Edinburgh has been dreary today. Result, flat-based boredom. I ran so low on things to do I Googled myself.
Nothing.
My Facebook profile, this blog, then a stream of awkward-looking men pretending to be me.
I’m seriously not getting the search results credit my life to date deserves. I once scored the winner in the quarter-final of the Reg Vardy Used Cars and Spare-parts Trophy. Fuck all. Not even a match report.
There appears to be even less clamour to report on the night of two times with Mel Richards back in my uni days. I’m pretty sure browsers of the web deserve to hear that story. Just as much as my sexual prowess that evening deserves some online recognition.
Google is ignoring me. I’m used to being over-looked by people, that’s subjective. But Google has an algorithm, it’s ‘supposed’ to be scientific.
Google, let’s strike a deal. You throw me a bone where publicity is concerned. And, in return, you’ll forever be my engine of choice when searching for smut. I’ll obediently punch in the URLs into your search-bar, when both of us know full well that I’ve got the whole lot book-marked.
