Some of you old afamzers may remember Ogilvy, my partner in love and other disasters. He's the only one I know that's as hopeless as I in all affairs of the heart. Still, we remain optimistic looking for shared dreams of flowers, chocolate and valentine's with other people. It is a truly depressing thing to find yourself single on February the 14th watching Love Actually with your best friend. It is how we have spent every Valentine's day since 2007.

We haven't emailed  in the past year because we lived in the same city. Emails were replaced by games of chess with a glass of wine in a lonely flat somewhere in Pimlico. Now that I've more or less moved back to Lagos our traditional form of correspondence has picked up.

Dear Afam,

I couldn't possibly have imagined that I would one day be friends with such a fart of creation. You left London without a word or a whisper. You literally just buggered off in the middle of the night. I was sick with worry.

When you receive this email, reply at once! I have been struck by a calamity so great that I fear I will not live another day if it is not resolved. Sophie and I are done, and I am undone.

Yours,
Gil

Dear Gilly-weed,

You know all too well how I feel about goodbyes. I do not do them. It is better to arrive without fanfare and leave without celebration. Before I left I was struck by a wave of anxiety and melancholy so great that I looked at the moon and said, "Oh moon! What will become of this paltry life of mine?"

Praying to the moon was a near fatal error. She didn't do me the honour of answering my question and the moment I set foot in Lagos I was accosted by my mother. Her motherly senses immediately accused me of being a practitioner of the occult. She whisked me away to a Church to cleanse me of my sins and had me apologise to God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit while she stood beside me taking notes.

Finally, how are you and Sophie done? She was perfect for you. It was you wasn't it? What the hell did you do to that poor girl?

Afam

Dear Fam-Biscuit,

I literally died laughing. You should know better than to look to the moon for answers. I hope you have properly atoned for your Witchcraft and Wizardry. The security of your soul in the gilded mansions of heaven is of the utmost importance.

You guessed rightly. The disaster was of my own making.

I was out with mates at a club, when my drunken eyes descended on this angel! I descended on her like a man possessed. I was like, "What's your name? what's your number? I don't know who you came with, but you're leaving with me." We dashed back to mine in a haze of lust, and made the beast with many backs.

In the morning, I chucked the adventure off to manly exuberance and forgot all about it. It took a month before the loathsome event bit me in the arse. How it bit me I dare not say, but what should I do?

Yours in depression and anxiety,
Gil

Dear Gil the master of foolishness,

It is incredibly irresponsible of you to leave the story half finished. I was using it as light reading while I dropped a juggernaut of a shit in the toilet. It was the only thing that kept me from wailing like a dying pig. Now, the people in my office are looking at me funny and suggesting that I eat more vegetables to lubricate my systems.

I will attempt to help you. My African sensibilities give me a slight edge when apologising. You must alert your parents about the situation and show up with them at her doorstep. When she answers the door all of you must prostrate yourselves at her feet and give apologies so profound that the very skies part to bless you.

Yours should be something like this:

Soph, Babe, you're the light of my world. Without you everything is meaningless, colourless and ultimately pointless. I cannot, no I will not persist another day if I haven't got you. I was a complete idiot that night for not only did I get more drunk than a man should ever get, I ravaged another who was not you. In my defense, I was so drunk that I believed she was you.

That, I think will be enough to undo the harm you have done.

Yours in Youthful Optimism,
Afam

Dear Afam the sufferer of numerous ailments of the brain,

I am at least 90% sure that you are an idiot. What sort of advice is that? "I thought she was you?" What sort of villain would say that? I'm not nearly as treacherous as that. I shall send her some flowers, daisies and profess my undying love. Roses are really much ado about nothing. Only the unimaginative would send a girl the same flowers that every woman on the planet is given at least once in a reasonable life.

I'll end the note with something like this, "If you are not too long, I will wait for you forever." It's an Oscar Wilde quote. If she doesn't come to a decision quickly I'll return to the wilderness of singledom and ride every pony that will have me.

Your stupid plan snapped me out of my phunk, and returned me to sanity. Am I not Ogilvy the dashing? I have my whole life ahead of me, and I have the benefit of being both beautiful and good. If she refuses me I shall find another in a heartbeat.

You really should eat more vegetables. If you don't your journalism will take you to some great wilderness and they'll have to force an elephant to give you an enema, after which you'll get a bacterial infection and die.

Many thanks,
Gil

Dear Ogilvy,

Any type of love life that you like, have it! Come back to me when you've got real problems.

Love,
Afam. 

Dear Afam,

You are quite frankly a failure of a friend. It is often said that absence does wonders for the heart, and that a lack of communication isn't necessarily equal to the death of a relationship, but five months without so much as a tweet is nothing but negligent. The frequency with which I speak to you is perfectly disgraceful. It's almost as bad as the frequency with which you speak to me.

What's been going on with you? Are you seeing anyone? Also, I'm still in possession of the pocket flask you made great use of the last time I saw you in the flesh. We were at some infernal dinner and you were convinced that its repeated use was the cure for your bad temper that night, only that it wasn't. I don't mind keeping it. In your absence it's become my greatest companion and temptation. Everytime I think about it I wonder why I'm neither drunk nor on my way there. It's the worst sort of peer pressure because I haven't the good fortune to be delusional enough to believe that the pressure is even remotely external. You must either rid me of the hellish thing or celebrate my budding alcoholism.

Walk the Moon is great,
Gil

Dear Ogilvy,

I remember the night well. It was the squash dinner, and while I had a great time at the expense of everyone else in attendance, I also discovered that whiskey is not to be mixed with Vindaloos. My trip to the toilet the following morning was both explosive and excruciating. I apologise for any discomfort I caused as a result of subsequent issues with your plumbing. And many thanks for taking me home that night. If you hadn't, I'm quite sure that I would have waged battle with the nearest dustbin. As for the pocket flask, send it to me by return of post. As things stand I'm better equipped to deal with its allure than you are. And it's only in this fashion that we'll achieve true brotherhood. We'll be the brotherhood of the traveling flask.

I'll admit to a certain lack of diligence with regards to our affairs, but it is exceedingly vulgar to berate me like a judge when you are not in fact a judge. Be that as it may, I shall answer all your questions as the third item of our friendship contract requires (If you are so fortunate as to be asked a question by Gil the big ideal, you must answer in great detail, leaving absolutely nothing out).

I haven't been up to much. My inactivity can be blamed on a recent bout of anthropophobia and agoraphobia coupled with sprinkling of the flu and an onslaught of malaria. I also withdrew a bit so that I could write the GRE's without being embarrassed by my lack of proficiency. If you're looking to do that exam, I'll recommend being sicker than a bitch in heat. Nothing clears the mind like illness. You either focus on your own mortality or the task at hand, and it shouldn't surprise you that I chose the latter and not the former.

Am I seeing anyone? This is a question for the gods. After languishing in the sea of my own singleness, I decided that it was time to change. As a maverick, I didn't want to do things the traditional way so I joined Tinder, and it's been revolutionary. I am now convinced that I am not good looking enough to not be single. The number of people that swipe right on me is astonishingly low, and even when I think I'm settling, the people I think I'm settling for still don't find me attractive. And I've been out of the game so long that my game has quite literally turned to shit. Look at these conversations Gil! Look at them!



I have no words for how bad they are. I only hope that a good talking to from you will set my head straight, and forcefully remove the rust from my game. But that's enough about me. How about you? The last time I checked you were getting married. Have you eloped yet?

ps. We talk when we're supposed to; not a moment before and not a moment after.

Always in this twilight,
Afam

Dear Afam,

I don't think it's that bad actually. You're displaying some wit, some humour and trace amounts of charm. Furthermore you've avoided some of the more terrifying tinder tropes. You haven't yet started a conversation with the completely debauched, "Do you want to fuck?" Don't lose sight of the tail so easily. Keep the banter coming, and you'll get more than you would with just a pretty face. What's your Tinder picture? You're not at at all bad looking, so I'm a bit surprised that you're not getting swiped at like a drowning man clutches at straws, but knowing you, you've chosen a picture where you look like a sex offender or a cannibal.

I'm no longer engaged. I have no idea what I was thinking. I believed that I'd stumbled on that thing we call love at first sight. I proposed after a week, and found that I had thrown my hand in with a gorgon. I've never met a gorgon but if the mythical monster does exist, I'm certain that she's a direct descendant. In our second week together would you believe that she made me a sandwich with pickles? The inclusion of the pickles convinced me that if I eloped with her I'd end up dead. I terminated our relations then and there. I think this may have something to do with why I've become so attached to your pocket flask. When I send it back to you I shall go back on the hunt. I'll do things the right way this time. 50 dates before I invite her over, 2 years before I let her make me a sandwich. 3 holidays before I refer to us as a thing, and 6 years before I let her do my laundry. My adventures in the world of womandom have shown me that we can never be too careful lest we get forcefed pickles and turn to the toilet only to find that it's been invaded by baskets of potpourri.

Don't stay up all night to get lucky. You'll be tired in the morning.
Gil.

Dear Gil,

You did the right thing. Anyone that would feed you pickles clearly doesn't have your best interests at heart. 

How do I introduce Ogilvy to the lot of you. He was my best friend when I was at school, and this meant everything to me at the time. At the moment we enjoy, a comfortable, but slightly formal relationship which I quite like. There's duty and discipline in it. Our last conversation's below.
________________________________

Dear Afam,

How's your year of National Youth service going? I hope you're actually doing it, not slacking off, and bribing people to make up for your chronic episodes of "I can't be asked, so therefore, I cannot... I cannot... I cannot... I cannot actually be fucked to do this." One of the things you'll find as you age, is that sometimes, you're going to have to do things you don't actually want to do so that you can get to do the things you do want to do. I think that's enough hard bad man, I'm the baddest most sorted king pin twenty something year old out there talk because I really don't know what I'm doing with myself either. I'm sorted on paper, but do I feel sorted? I don't know. What's your address by the way?

Love,
Gil

Dear Gil,

It's going. It's as you thought, I have become infected with a chronic case of I cannot... I absolutely cannot... be arsed, so therefore, I cannot... I cannot... I absolutely cannot... string together a line of fucks to give about the entire year so far. Living in Lagos is like sipping a cup of apathy slowly, you can only watch as the fucks you give bleed out of you. Anyway, don't worry about me. I'll sort myself out, even if it does mean giving my NYSC mummy envelopes with Happy World Environment Day scribbled across them every month, but let's move on from that.

What do you want with my address? Behave yourself. Some stereotypes about Africa, and Nigeria are actually true. Do not send me anything in the post you blithering idiot, it shall never get here. Say whatever you want to say in an email, or record yourself on snapchat. I've been having nice long conversations with readers on snapchat. It's really quite remarkable. There's one reader who bugs me all the time. "Afam, when's the next blog coming out." "Afam, I'm bored. Entertain me." "Afam, send me the unfinished manuscript for that book you've been writing. " He's read everything! I like him. He's a good chap. His name's ND. You might know him.

Afam.

Dear Afam,

I hear you, but it's gone in one eye and out the other (that's because I read the email you see?). I demand that you furnish me with your address at once. And no, you are not allowed to compartmentalise this message and stow it in the deep recesses of your brain. If you wait a month before you reply me, I will create an instagram account called why we hate Afam. Everybody loves a little shade in life, and as far as I can see you've been denied your fair share.

I'm really pleased to hear that you've got a reader that you snapchat with. I'm even more pleased to hear that you talk to a reader that you do not know more often than you talk to me, your best friend. I'm only being bratty. I know we talk when it's time to talk, not one moment before, and certainly not a moment after. It's magic.

And... I've got news. I'm getting married.

Love,
Gil

Dear Gil,

GO AWAY.

Love,
Afam

Stupid Afam,

Don't be a jealous prick. Weren't you with someone a little while ago?

Gil.

Gil,

It ended.

Afam

ps.

Don't talk to me for a week.


Happy Days...
Jealous Afam..

For those of you who are new, Ogilvy is my dearest friend from school. He is so dear to me that I would gladly throw out the word friend and call him brother. It would take aeons to list his merits but only a second to list his one demerit. Ogilvy is ridiculously unlucky in love. He often writes to me in times of need, seeking my counsel on the matters of his heart.

He first wrote to me in two summers ago complaining about a summer fling that was more summer than fling. That is to say that no flinging of any sort occurred during his summer.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/notes-on-summer-fings-lessons-from.html

He wrote me again last summer and asked for my tuition on the preparation of dodo (fried plantain) for the champion of his heart at the time.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/notes-on-summer-flings-importance-of.html

Then he emailed me in Winter and asked me to help him revive the waning affections of Coks, the Rosalie of my primary school years after he took her to see Brave. Yes, Brave, the pixar animated movie about a 16 year old girl.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/notes-on-winter-love-lessons-from-brave.html

And he emailed me in February, telling me of his dealings with unrequited love.
http://www.theramblingsofamadman-afam.com/2012/11/notes-on-winter-love-lessons-from-brave.html


Dear Ogilvy,

Hello. Hello. I know you said I shouldn't talk to you for a while, but there's a problem, I don't really know how long a while is. As a result of this, I've waited 8 months before I speaking to you again, lest I speak to you too soon. How the devil are you? I've missed you. It's a little gay of me, but it's true, I have. Fill me in on all that's happened since February or break up with me. I can't pine for a buddy who isn't there. Although it would be a shame if it was a ho that ended our time as bros.

Talk to me,
Afam

___________________________________________________________________________

FAm,
Ah Broseph! Thanks for getting in touch. It's been forever! I'm sorry I haven't been in touch. I really wanted to tell you how I was getting on, but my pride wouldn't let me. You had to be the one to come begging with your tail between your legs. You had to be at my mercy. I imagined that it would be a welcome change as you've always held the power in our relationship. I'm always the one coming to you for advice. It's never been the other way around.

Anyway, now that all that unpleasantness is behind us, I've got lots to tell.

Thanks for being the better man,
Gil

___________________________________________________________________________

Gil,

Then tell me about it. You know I live vicariously through you. It's a little sad, but it is what it is. We can't all be knightly romantic heroes, saving damsels from imagined distress and what not. I think I might be ready for the monastic life. I can't say why, but my heart doesn't beat like that anymore. Maybe your tales of enthusiastic failure will reawaken the dead pools of affection that lurk within?

Keen bean,
Fam

___________________________________________________________________________

Fam,

I'm sorry but I can't help you there. After I got slapped with that restraining order, I decided that a change in attitudes was in order. I came to the conclusion that being Ogilvy the lover was altogether unsuitable for my emotional and mental well being. I thought to try my hand at being Ogilvy the bad boy, the man whore, the slut.

By the way slut's a very nice word. There's something about the way it rolls off the tongue that's so exotic, and decadent. Let it roll off your tongue... S-L-U-T. It's infinitely better than all it's synonyms! I do not think I would mind if my christian name were Slut. I'm tired of being Ogilvy.

Slutty Gil.

____________________________________________________________________________

Slutty Gil,

Slut... I quite agree. It's a terrific word. There's something so irresistibly filthy about it. The question is, is it a better word than whore? There's something exceptionally special about whore. I just can't put my finger on it.

So how's being sexually loose and commitment free?

Judgy Fam.

___________________________________________________________________________

Judgy Fam,

I can't put my finger on it makes a pathetic argument. You're better than that. It's going surprisingly well actually. It's going so well that I can't quite believe my good fortune. It's no news that my foray into the world of women, has left me friendzoned, jilted and ignored more times than I care to mention, but all that changed when I made it clear that I was only interested in one thing.

Take today for instance. I had been on a sexual cleanse for about a month, and I decided that today was the day that I would end it. I made the necessary calls and invited her round at noon. I had a six hour window, and I wasn't going to waste it. I had such grand plans for our time together. But like most things looked forward to, I was sorely disappointed.

After telling me how ready she was to get the D, take the D, receive the D and be dominated by the D, when the time came to do all of those things, she was wailing like a banshee, complaining that she was too tight. What the hell did she mean by too tight? After giving me a whole notebook's worth of digital foreplay, she had the balls to complain? I didn't indulge her. I was on a mission. I said to her, "If you can't take it, then you should probably leave. Don't talk a big game if you can't deliver." She sulked all the way to her car, but I didn't care. I was already organising the next one. She came over thirty minutes after the one before her left. I didn't have time for semantics. I was so keen to break my fast that I may have neglected to warm her up properly if you know what I mean. When it was time for the thrusting, she was too dry so I sent her home too.

One of the things that a man must learn, is when to give up. I'll have to get rid of my blue balls before they become unbearable. I think today was an omen. I think I need to return to my monogamous ways, or my aspiring monogamous ways. God knows I never actually made it that far. Maybe things will be different this time.

#FeelingDepressed
Gil
____________________________________________________________________________


Depressed Gil,

I'm in halves about this. On the one hand I want to congratulate you on being so pimping. On the other, I want to clout you for being so damn callous. You shouldn't treat your women so poorly.

But I'm sure they're still calling you, trying to organise another session. I think you should keep your balls blue. They'll serve as some sort of self flagellation. I think that'll be penance enough. You need to give up these crazy ass bitches (C.A.Bs). And don't go defending them. Any girl that still talks to you after you did what you did is bonkers.

Stunned Afam
___________________________________________________________________________

Stunned Afam,

You have the right of it, but you have forgotten that I am nothing if not a Crazy Ass White Person (CAWP). Their crazy can't possibly surpass mine. All I have to do is go off my meds. But I'll keep those cards close to my chest. I will settle down soon I think. With any luck I won't lose my appeal the moment I clean up my act.

Gil.
__________________________________________________________________________

Gil

I don't think you will. You seem different. As long as you remember that you have value, you'll be fine. Remember that a man that who does nothing but seek out another for whatever reason, makes it clear that he has nothing to offer. After all, if he did, he would at the very least be fending off demands for that quality. Always leave them wanting more. Too much of you kills your chances every time.

Afam.

For those of you who are new, Ogilvy is my dearest friend from school. He is so dear to me that I would gladly throw out the word friend and call him brother. It would take aeons to list his merits but only a second to list his one demerit. Ogilvy is ridiculously unlucky in love. He often writes to me in times of need, seeking my counsel on the matters of his heart.

He first wrote to me in two summers ago complaining about his summer fling that was more summer than fling. That is to say that no flinging of any sort occurred during his summer.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/notes-on-summer-fings-lessons-from.html

He wrote me again last summer and asked for my tuition on the preparation of dodo (fried plantain) for the champion of his heart at the time.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/notes-on-summer-flings-importance-of.html

Then he emailed me in Winter and asked me to help him revive the waning affections of Coks, the Rosalie of my primary school years after he took her to see Brave. Yes, Brave, the pixar animated movie about a 16 year old girl.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/notes-on-winter-love-lessons-from-brave.html


Dear Afam,

Did I ever tell you of the story of how I lost my virginity? I know that a man calling itself a virgin is something akin to a dog calling himself a cat but you get my meaning. I don't think I told you of how I was ruined by one for all.

Gil



Dear Ogilvy,

No you did not. I was under the impression that you were thrust into the arms of piety and propriety by your apparent and unbelievable lack of anything closely resembling the thing we have all come to call game.

Love,
Afam



Dear Afam,

You wound me. My game exists purely because of the common misconception that I have no game. I may never be smooth or suave. I will probably never deliver that perverted pick up line with so much confidence that the 10 in the bar goes home with me, but I am perfectly capable of delivering 50 pick up lines so badly that she wets herself in hysterics and has no choice but to come home with me.

In spite of your hurtful remark, I'll tell you.

I met Georgie before my first semester in university was done. I awoke after a night of complete decadence and debauchery to a facebook friend request from a beauty. I added her without second thought, such was the superiority of her facial features. She reminded me of the circumstances through which we had met, which I couldn't recall because I had been completely off my face at the time.
Apparently she was standing in line talking to a friend of hers when I tapped her. She ignored me for a while then she felt my hand on the nape of her neck tucking in an errant tag. She turned in disbelief and I said, "You aren't that fit. Sometimes there's a guy in the line who's just trying to be decent. If you're going to wear a dress with the tag in it so that you can return it later, you must at least have the good sense to conceal the tag properly." After that I pulled out a pen and wrote my name on her arm.
After a fairly long and interesting facebook conversation that lasted about four days, she invited me to hers for a movie.
We sat awkwardly for about 30 minutes watching or trying to watch Youth in Revolt. You know? The one with Michael Cera. Our fingers were touching, and we kept looking at each other when we thought the other wasn't looking. I got tired of playing the game of eye contact avoidance and turned all my attention to her, that I may sieze her lips with mine the next time she looked my way. When she did our faces seemed to gravitate to each other. Soon our foreheads were touching and the distance between our lips, reducing. The first kiss was sweet and brief. It stank of innocence and good intentions. I seized her bottom lip with my lips for a second and released her.
Everything that followed could have been  from a dream, or a dream of a dream. It should have been documented my Victor Hugo or Tolstoy or Dumas. It was apparent that she was more experienced than I. She hinted at what things I should do, where I should place my lips, where I should use my tongue, what should be scratched and what should be caressed with fragility. She was my piano and I her maestro. If she did not sing, I only had to play another note. So tuned in was I to her every need.

When we were done, we lay in bed talking of life, love and the future. I thought we would get married. I thought that this would be the start of the greatest romance. I didn't know then that I had caught a severe case of the virgin goggles that because she'd stolen my first experience so cruelly, I would so pedestialize it that no other could possibly reach it. In my world there was only she. I didn't know then that she was free spirited, that she would flee from anything resembling attachment. I was damned. She only had to call, and I would fly to be with her. She didn't call often, thrice in first year, twice in Second year. I deleted her number then because I was sure that as long as I had it i would keep pining for her. She was the moon to my wolf. no amount of howling would bring her closer.

After a year without seeing or speaking, I bumped into her in uni. We once again exchanged numbers, and within a week we had rekindled whatever it is that we had had. I played her like a grand symphony. I banged some keys like they needed the pounding of Thors hammer to make even the slightest sound, and some others I played like they were so brittle that if I didn't take care I would only get to play them once. I played the piece like it would be the last time I would ever play it or hear it but even after that I'm back to where I was, glancing at my phone every 5 minutes. Checking to see if she's read that wattsapp message and wondering if she'll reply before tomorrow. I am lost. No, lost is too kind. I am damned.


Hopelessly Damned,
Gil

 
Dear Ogilvy,

Believe it or not, this actually makes sense to me. The question is what do you want from me. Within that truly sappy narrative, you made no mention of what I could help you with. I am left to assume that you either have it under control, or you are quite happy with the state of things as they are. If you are comfortable being damned, I see no reason why you shouldn't be damned. I can only save you from yourself if you want to be saved.

Afam.


Dear Afam,

I need you. You must save me. The current state of affairs is too tragic for words. It's almost as wretched as Eponine's tale. If there is anyone capable of saving me it is you.

Praying for a Hero,
Gil.


Dear Ogilvy,

It pains me to tell you that the cure for your affliction is just as bad as the affliction itself. I wish I could tell you that you would be rid of it just as quickly as you got over all the others but that would be untrue. If only you'd come to me sooner. If only you hadn't let the wound fester and rot. But not to worry, I will fix you better than fix it Felix fixes that abominable apartment building.


I saw Wreck it Ralph the other day. I wish I'd done something more interesting, like lie naked in the cold and snapped off my toes as they blackened from frost bite.

I know that it would be nice to think about those 2.4 children, and that white picket fence but she is not the one, she will never be the one. However because you are surely constructing sonnets of love to her as we speak you'll probably ignore this golden nugget of advice. Instead I will give you the means to dominate and tame this nasty specimen of woman.

You're sadly unsuited for the specimen you described because you are too nice. To her your niceness is a price on her head. a price that she doesn't think that she is worth. As a result you must treat her as she treats herself. You must be wicked to her. Every word you send to her must be filled with hate and pain and vitriol. You must degrade her at any and every opportunity. To save yourself you must be a Villain.

Then you must show her your love by accompanying her everywhere she goes and waiting outside buildings for her. Only by showing her the full measure of your affection and angst will you be free of all the pain that she causes you daily.

Soldier On,
Afam.


Dear Afam,

I did as you recommended and she got a restraining order against me. Don't talk to me for a while.

Gil.




Happy Days,
Afam


ps. There really wasn't a better way to deal with it. Now Gil will be forced to move on to bigger better things or he will go to prison. As Gil is a man who is well acquainted with the advantages of self preservation, I look forward to a new email at the end of the month about a Sheila, a Leila, a Zeek or even a Sandra (God Forbid!)

Here's the last conversation I had with Gil: http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/notes-on-summer-flings-importance-of.html

Dearest Fam,

Fam, I'll be straight with you. I have found myself in quite the quagmire. This matter is more important than all other matters I have ever brought before you. It is quite literally a matter of life and death. If I do not win her, I cannot think of it. Imagining a future without her would be just as intolerable as the very future of which I speak. If you do not intervene I shall lose her! I love her so. I am fairly confident that I shall never love another. Even if I were to love another, I would rip my heart from my breast because that would be a sin and as the good Saint Paul says, if it causes you to sin cut it off.

You'll help me won't you?

Yours,
Ogilvy

Dear Gil,
...
...
Gil, before I say anything I think it is necessary to remind you of all your so called life threatening situations.

Ruby, Tina, Juliet,  Ophelia, Desmonda, Mariam, Neferet, Ellie, Emma, Georgie, Yeti, Moonface, Whale, Lady, Won-won, Deidre, Frog, Sam and Lia. Do I need to remind of what all these girls had in common? You swore that you would love them from then until the end of all time.

Please assume some semblance of decorum and common decency. Pull yourself together and stop being such a drama queen.

By the way what happened to Lia? Did you not serve her the food of champions, dodo (fried plantain)?

Love,
Afam.

P.s don't take the good saint Paul too seriously. If you did you would be without, a Penis, eyes, and hands... I think you might be tongueless too.


Dear Fam,

Thanks for your speedy reply. I think you might be right about the good Saint Paul and I. I doubt that the amputation of all my sinful body parts would stop my lechery. I am a fallen man.

About Lia, I really did love her, but while I was preparing the food of champions: dodo, Coks text me. You know Coks don't you? She's the colour of a pawpaw and she's really leggy. I think you liked her when you were 11. She asked me if I'd like to see a movie and I was like totes. Of course that banished all thoughts of Lia from my mind. My mind was too busy calculating the possibilities...


I decided that we would see a nice chickish movie, Brave (The Disney one where the protagonist is a 16 year old girl). I thought that the movie would warm her towards me considerably. I know it seems like a safe choice but do you remember what happened when I took Frog to see Zombie Land? The WORST! I was so undone by the horribleness of the date that I walked into a street light on the way home.

Anyway, we saw the movie alone, together. It was fairly romantic if I do say so myself. During the movie, love descended upon me and I was, I mean I am completely besotted with her. After the movie we both went home and texted for the rest of the day. The very next day conversation was stunted. It was then that I began to fear that I would lose her. I was balls deep in the pits of despair when I emailed you. Help me before she goes off me completely. Please!

Love Gil


Dear Ogilvy,

Oh dear! I think you've lost her already.

Don't worry I know a local girl here who's dying to meet you. She'll sort you out it's ninety-nine and three quarters percent guaranteed.

Love Fam

Ps. I think I might provide you with a script just in case. Let's maximise all the possibilities of success!

Happy Days,
Afam.

Fam,

Summer's come round again and I'm trying to rectify my errors from last year. I'm trying to remove that black mark against my name in the love department. You may or may not know that I have been chasing a particular female for some time now. Even while adventuring and Bunburying up and down town she was never far from my thoughts. When I played harpoon the whale (I recommend this game whole heartedly) she remained in my mind somewhere inbetween the harpoon and the whale. I try to remain professional and aloof when I'm around her, just like all the books say. I try to radiate the quiet confidence of Joe Black in the movie Meet Joe Black, I try to exude the charm of Hugh Grant, because that guys charm borders on twattishness. It's not right for a man to be so charming. Lastly, I try to embody the pretty boy looks of Chris Hemsworth, this is extremely difficult but I power through it somehow.

Whenever I'm around her I tighten the buttocks, push out the chest, suck in the tummy and assume a perplexed but cute, worried but strong, sexy but shy, pretty but deep, aloof but keen look on my face. Much to my surprise this has not worked. I have also tried wearing my man musk so that she's attracted to my pheromones, and various mating dances. These dances are often so complex and outstanding that after any display I am escorted off the dancefoor by burly men. This is undoubtedly to keep the hoards of females away from me. While there have been hoards of women, she has not been among them. I started to wonder what I was doing wrong, but then I found her twitter account through intense stalking.

She writes and I quote, "Dodo is the food of champions. It needs to be sweet and not soggy. No salt required". If I cannot dance my way into her heart then I shall cook my way there! Will you help me?

Later,
Ogilvy.


Gil,
I trust that this email finds you well. We will have to discuss some of the things you wrote... I fear that you may be overworking your facial muscles. While you are not at all bad looking currently, I'm fairly certain that if you continue with these exertions you will lose what little looks you do have. Having said that, I am quite pleased that you've come to me with this issue for I am fairly skilled in the frying of dodo.

Cut the plantain into neat slices and put them into a bowl. Heat a significant amount of oil in a frying pan. Here I'm working up the nerve to drop the plantain slices into the hot oil. This is a fairly risky task because chances are that the oil will react most violently to the introduction of the plantain slices and burn you.

Stretch out your arm, tilt the bowl and tense your quads. The frying of plantain is an art. It requires all your body parts to work in perfect tandem.

The moment you empty the plantain slices into the hot oil, you scoot backwards. In this instance, i have scooted backwards so quickly that the very capable DSLR Canon Camera cannot focus in time to catch me.

I have just come to a stop. I quickly check myself for any damage.

I am a boss. I have escaped unscathed.

This incident needs to be celebrated by dancing the dodo dance. It's very much like the tap that dance I taught you at school. You get low, and pelvic thrust like there's no tomorrow. If done right, you will look like you're humping the oven. Don't worry about this, I'm pretty sure that the oven enjoys that sort of attention.

Now it's time to transfer the dodo to a plate. I was still high off the fact that I had not burned myself. I'm a boss aren't I? Yes, That is an apron. Aprons are important so that you can properly channel the chef that you admire. Mine's called Fregz, but yours is probably Gordon what's his face?

Dodo is best served with Corned beef sauce and a dash of ketchup. No, it's not burned. I just like my Dodo on the dark side.

I hope you get the girl this time buddy. You have endured untold levels of suffering at the hands of females. It's a wonder that you haven't become a Jesuit. We're all rooting for you. Bring this one home to the lads.

Take care,
Afam.


To the rest of you louts, Ogilvy's already on it like a bonnet. I think it's high time that you hopped to it too. You've got a little over a month till the end of summer and I know from experience that you can fit two or even three flings into this space. Don't go as high as four because too much fun is always and everywhere a bad thing.

Happy Days,
Afam.