Haggis, Neeps and Tatties.

Sometimes things seem to be good, there’s no pressing need to think too much, you just plough on, rude, crude and laughing at other people’s expense. You are amusing, yes, and you are also a bastard. You’re like a fucking haggis, rough as guts but filled with tasty. The general idea of you is god-awful and smelly, in a way only the fucking Scots can come up with, but the reality of you – if anyone can stand to put you past their lips – is really much better than you give yourself credit for. But that’s for other people to ponder, you’re too busy spreading around your rank, tasty goodness to wonder at yourself.

Except sometimes you do and, the reality of your flavoursomeness aside, you can’t help but cringe a bit when you think about what exactly you’re made of. You get into a bog about it, all peaty and full of Islay Whiskey – Laphroaig 18yr old preferably. You begin to wonder if perhaps everyone should trust their gut reaction, and leave you to the enjoyment of the Scots. Perhaps you should trust their gut reaction. And then you spend too much time thinking about this, and you get to wishing you were more like a potato.

There’s a lot to be said for potatoes – and by extension, hopefully, yourself. They’re a bit misshapen and unattractive to be sure, but fucked if they’re not the most versatile, tasty vegetable in the history of the universe. It’s not versatility you’re after of course – or maybe it is, fuck knows – but that fluffy, creamy, mashed-up goodness; that golden, crispy, roasty… ok, you get the idea, no need to get all pornographic with the spuds here – and yes, it was going to go there very quickly. But really, who doesn’t want a bit of that – the tasty versatility, not the porn… ok well… But whether you have it or not is essentially irrelevant, now you’re too busy with your crippling self-doubt, standing in front of the mirror inspecting just how misshapen and unattractive you really are, re-reading all your former blog posts and fighting the urge to delete two thirds of them.

They’re all full of vitriol, they’re slanderous (ok, libellous), they’re negative and blind and cynical. They don’t really represent what a good-natured person you actually are. Really, you’re a lovely guy… but who the fuck could tell? So you abandon the whole project, intent on beginning anew, being nicer, putting more love into the world, being less critical of all the fucking idiots that infect the world like a virus…

And then you have a birthday.

And someone gives you this (in a frame):

And you realise that, yes, in fact you are a bastard, and you’re good at it.

You’re a fucking turnip.

That is all.