Dougie Brimson - Billys Log: The Hilarious Diary of One Mans Struggle With Life, Lager and the Female Race

For Billy Ellis, life is one series of disasters after another. His haemorrhoids have just cost him promotion, his new boss is threatening to move in next door, and on the very occasions he needs a condom, he cant even buy a packet without almost getting arrested. As if that wasnt bad enough, hes suddenly woken up to the fact that hes almost thirty, still single and has the looks that give a new meaning to the word average.

But at the end of last year, as always, Billy read his Log of Life and vowed to make things better.

And this year, he succeeded. Eventually.

Billys Log reveals the frustrations of life for a single male and the never-ending battle to understand the workings of the female mind.

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The most humorous portrayal of the male psychosis since High Fidelity
Blind, Stupid & Desperate magazine

Men Behaving Badly meets Nick Hornby in a hilarious look at male inadequacy
pickabook.co.uk

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www.dougiebrimson.com

Published by eBookpartnership.com

www.eBookpartnership.com

16.30 p.m. - At home

Bollocks. If I wasnt depressed before, I sure am now. Why the bloody hell do I put myself through this every year? No one else I know keeps a diary, so why the hell do I? I mean, its not as if Im Richard Branson or David Beckham or that life is a constant whirl of parties and loose women. In fact, if the evidence of the last 365 days is anything to go by, my life is shite.

What really gets me is that I had such high hopes for 1999. I honestly believed that the two aims I set myself this time last year were achievable and for once, when I looked back, Id be able to congratulate myself on a job well done. But no. Instead of a smug feeling of satisfaction, I have the all too familiar gut-wrenching ache of failure. I wouldnt mind so much if those ambitions were anything special. It wasnt as if I wanted to climb Everest or fly a Harrier jump jet. As a healthy, heterosexual male, is it really that unreasonable to want a bit of female company? And shouldnt everyone be looking for promotion at work?

But aside from a drunken fumble almost nine months ago, Ive had sod all in the way of sex. And even that was more down to luck than judgement. After all, its not every day that you bump into a drunken twenty-two-year-old Essex girl whos just found out her bloke is having it away with her best mate and has convinced herself that the most obvious way to teach them both a lesson is to have sex with the first available male she meets.

At least I almost got promotion. In fact I probably would have if that bastard Sean hadnt shown me his copy of Maxim. Thats where the idea to photocopy my arse came from and Im still convinced that bastard knew theyd put CCTV cameras in the copy room. Of course, it did briefly elevate me to comic genius status, which is something I suppose. Although things might have been different if anyone had twigged on to the fact that when I said I was taking a picture of my chocky starfish to see if my piles had cleared up or not, I was actually telling the truth rather than taking the piss. The high-ups on the top floor werent impressed, thats for sure. I knew I should have gone to plan B, and told them that what I had actually been doing was using my initiative to save the company time and money. After all, a quick flash of their copier works out a damn site cheaper than a day on the sick.

Mind you, much as Im pissed off about it, 1999 wasnt all bad. The trip to Wembley and winning promotion with the Hornets was one of the best days ever. And I did discover the delights of Sabrina The Teenage Witch, although I guess I really should be more concerned about that than gratified.

The other big plus of 1999 was that I finally got rid of the flatmate from hell. I still cant work out what I was thinking of, letting my spare room to an Australian minge magnet. Did I really think, or hope, that his formidable sexual prowess would in some way rub off on me? If so, I must have been bloody raving. Listening to some antipodean stud rogering his way through the entire female population of south Hertfordshire may be strangely arousing at first, but after the sixth consecutive night, it becomes a major pain. And walking into the kitchen to find a different semi-clad female eating their way through the contents of your fridge each morning does tend to make you feel frighteningly inferior. In the end, it was a bloody relief when immigration tracked him down and sent him on his way, although I still feel slightly guilty about that. How was I to know that he wasnt here legally? If hed told me, I wouldnt have tried to register him as a tenant for the Council Tax. Still, its an ill wind. You dont appreciate your own space until some other bastard invades it.

But really, aside from those rare glimpses of happiness, the plain truth is that, once again, the highs of last year were well outnumbered by the lows and its becoming increasingly clear, even to me, that things cant go on like this. Not for much longer anyway. For a start, there were far too many references to hangovers, take-aways and wind-ups at my expense and at twenty-nine going on thirty, thats not good. In fact, its bloody terrible.

Of course, I could blame Maria for all this, and indeed have on numerous occasions. Its true that nothings been the same since we split almost two years ago now and, if Im honest, I settled into this rut because it was easier to do that than not do it. But blaming her isnt fair. Not after all this time. I dont even miss her that much, I just miss the sex.

But I cant rely on good fortune supplying me with a rampant Essex girl again and, in truth, I cant hang about for it either. Im in this rut because Im lazy. Pure and simple. And at the moment I cant see any kind of future except more of the same and that has to change. The problem is, where do I start? And how?

Oh well, whatever it is, itll have to wait. Its New Years Eve and tomorrow will be a whole new century. Maybe change is on the horizon, who knows? At least I have a party to go to tonight. The delights of my old mate Budweiser beckon.

10.15 a.m. - At home

Bloody hell, I feel rough. No, not rough, worse than rough. So rough in fact, that I cant even think of a word to describe how rough I feel.

Why does a hangover feel a thousand times worse when you close your eyes? Ive been asleep for hours without even the remotest hint of a problem but now that Im awake, every time my eyelids drop, the noise in my head increases and the throbbing feeling from my bladder becomes increasingly urgent. I wonder if, rather than sit here, I should just get up and go to the toilet. Then again, rather than move, I could just wet myself. I live on my own so no one would ever know. And Ill need a shower later on anyway. But if I do that, Ill have to wash the chair and the carpet. Not an attractive idea.

Unusually, my stomach feels all right. There must be a reason for that, although it escapes me at the moment. Mind you, much the same can be said for everything else thats happened recently.

I think I need to go back to bed. Looking at this screen isnt doing me any favours at all. Mind you, after three days on the piss I dont know why Im surprised by that.

11.15 a.m. - At home

Ive given up on bed. Every time I begin to drift off, the bloody phone rings and, by the time I get up, it stops. I cant even find out who it is because the number has been withheld. Although it can only be someone who has not been with me. Otherwise, they would also be suffering a thousand slow and painful deaths. Much like they will do anyway if they dont sod off.