to how the fuck I even got home. There was a mop bucket next to my bed and a pint of water on my bedside drawer, I’m not forward thinking enough to collect these things so clearly one of my house mates had to rescue me from myself. All of this and it was only three in the fucking morning.

Once upon a time, I used to pride myself on being able to remember all the events of a night out in spite of how much alcohol I consumed. I was the wise one, the one who told the stories in which others had forgot.

Over time, I’ve had the odd moment in which a few things had slipped, and not before long those ‘few things’ extended to a good hour or two of absence in memory.

Last night, I remember pre-drinking, singing along to Blink 182, and having a duet to Neck Deep, the taxi arriving and that’s it. Nothing until 3am. Apparently I crashed and stumbled home a mess at midnight and was later found in my bath tub. Here is some unfortunate proof.

Now, this seems bad, and let’s face it….It is. But the bright side? I can’t remember the horror stories of how I even got home. What I do know is however…I lost my fucking iPod that night.

However the fact I got home is a miracle in its own right, as I’m going to tell you of a story that could have had a bit more of a shit ending….

For this ‘blast from the past’ we don’t actually go too far back…

Our story takes us to just last year, 2015.

Our House mate Roxanne had moved house, meaning that my tiny box room that I had been occupying for the last six months was to be abandoned for her room. Moving the stuff over, we realised that we now had a spare room, which me and Andrew dubbed as our ‘party room’.

So of course, there’d be no point in a party room without having a few drinks in it. So we invited Alan round for a few. Laughs were shared, stories were exchanged and songs were sung out of tune. It was a good debut for the room.

Now, the problem with last minute shindigs and copious drinking at such events is that you run out of alcohol. For some this is a sign to stop, for us however it was a sign to just go down town instead.

Losing my way from the gang as per, I decided to drink solo at the local dive bars, I knock back a few shots, try a cider I didn’t like and lost my spirit and decided to go home.

Given the title of this, we won’t call it a plot twist but the main arch of our story was then discovered.

I had left my keys at home.

Ahhhhhhh, fuck.

Now, at this point I was incredibly drunk, my phone battery was dying fast. I could’ve just waited on my front porch, but that would attract attention from the weirdos that lived on my street, so that was out.

Our next plan of action was to just find a good bench in a park to relax and maybe crash out on. Again, the streets of Plymouth are mean, and attracting unwanted attention was not in my interests. I then came to a conclusion that my drunk, poisoned brain considered “A good move”.

In hindsight it was not.

See, my porch, a bench, a park. All places in which the public and any bad character could come across, come across a large, afro donning, drunk guy and think “Let’s mug that idiot”.

Do you know a place that statistically speaking wouldn’t be littered with shady characters?

The woods.

Not just any woods, the largest woods, and nature reserve that Plymouth could offer, Saltram.

Already it was a long walk from town to Saltram, so I blissfully started my journey, all forty minutes of it, not during one step did I think “This is a bad idea”. My Ipod reassuring me to keep going.

I eventually made it to the long, dark pathway entering the abyss, and without second thought I went straight in. Even on a summers day this pathway is usually empty minus the odd cyclist or dog walker every so often, so you can imagine how dead it’d be at three in the morning.

Getting deeper into the woods, the path splits into two.

The left would go deeper into the woods, and near a giant lake.

The right would take us into a giant open field which housed a manor.

Figuring that stumbling drunk to some manor would probably end up turning into a Beauty and the Beast situation, I decided to go left, I figured a lakeside view would be pretty this time of night.

And so I walked, blissfully unaware of how stupid this decision was. My Ipod ran out of battery so I was left with the sound of silence and my own footsteps, it was bizarrely a very tranquil experience.

I made it to the ‘lake’ (I quote lake because it’s way too fucking big to be a lake, but I wouldn’t know what else to call it).

Just by said lake was a steep hill, and on top some sort of stone placement in which me and Dan used to call “The Temple” as kids. As a result we’ll call it that now.

I somehow managed to traverse this hill and sit next to The temple. With a good view of a good chunk of the city. I watched the odd car go by in the distance as if they were little fireflies. Nothing but silence, barring the gentle sound of a breeze here and there.

Now going inside The Temple, I lie down next to the stone work on a concrete slab, it was bizarrely comfortable. It was a strange thought in the grand scheme of things, all the cars and people passing by with a view of Saltram in the distance had no clue there was some drunk mid-twenties moron relaxing in the depths.

The next thing I know, I awaken to a flock of birds singing, chirping and presumably mocking me. “Ohhhhhh this was a bad idea” I say to myself as the 6am sky lightens to a dark blue.

This was a dumb idea.

I’ve had a lot of dumb ideas, but this was certainly a top percentage dumb idea moment.

I bring myself to my feet and peer out of the temple, the odd ‘firefly’ in which I had been so fixated on mere hours before were now a lot more frequent for the morning rush to work. Again, this was a dumb idea.

I walk down the steep hill, taking caution with each step. It was then when a dog walker came into my sights.

Oh for fuck’s sake”.

For the first time in my life I had came across a stranger in the woods and felt empathy. I was probably the fucking dodgy one in this situation. This chap just wants to take his Husky for a walk, and now he’s witnessing some twat come from the temple on the hill, slowly approaching down.

Just don’t make eye contact”

I think to myself.

Just go a complete separate way and he won’t think you’re a murderer” I reason to myself.

Problem is, my mind is now so transfixed on not looking like a murderer that I forget about my cautious footing on the dew soaked hill.

It only took one false step on a loose patch of grass and I was gone. My legs sweeping under me as my vision is forced to the sky, a thunderous thud as my back crashes into the hill.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhh” I let out a mundane moan, obviously now catching the dog walkers attention. If I was in his eyes a murderer, I was a tragic one. I think I even slid down the hill a fair bit in my crash landing. Hurrying myself back to my feet, I leave the area. Quickly.

Now it was just a case of walking home. Usually I could at least browse Facebook, or listen to my music, but both iPhone and Ipod had died in this journey so I was very much left to my own devices. I got some snacks from a nearby petrol station to keep me sane.

An hour later I had finally made it home, I was ready to be reunited with my bed.

Then it hit me, the reason I had been in the woods in the first place.

I had no fucking keys.

Knocking on the door proved to be a thankless task, and it was getting cold. So I figured at this time Mcdonalds would be open.

Realising I was still a little drunk upon entering, I try my best to act sober. Which resulted in me having a fifteen minute chat to the cashier about Captain America.

I order my Mcmuffin and cup of tea. Go into the corner where I can be alone with my food and shame.

From the first sip my tongue felt like it had just set foot upon the sun itself. A thousand fires had scorched the roof of my mouth, this tea was obviously made from hell itself. My morning wasn’t improving.

I ate my Mcmuffin in silence, looking at all the happy, hangover free people with a hint of envy in my eyes, mud still stained on my back from the earlier slip. It was all in all a bananas moment.

After my Mcmuffin, I come to the inevitable conclusion that my tea will literally never, ever cool down so I just left it and returned home.

Again, knocking on the door seemed a pointless endeavour so I had a brainwave moment.

I’d merely jump over the back wall.

I stroll to the back alley, and get to the sealed back door to the garden. Wedged shut from where I once upon a kicked it back into place in an attempt to fix it. Which let’s face it, judging from this moment worked a bloody peach.

I look down the alley and see one of those wheelie things that postmen use for their big deliveries, why there was on in a Plymouth alley I will not understand, but I was not arguing this.

The best thing I could get upon Googling

The best thing I could get upon Googling “Wheelie Delivery Thing”.

I wheel my makeshift ladder to the back gate, and delicately begin to climb. At this point it feels like a simple two foot device has hoisted me seventy feet in the air.

I grasp onto my back wall and hoist myself up, knocking off a lot of tiling in the process.

Without any grace or charm I slump my body over the wall, make pleasantries with a nearby cat (which promptly left) and fall into my own back yard.

The back door was fucking locked.

Now, a few months prior to this moment I had a bit of a DIY stint in me and wanted to create a backyard sofa. Ideally made from pallet wood. As such, whilst drunk on previous night outs I had taken pieces of pallet wood and thrown them into my back yard until I had enough pieces of pallet wood to build a decent sofa.

There was, and still to this very moment remains one piece of pallet wood in my back yard.

I pick it up, and drag it pathetically to the corner of the back yard, wedging it into the corner of the stairs to my back door, thus creating a decent make shift bed.

I lay down, at what is now probably 9am in my back yard on a piece of pallet wood, wondering where it all went wrong, the only comfort was the fact that this ‘bed’ I made was actually pretty comfy in its own right.

Just as I found solace in this, it started to rain.

But fear not, I had another million dollar idea.

I climbed over my back wall, again.

Used the wheelie delivery thing as a ladder down to the back alley.

And took the ten minute walk back into down.

Went into Wilko, a little bit drunk.

And bought a fucking duvet.

I then proceeded to repeat the process of getting into my back yard. Only this time, armed with a duvet, which I then used with my pallet bed.

As if that was my life now.

Luckily, it wasn’t long until I got back into my house, and subsequent actual bed.

But hey, fuck it. I got a duvet out of it, so as far as hangovers go it wasn’t that bad, I guess.

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That Time We Went Ghost Hunting.

I wake up, the world is still spinning, the room has empty vodka and rum bottles scattered across the floor, the fake blood setting under my nails for the next four days, face full of smudged eyeliner, and an ever present desire to just stop existing for a day or two.

Halloween has turned into that yearly event in which both my liver and my wallet hold hands and think “How are we going to make it through this?”. A week long event of house parties, trudging down town, and drinking enough alcohol to satisfy Lichtenstein as a whole.

And I find this perplexing to a degree because Halloween has already undergone a drastic evolution, at least with me.

As a child it was the all about the silly costumes, the trick or treating and the weeks supply of sweets, and an apple to get through, the Halloween parties were filled with apple bobbing and listening to the Monster Mash.

As a young teenager you get a bit more of a sense of adventure with such a time of year. Too young to make a night out happen, and too old to appreciate apple bobbing, you’re forced to think outside the box and go ghost hunting or some shit like that.

Then as an adult you lose that sense of horror and wonder and just replace it with alcohol, or at least heavily incorporate alcohol into proceedings, instead of apple bobbing you have….apple cocktails? Instead of trick or treating you get a round of shot roulette and hope to god you don’t get the black sambuca. And instead of analysing the sheer amount of sweets you have on your bed, you’re instead throwing away your bedsheets because of the blue dye stained from the Smurf you bought home last night.

This is the reality in which I now apparently live in, maybe in a few years time Halloween to me will be watching my future son/daughter don their superhero outfit for the first time, and stealing their sweets when they go to bed. Until that day however I’m fine with replacing a packet of Haribo Starmix with a Woo Woo Cocktail.

However, going back to the days in which drinking wouldn’t diminish me as a human being, I was in that ‘Let’s be adventurous this Halloween’ stage.

Now, it’s time for a bit of Plymouth folklore.

In one of the corners of Plymouth lies Radford Woods, a serene little retreat with quite a beautiful lake next to what I can only describe as a pint sized castle.

Once upon a time, 19th century time, the occupants of this castle had a daughter, who loved some bloke who either lived in the woods, or hung around in the woods a lot. Either way, she probably should’ve just got a hobby instead of pining after woodsmen.

Forbidden from seeing her true love, she apparently decided to make a Disney movie out of it, break out of the castle, take a boat and sail to him.

Not quite perfecting a calm lake and a rowing boat, she capsized the boat and died, and to this day she haunts the woods looking for her lost love. Known commonly as The White Lady.

Also, for some fucking reason she’s a swan in the daytime.

Our story takes us to 2004.

Myself and Nathan. Who I share a YouTube gaming channel with (Check us playing horror games by clicking this link) now routinely ‘investigate’ these woods but find pretty much nothing each time.

2004 however we were incredibly close to finding much, much more.

We had at this point in school all heard the rumours, and all been into Radford woods, but only in the day time.

Given it was Halloween we decided it’d be the absolute perfect time to go into the woods under the moonlight.

We all met up at about 9pm. Which was late for a bunch of fourteen year olds I guess, and especially late for said fourteen year olds to be swanning around in some creepy woods.

Myself, Nathan, Luke, Mike and James were set. All with our little flash lights, and Nathan taking the cautionary approach by taking an actual steel fucking pipe as if it were the starting weapon of our own personal horror game.

How Nathan saw the night going, apparently.

How Nathan saw the night going, apparently.

Things were creepy for a bit, but mostly it was a case of us just minding our footing and making sure we didn’t trip over any rocks or loose tree branches.

Joking and pretending we’ve seen ‘things’ we lap the woods a little bit to find a whole load of nothing.

Not wanting to end this trip of a disappointing note we decided to take drastic measures.

Now the pint sized castle, was completely sealed. Boarded up with steel with no means to wedging over. However, we figured we could at least take a peek by looking through a window over a ledge.

It was quite treacherous to a degree, to get to this window we’d had to hop over a wall, hug said wall from the other side for a few feet just to get a glimpse through a fucking window that was barred up.

Nonetheless we gave it a go. Shining our flash light through the windows we still couldn’t particularly see. Luke, clutching the straws of optimism tried to move the bars themselves.

And it worked.

The bars hoisted upwards giving us access to the window, we all looked at each other, huddled on our little ledge and pondered on whether or not it was a good idea to go in.

Throwing caution to the wind we thought fuck it, and went inside. Teamwork becoming the essence as I held up the bars as the rest of the crew went in, Luke and Mike then held up the bars from the inside as I squeezed past them. “Mind the toilet” Luke said.

Toilet?” I questioned, confused and wondering if I heard correctly. But sailing so, my foot nearly went inside an old, thankfully empty, dried out toilet.

The floors creaked with each timid step, every creak sounding like it could possibly be it’s last until it gave way.

We moved into the next room. A large square one, completely empty minus a table on the far side, and……..An Action-Man flash light on the floor.

Which I fucking shit you not, was still lit.

Haha, what the fuck? I completely forgot Action-Man even existed!” I exclaim whilst going to pick up the flash light, in true horror movie style it died just before I went to touch it.

In hindsight, why none of us were horrified, or at least a bit dubious on the fact that the flash light was still on is beyond me.

The table in question has a load of burned out tea lights on it, again for some stupid reason we thought absolutely nothing about it.

Just under the table for some reason was a shit load of barbed wire all bunched together.

To me, horror is best left to the imagination. When playing a game or watching a movie, the true fear lies in wondering just what is round the corner. What’s lurking in the darkness?

The amount of times I’ve been relatively creeped out during a horror movie, only to be let down by the big monster reveal is phenomenal. Especially with whatever the fuck that stupid prick in Insidious was meant to be.

With that said, the horror elements you can appreciate in film and gaming culture become a lot more scary when you’re the protagonist of a real life would be horror, and as predicted the minds start playing tricks on you. I was constantly questioning myself on what I saw in the corner. Then I was for some reason adding hypothetical situations to the mix.

Okay, so what do you guys think would be scarier, if we just come across some dead bloke, a bloke who’s alive and acknowledges us in whatever way, ORRRR a bloke who’s alive, but just completely oblivious to us, and is just staring catatonically into space”

I had already decided that option three would freak me out the most as I then started to look out for this fictional thousand yard stare man.

Holding onto the walls, being extra careful with our footing we discovered a spiral staircase. James and Mike decided that they didn’t want to risk going upstairs, Nathan decided to take watch for some reason, leaving Luke and I to check out the upper part.

It was a giant, huge, empty room. The floor felt as if it would collapse at any second, and just at the end of it, attached to a wall was a life jacket, Which let’s face it would’ve been quite handy for The White Lady. Live and Learn I guess.

Treading carefully on the soon collapsing floor, our hearts simultaneously go into a state of overdrive as the overpowering sound of bells chimed heavily all around us.


At this point I doubt anybody in the history of the world had run down a set of spiral stairs quicker than Luke and myself. We didn’t even question what was going on, just bolted.

We were greeted with a hysterical Mike, who had somehow found an old school fire bell system, in which you rotate a crank and it sets a load of bells off. I’d have probably appreciated such a little gizmo if I wasn’t at the time close to cardiac arrest.

Deciding enough was simply enough we left the castle.

Repeating the process of our break in, only in reverse we returned to the woods, this time however a Police car was present. “Oh fuck”

Hi lads, what’re you up to?” the policeman enquired sticking his head out the window.

Oh, we’re ghost hunting!” I blurted out trying to remain cool and poised.

Hahaha, alright then stay safe!” he replied. All in all it was quite a pleasant encounter but we suspected that they were onto us.

We then heard dogs barking, and for some reason we assumed they had set police dogs onto us (I’ve no idea why) so we sat near a bunch of rocks in the dockyard for like, fifteen minutes.

Deciding the coast was clear, we all head off. James had pretty much run off into the night, Luke and Nathan wanted to explore more, so myself and Mike just pottered by the lakeside.

Minutes later, Luke and Nath ran back in a panic claiming that they had saw some sort of white smoke. The closest sign we’d had gotten to a ghost that night, and we bailed, left, and went home

Fun fact though? A few months later in the local paper, it had turned out that our pint sized castle, was actually being used as a drug den, and they had found like £500,000 worth of cocaine inside.

So you know, there’s one fucking giant bullet dodged right there.

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That Time I Got Lost Because Of A Selfie.


I’m not going to sit here and bullshit you by saying that I make the smartest of decisions 100% of the time. In fact on the contrary you could say that it would be surprising to a lot of people if I turned around one day and made a well thought through sensible decision.

Saturday evening (28/05/16) was not one of those days in which a smart decision was made.

Before I tell you a tale of hardship however, let me send you back in time to 2013.

I had purchased two rats from Pets at Home. ‘Science’ and ‘Marceline’ were their respective names. That day I had learned a valuable lesson that you should pretty much not bother buying animals from Pets at Home because they’re essentially neglected from the moment they’re born to the moment they’re purchased, thus they pretty much freak out when anyone approaches.

Marceline was a timid little thing and spent the majority of her time hiding, Science on the other hand was the living embodiment of Satan in a rat, making sounds I have never heard….Quite frankly any animal make, along with drawing blood more times I can count I decided to give her up for adoption to somebody that could give her the patience that I couldn’t.

A quick search on Gumtree (the first time using the site since the whole ‘grooming’ situation. Read About That Little Moment of Joy Here. ) led me to finding someone who was up for the task, in addition to this I got two adorable baby rats in return (Later named ‘Chi and Lychee’).

The only problem however was this girl lived in Callington. A place I had at this point never heard of in my entire life.

This Joyous Place.

This Joyous Place.

Regardless, I travelled by bus for an hour, with an ever growing angry demon rat in my bag, I met the girl, gave away said rat and two baby rat would be coming back with me. There was just one problem.

The entire town, seemingly just had one bus stop.

Of course, I walk past the bus stop I came into town on, assuming that the other side of the road would be the ‘outer’ bus stop, bus alas there was no alternative bus stop. I walk around looking for a bus stop on the correct side of road. This leads me to a long road with barely a lamp post in sight. (This is winter time so it’s dark at like, 5pm).

On my lost travels, I come across three girls that could have been no older than eleven at the time. I shit you not, this is the jist of the conversation.

Girl one: “Excuse me!”

Me: Yeah?

Girl two: Oh my godddd, Leah don’t!”

Girl one: Can my friend have a piggy back?

Me: What?….No.

Girl one and three: Awww

Me: Anyway, can you gimme a hand? I’ve no clue where to get the bus to Plymouth from.

They lead me back to the very same bus stop in which I arrived at as they made their way, I for some reason don’t bother telling them that this is the wrong bus stop. They go on their way, presumably asking more men in their early twenties for piggy backs.

I set off again looking for the correct bus stop.

A fair few minutes pass, maybe ten to fifteen and I come across the same girls.

Oh! It’s you again! Why’re you not at the bus stop? The bus is due!”

Oh, that’s the bus stop I came in from, I need the bus going to Plymouth”

Yeah, we know. The bus turns around there”


Feeling stupid, I head back to the same bus stop, and notice that the bus from and to Plymouth is due in about ten minutes. Instead of staying put, I decide on going to the co-op quickly to get myself a drink for the hour journey home.

Leaving the shop, I realise the bus is turning down and looking to abandon my bus stop. “Fucking hell”.

In a beautiful plot twist, the exact same group of girls spotted me in the distance and flagged the bus down for me.

This is the one going to Plymouth!!!” one excitedly shrieked frantically signalling for me to get on.

Three times I encounter them, and three times they saved me from getting lost in Callington, in hindsight I probably owe them that piggy back.

With the baby rats still in my bag for this entire ordeal, I vow to never return.


It’s now a Saturday evening, probably about ten to seven. I’m wearing my Green Kiwi tee-shirt.

 A fun tidbit of trivia is that through every one of my travelling ordeals I was wearing the very same shirt. (Blog about that coming soon, I guess)

Hell, the last time I wore it prior to that day was when I endured a four hour coach journey with no Ipod, a phone without data, no company and to top this off my bottle of rum smashed in my rucksack.

I was convinced this kiwi tee was cursed so I legitimately took it off.

Other than waiting at the wrong bus stop for five minutes, the bus journey was hassle free, a lot of weird smelling people, but I did have to take into consideration the fact that I was just visiting Cornwall, these people probably lived there so that would explain the odd smells.

I get off the bus, the same cruel bus stop from nearly three years prior greeted me, even the sunsets rays bouncing off the streets could not lift my disdain for the memories of stupidity.

Instead of calling the person I was meant to meet, I decided to take a quick gander round the area, after all, Cornwall is one of those places that’s utterly fucking awful in the dreariness of winter, but quite beautiful on a quiet summers evening. After a while I decide to ring up for directions on where I was actually going.

Okay, just follow the road, you’ll find a Tesco. Ring me when you’re outside of it”

OK! Lates”

My path was set, and it was a relatively easy one. A brief ten minute walk up a gentle slope, I see the large font of Tesco in the distance. I had 8% battery left on my phone, Tesco was no more than two minutes away, the sun was slowly setting, leaving a beautiful pink sky behind my steps.

I figure it’s as good a time as ever to let the natural light act as my filter and take a quick selfie.

I pose, ignoring the confused gazes of the bloke in a cowboy hat nearby, I briefly admire myself before seeing my 8% rapidly turn into a blank screen.

Well fuck.

I go into Tesco, thinking about how royally screwed I could possibly be at this point. Buy a milkshake, and sit outside for the best part of five minutes.

I have an iPhone charger in my rucksack, so the plan of action was to scout the area of a bar, or a Costa to use their plug socket. The journey was on.

The journey, in addition to being ‘on’ was a lonesome one. Not a single soul on the road I was walking, keeping a watchful eye out in case I came across the person I was meeting. (I assumed Callington had a population rate of fifteen or something).

I think, give or take I walked for about forty minutes, past a lot of trees and the Ginsters factory. Not a charging port, or a shred of hope in sight.

I turn back to Tesco, the sun now rapidly setting.

I go into the petrol station, and swallow my pride.


This is probably the most stupid thing you’re going to hear all day, but do you have a charging port, handy?”

I could instantly see the judgement in her eyes. She shook her head and that was that, apparently.

Hahaha (Fakest of laughs to mask the most real of pains) that’s fine. Do you know if there’s a payphone nearby?”

A payphone?” she looked at me completely bemused. She shouted across the store asking her colleague, which is great because if there’s one thing I wanted it was for more people to be in on this horrific situation.

The lady then rings up the superstore Tesco, and asks if they have a payphone. They did.

It was at this point, walking to the larger Tesco that I realised I don’t even know who I’d ring. To my immediate knowledge I have three numbers that I actually know.

1: My own. Not helpful on the best of days let alone when my phone’s dead.

2: Hastings Direct.

3: My work.

My work was quite literally the go-to number to call, I had a system in which I was going to resort to which included calling up work, and asking whoever was working at the time to go onto Facebook, and message the person in question saying that I’ll be outside Tesco. Then I wait.

Thankfully, it did not resort to this, as salvation, and the person I was meeting was outside!

I was the immediate comic relief of the store, the shame alone is enough to make me question ever going to Cornwall again. There’s a strong chance that I’ll be forever known in Callington as ‘That guy who somehow got lost……….In Callington’

All because of fucking vanity.

The selfie didn’t even save.

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The Single Life of Dan: Episode 02: Breaking News.

With little to no shame whatsoever, I would say that I’m one that quite enjoys drama in many shapes and forms.

Me and Stace would gasp upon seeing some of the bizarre scandals that would take place on either Facebook. Affairs, naked frapes, families literally falling apart, we had seen it all and spoke about it at length.

And let’s be honest who isn’t at least a little bit intrigued when you see a long term couple fall apart over Facebook?

I’ve seen best friends have their relationship abruptly set to ‘single’ after a three month relationship and it still resulted in a hearty gasp and an invite to the local cafe for a pint. (Of coke admittedly, but a pint nonetheless).

So when I sat at my sofa in the starting weeks of February, providing my Facebook friends were half as nosey as me I was set to drop one hell of a fucking bombshell on them.

With a literal deep breath and a few hoops to jump through to actually set the status I announced what was the biggest news of my life for a good half decade, possibly a whole.

Cheers for the little surrender flag too, Facebook.

Cheers for the little surrender flag too, Facebook.


See, this came at a very strange time.

Work was going through an absolute stale period of hiring new staff so for a good two, three maybe even four years we very much had the same set of workers. A lot of them turning into friends, in addition to this the close circle of friends I had was very much used to ‘us’.

Essentially I was one of those irksome people who as opposed to being ‘Dan’ who happened to have a girlfriend I was instead one half of ‘Dan and Stace’.

If there was a night out odds are me and her would be on it together, if asked about plans by co-workers I’d have probably have said something on the lines of “Oh me and Stace are doing [Said activity]

It wasn’t a healthy way to live a life, but hell that’s what hindsight is for, plus it kinda helps with the spirit of this blog entry so I guess it resulted in something useful.

Regardless what was done was done my world knew, alerting the world that I was single was another cross off of my single to do list.

And it was one of the most heart warming experiences I’ve had in my life. Within minutes, seconds even I had messages flooding through in regards to my well being.

Dan, Holly, Sarah, among the first few people to enquire, but what I really took from this was nobody, not one single person gave a shit as to what happened. They didn’t say “Oh what went wrong?” or “Oh what happened?” Just checking to see if I was feeling okay and if I needed anything.

Luke, somehow took it worst than I did, dropping all important plans to get me out for that traditional pint.

To a degree, providing they liked her which I have every reason to believe they did, the group had lost a member too.

I remember coming home from work one day to Stace laughing on the phone, turns out she had been on the phone to Luke for two hours.

She had arranged to meet up with Dan, and then both of them meet me after they discovered the BOMBSHELL of gossip (In which I probably shouldn’t divulge)

These little things were the point of realisation that Stace was not just a girlfriend, but a friend to my friends and a core member of our circle of friends.

It was only after a few course conversations were I suffered a bit of an identity crisis. As one half of a couple I knew where I stood, who I was, and what to do.

Suddenly, I was fucked.

I had no idea what I could bring to the table, literally everyone in my life at that time knew me as Dan from “Dan and Stace”, only ‘the circle’ family, and three workmates knew me before going out with Stace, and I was only seventeen at the time.

All of these little identity issues would have to be worked on later however, as I had pressing issues to attend to.

Seeing. People. Face. To. Face.

My most daunting part of the break up wasn’t actually the break up itself, it was the live reaction to the break up.

Out of the people in my life at the time, only Dan, Steve, Amie, Nicola and Nathan knew that this storm was coming.

Incidentally Nicola was the first person I saw face to face since it happened so that softened the blow a fair bit.

Toby, a friend and former co-worker had ran into us and was chipper as always

Soooooooo Dan! I heard about you and Stace!?” he both acknowledged and questioned.

Ye…..yeahhhhh” I awkwardly replied. And that’s when it hit me.

I had no fucking script to abide by in these situations.

And literally, that was the main line I heard for the next three to five days.

So Dan, I heard about you and Stace”





And to this very moment I still have no idea how to respond to that….question? I don’t even know what it was.

I wasn’t quite in the mood to be cavalier about the situation, I just had to nod along and act like I was cool with it, sometimes added with a little humour, but there was always an element of “What the fuck am I saying” to my sentences.

That was the first form of acknowledgement I got.

The second, was a slight improvement but still nightmare fuel to me.

It was as if it was in a textbook.

The person in question would look at me with sad, soulful, supportive eyes.

Tilt their head at a 45 degree angle.

Look me deep in the eyes

Sigh deeply

Say softly “Hey Dan”

put their hand supportively on my shoulder

Say somehow, in a much softer tone “You okay?”

This had actually happened to me five times. The first time it happened I had actually somehow forgot briefly about the relationship turmoil and just thought this person had a vivid fixation on my shoulder.

It was only after the secondary shoulder support in which I thought “ahhh yes…Of course, I need to somehow deal with this”.

I’m shit socially, almost to the level in which I think “I wonder if I’m at least a little bit on the spectrum. Sympathy is one of those things I simply cannot deal with. People thought I was putting on a strong, loner-like front, truth be told I just didn’t know how to deal with the beautiful swarm of sympathy and support that was flooding my way.

It’s like getting a gift on Christmas day, or birthday. I appreciate it immensely, but I’m utterly shit at portraying such an emotion.

One of the complaints I’ve recently received (A very recent single life of Dan update coming….one day) is that I’m impossible to read. I assume this could have been the case back then.

After a long, long, long two days of running into people, explaining the situation, and having my shoulder touched more than its ever been touched in its entire life, I went into the bar across the road from me.

Somehow, heading to this bar at two in the morning lead us to the next chapter of my single adventures.

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The Enchantress from Beauty and the Beast Needs To Chill The Fuck Out.

With great power comes great responsibility.

That’s a quote we’re all too familiar with.

One in which we associate with those who would actually use said powers with the grace and delicacy that you’d expect a hero to have. Never to be abused, never to be reckless with, never to cause harm to the people.

Villains of course abuse this power, the moment Jafar got his lamp he instantly went fucking mental and used his wishes in like, an hour.

Maleficent went bat shit insane because she wasn’t invited to some party.

Hades, in a bid to rule mount Olympus sent a load of Titans out to fuck Greece up.

All reckless, all gung ho, and all certainly neglecting responsibility.

But it matters not, because they all get their just desserts

Here’s a certain someone though who is barely mentioned, and sure as shit doesn’t even come close to using her gracious powers responsibly.

This fucking crazy bitch.

The Enchantress from the starting narrative of Beauty and the Beast, for some reason disguised herself as an old woman, went up to some guys house and asked to spend the night.

Beast/Non Beast at the time, says no.

As a result she goes “right, fuck you, and your castle, you’re a gross beast now, here’s a rose now fuck off”.

And that’s the last we ever see, or hear of her again….

Few problems..



What the actual shit has possessed this woman to do this? Was she bored at home one day, watching Catfish and figured she’d single handedly make the most compelling episode the world had ever seen?

Did she know the Beast prior to this moment? Or just see the secluded castle and think, “The owner/resident of this castle must be a dick, let’s test the theory”.


The Beast must find love by his 21st birthday.

Already that’s quite a difficult feat to accomplish even if you’re not a seven foot cape donning monster.

But it said that ‘years’ had passed as a Beast. Meaning presumably the Beast was between the age of thirteen and nineteen at the time of this lady’s ‘test’.

For arguments sake I’m going to say he was fifteen.

No fifteen year old, in their right mind would let a stranger into their house. Heck, nobody would let a stranger from the woods crash in your house anyway.

But according to old Enchantress here, it’s just cool to crash at the castle of someone going through puberty.

Also, don’t change him into a beast because he’s a dick. All fifteen year olds are dicks. Cut him some slack.


More reasoning that this enchantress is fucking insane.

Fair enough she was offended that teenage beast found her Catfish form a bit repulsive, and we’ve already scratched the surface that this punishment was a bit too rough.

Maybe turn him into a beast for, I dunno? A fortnight.

Maybe give him a little scar on his face?

Maybe just turn into the beautiful (yet twattish) Enchantress you truly are and give him a stern lecture.

These are fine things.


Turn him into a beast for years, that’s a dick move.


Don’t fucking drag his poor servants into the equation.

Without even getting to know them, she turned poor, unsuspecting strangers into a candle, a clock, a teapot, and a wardrobe.

She turned an unsuspecting child into a fucking cup.

She turned a dog into a footstool.

Someone’s got no fucking chill.


Did she put any thought into this?

She turned the beast into a beast. We get this, it makes sense.

But at what point did it cross her mind to go “Right, this guy right here can be…………a clock” POOF.

Or did she just put her spells on shuffle mode or something? I don’t quite get the logic here.

Turning poor, unsuspecting servants, children and animals into household objects just gives us more reason to believe that she truly has no clue what to do with her powers and she’s just going off on one completely.

And we never see her again. She just disappears to act holier than thou and presumably fucks another persons day up.



Was anyone else massively disappointed with what Lumière’s human form ended up looking like?

Furthermore at the end of the film, did anyone catch the obvious sexual tension between human Mrs Potts and Maurice?

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