Having argued the case against going out, it seems fitting that the case for (and against) staying in is examined.

The case for
Having just got back from the shops near where I work, I am quite wet, having been caught in a bit of a nasty downpour. All I wanted was a Poppy; in the end, I found that the hospital volunteers on the front desk had some. Tsk.

Therefore, the first piece of evidence to support staying in is: the weather. The weather is something that should just be something that goes unnoticed around you, but in the UK, it interferes too much with just about everything and can never be relied on for anything. Staying in protects us from the elements and this is a good thing.

Familiarity is a wonderful thing; being comfortable in your surroundings is essential for relaxing. If the telly is your bag, you can watch what you want, when you want to. You choose the music that you listen to, the food that you eat. You don’t sit in fear and discomfort as your guts play russian roulette with you when you trump: you need a poo, you go for a poo and hang the consequences, but there’s no danger or embarrassment from the smell or noise should your arse explode.

Coffee, homeground. You like your coffee the way you like it and you can have it exactly that way at home. You’re in charge of refreshments and snacks and you know that you won’t have to suffer crap pop and rubbish crisps that other cheapskates buy in and leave to go flat or stale. Such people only generally put beer and white wine in the fridge, pop is relegated to the back of a dusty cupboard.

Temperature tantrums. Some people don’t like having their central heating on and their houses are freezing. It’s not quite the done thing to take several layers of clothing with you when you go to visit somebody for an evening. Staying in, you can crank the heating up to above 8°C, or put on as many jumpers as you need to.

The case against
Shutting yourself away from the world and limiting all interaction with peers to workplace conversations can result in a person going mental. Isolation from society warps a person’s mind as the people “outside” become a single, faceless, parasitic entity: “That lot of lazy bastard dolescum”. Populations in entire towns and cities become dehumanised and people become a worthless enemy.

Or that’s what I’ve heard at least.

You stay in, but you withdraw from your family: you’re not interested in what they watch on the TV and everything else is a mither. Shut away in your study, you surf the internet and think of things to make your life better. You simply cannot survive without the very latest PDA or iRiver. You become an Amazon whore. So what if you spend hundreds of pounds each month, buying junk off the internet? Some people spend that much on a night out and at least you’re not rotting your liver!

How are you ever going to meet that special someone if you never leave the house? They’re not going to e-mail themselves to you! Staying in is fine if you’re happy staying single.

Finally, you have no chance avoiding the begging telephone calls from your old universities’ alumni fund volunteers. Staying in last night cost me £20 for the University of Warwick and no doubt I’ll be getting hassled from Leeds soon too. Grrrrr, I never got any scholarships.

Summing up
Despite certain negatives, the advantages of staying in far outweigh the disadvantages. Just think, if I was at home at this very moment, I’d be able to go to the toilet to relieve the terrible discomfort I’m currently experiencing as my colon conducts itself in a symphony of dirty protest. I fear I may be pissing through my arse come my next toilet visit.

Staying in comes out on top every time.

Coming up
Yes or no… Slanging match… The hunt for Red Panda… Cakesniffer in offline horror!

“Some call it theatre and education, I call it, AIDS in a van”

It’s weird being a social cripple. You spend your life convincing yourself that going out is a BAD thing; getting quite worked up about things as the event approaches, wondering whether a convenient bolt of lightning might strike you down to give you an excuse not to go.

The problem with going out is that you leave your familiar surroundings behind you. Apart from your own home, there are very few places where you’d feel able to have a poo – I only have two “safe houses” for this activity and this is quite a problem with my toilet obsession.

When out with people, you feel forced to converse with them. What about, for fuck’s sake? There are certain no-go subjects: religion; politics; other people’s kids; holidays; home improvements.

So the conversation drifts into the latest goings on on the TV:

Them “What programmes do you like watching, Tina?”

Me “I don’t really watch the telly, I don’t like it much.”

Them “So what do you do during the evening?”

Me “Piss about on the internet, go to the gym when I’m not too knackered…”

Them “Really, what do you do on the internet for an entire evening?”

Me “I have this weblog where I write about hating going out with colleagues because I don’t have anything much to say to them and I don’t want them to know anything about me….”

Them “Really???? Is that really true?”

Me “No, I’m kidding! I just download porn.”

Them “Hah-hah-hah – you had us going there for a minute! I thought you were one of those weirdos with an online journal. What sad fucks they all are, writing about work, their families and CATS! They always write about cats, the sad cunts.”

Me “Yeah, cats. As if!!”

Fuckers.

So I tend to direct any conversation towards the safe (food) or the surreal (my food preferences), or better still, just get on with my food and speak only when spoken to avoiding certain topics of conversation completely (relationships).

Going out and not drinking is not much fun, especially when the conversation turns to why I don’t drink. Are people thick? Here’s a tip: if somebody tells you they don’t drink, you don’t need to ask “What, ever?” and you should NEVER follow this up with “Why’s that then?”. The reasons for this are:

a) People sometimes don’t drink for religious reasons and first rule of going out is: Never talk about religion.

b) Other people who don’t drink may well be reformed alcoholics and it’s really not fair to pry into that sort of thing. It makes things very uncomfortable since the reformed alcoholic knows that they can’t fall back on “Because I’m a methodist” because that would be in breach of Rule 1. They then have to make up some shit story about, “Oh I just got out of the habit of it and now I don’t bother at all. No I CAN’T HAVE TIRAMISU FOR PUDDING!!!”.

Chain reaction
A-KICK-two, three, four-STEP-two, three, four

Ever seen how women at weddings (and similar dire, torturous functions) dance to Chain Reaction, Uptown Girl and Simply the Best? Don’t you ever wish you had an AK-47?

Of course, here in the UK, weddings are usually finished off with the bride and groom being surrounded by a crowd drunken, vol-au-vent-overdosed wedding guests who encircle them while singing along to the Tina Turner classic. With hands held and arms raised, the swaying crowd descends into the Hokey Cokey. The result is literally “Murder on the dancefloor, but you’d better not kill the groom“, the happy couple are left on the verge of death under a pile of middle-aged, sequin-clad women and drunken uncles with ties wrapped around their heads.

Thank you Coldearth for reminding how much I detest these happy occasions, although the sausages on sticks and chicken drumsticks are usually pretty good.

His stillness was total. The epitome of comfort, Max Mousesniffer slept as he had for the previous three hours; the twitching of an ear and the odd grunt, the only sign of life.

It was hard, being eleven and carrying the mantel of Best Cat in the ENTIRE World, but he fulfilled his duty with great aplomb, maintaining his energy levels by sleeping for all but two hours of the day.

His waking was signalled by the opening of an eye. He perused the annoyance that had arrived: “Oh, it’s that mong, Otto. One-eyed fucker. Wish he’d piss off and stop acting such a dick.” With a stretch, a yawn and a scratch, Max Mousesniffer adjusted his position and returned to sleep, a spot of dribble suspended from his mouth.

…And so it begins. I think I’m going to start a new blog in the style of the diary of supreme feline being, Max Mousesniffer (the name was Herge’s idea).

It’d be great to know what our pets think of us. They probably think we’re all stupid: “What is it with getting up at the crack of dawn, getting yourself soaking wet, blasting your head with hot and noisy air and leaving the house for TEN hours a day when you could just stay in bed and get up to mither a bit of food from the Can Openers? People are idiots.”

They’re such creatures of habit though. You get up at 5.30 or 6am during the week and they’re impossible to move. Otto insists on sleeping next to me; it’s lovely having him cuddled up, but because one side of my bed is against a wall, I have to get past him to get out of bed. He’s like a sulky teenager if you try to shift him before 6.20am during the week, but if you’re not out of bed and getting his breakfast by 6.30 at the weekend, he comes mithering me to get up. He starts by trying to be subtle, sitting on the windowledge and looking through the gaps in the blind, then trying to get his entire head through the gaps to see what’s going on outside. This results in the shuffle…. bang… bang… bang… shuffle of cat stuck in venetian blind and venetian blind against window. When he gets bored of his squirrel tormentors, he jumps on the bed and starts to tap my harm – nice and soft at first, then followed by the subtle hint of claw… tap, tap, scratch. So you get up to feed him, and he leaves it anyway, but comes back to bed with you once he’s satisfied that you care about him. Little bastard.

It’s such a lovely thought knowing that while I’m sat here, knackered and so very tempted to shut the office door and put my head down for an hour, they’re all at home, curled up on comfy chairs and beds.

Is everybody coping with autumn as badly as I am? So very tired and fed up.