Give me a book deal now!

I’m currently having a thoroughly bonkers time at work, so haven’t had time to type any random dribblings of my unconscious thought-thing on this blog for a couple of days. Apologies to my rather select group of readers.

I was discussing the possibilities of blog-based book deals with our Strategist Duncan over crab cakes and chips this lunchtime. We were thinking of neat riffs that would nab a column in that shit-stinking septic tank of middle class futility, the Guardian Weekend magazine, or win a nice fat publisher's advance. Here are some ideas – let me know what you think is a winner…

The Leytonstone Lothario Leg-over Logbook
Look out Belle de Jour! You’ve got a rival! I pretend to be a rather over-the-hill male prostitute and share my idealised experiences with the world. Luckily for me, in this bizarre make-believe world, rich women are willing to pay huge sums for a bunk-up with an erudite man who likes his pies. Oh, the tales of glamour, luxury and elegant lovemaking I share with my lucky readers as I fuck my way through Chingford high society!


Things me and my girlfriend get a bit narky about
Ha! I laugh at your tales of marital disharmony, Mil Millington! I take mind-numbing puerility to an assailable peak of damp squib domestic banality! Laugh as Emily gets a bit irritated by my tendency to hog the sofa! Cry as I get slightly miffed by her inability to wash up cutlery to a suitable standard! This could run and run as a Guardian Weekend column...

I self-harmed and took Prozac before a bummer of a crack habit and now I’m an alcoholic junkie with an unmentionable sexual addiction
May have to streamline the title and pretend to be a woman for this one, but believe me I’ll spare no graphic details in this self-confessional disfunction orgy. I’ll reveal my squalid existence, bringing it puking and shaking into the daylight. No, really I am lower than the thing that filth looks down upon. My self-hatred and ‘issues’ will make Trent Reznor look like a member of the Wiggles.

My life through Pet Shop Boys albums
Ah, the memories. In this Nick Hornby age of autobiography/popular culture mashup, I corner the market in 80s and 90s nostalgia. I’ll attempt some kind of facile juxtaposition between the songs and my life. It’s 1987: could the lyrics of ‘Rent’ have really led to my experiments in necrophilia? Now it’s 1993: was ‘DJ Culture’ the subconscious cue for that unfortunate situation in the stables with a glove puppet named Nigel? Kind of fizzles out as the Pet Shop Boys became really shit and I stopped listening to them. Bugger…