You know, it rarely occurs to me to clarify what I have written on this here blog, not least because it’s delivered via the medium of loudhailer by a kraken who has had the discretion part of her brain damaged by inhaling vast quantities of Jaffa Cakes. From where I hit my keyboard, what I say and mean is as plain as Nigel Farage’s inability to attract anyone who isn’t male, white and middle aged. However, in the last couple of weeks I’ve been in receipt of the odd message accusing me of something so heinous that I’m not entirely sure that even I can bring myself to repeat it. No, I can’t. Really, no. What’s that, you say? Jaffa Cake? Oh go on then. It’s the accusation that I only say what I do to boost my blog stats.
I shit you not, after two years of authoring The Kraken Wakes (which amounts to 527 posts, roughly 400,000 words and 321 uses of the phrase cock-knobber) there are actually people out there who think I have put in all of this hard work simply to rack up 500 hits a day and 1836 twitter followers. That’s right, in a desperate effort to make myself known to the world – because my fifteen years as a journalist just didn’t cut it – I am now apparently doing nothing but courting controversy like a cultural pervert sticking his todger through a hole in a school fence. The faux-brains behind these missives genuinely think that I have somehow pulled these posts out of my arse just to get noticed. For the love of fuck, if I wanted to get noticed there’d have to be better ways of doing it than bashing out 800 words on anti-rape pants with one hand while bathing Kraken Junior and cooking dinner with my right foot.
So for the avoidance of doubt this is what you need to know: I believe in every word I write. Every sweary, angsty, fevered, pissy, acidic word. In fact the only time I ever write for this blog is when I am angry so far beyond reason that it’s the only thing standing betwixt me and a sectioning order. Seriously, I have tried writing angry posts when I am anything but angry and it’s impossible. I can’t get past the first sentence without sounding as if my spleen has been replaced with jam and sticks of rock. So the very notion that I write the way I do just to budge up my numbers is like accusing the author of a cancer blog of refusing chemo just so they can keep writing about cell counts.
So why in the fuck is it so hard for some readers to understand that I get angry and therefore my blog is about that anger? Forgive me for spelling this out but I only write about what pisses me off in the way that other bloggers only write about eyeliner or their favourite pieces of taxidermy. I assume that these readers also berate TMZ for not including advice on veruccas. Believe me, if this blog was entitled The Kraken Prances Merrily Through Poppy Fields, I’d only write about the things that make me sweat droplets of pure delight. It’s not, though. It’s called The Kraken Wakes and the strapline is “Forming a black hole of fury so you don’t have to”. It would genuinely help if some of these foaming nad-crackers would think while they read.
More than that, when I started this blog I genuinely thought that it would be a case of me pissing my thoughts into the cyber equivalent of a toilet bowl before shaking off the drips. The thought that anyone would read was freakish not least because I treat my blog like an online therapist. I get angry. I write about it. I feel better. I get such joy from voicing my random rage that if I got one reader a month I’d be chuffed to shit. Fact is that somehow I have gathered a loyal and burgeoning gang of kraken lovers who repeatedly thank me for saying what they cannot or dare not or for simply putting into words what has irritated them for large tracts of their lives. Fuck knows where these glorious and wonderful creatures have come from but if they want to wade in my rage too they are more than welcome.
Anyway, after being shortlisted for several blogging awards last year and being currently shortlisted for the Brilliance in Blogging Awards ‘Laugh’ category (vote here!) either I really am passionately writing about how I feel or I’m faking it to such an extent that I’ve fooled the blogging community into thinking I’m a real human as opposed to an algorithm that repeatedly churns out the phrases “bell-tugger”, “stool water” and “arse-handle”.
And you know what? I adore being angry. I get off on it. Not only does it help make me feel alive (not bad for a kraken whose depression made her want to die) but it reminds me of who I am, what I stand for and what I am willing to do to achieve my goals. I know, I know, that makes me sound like hat-shagging, jaw-shoving, earnestly finger-clicking Bonio but that’s as sure as shit better than having so few opinions that what comes from my mind has the same consistency as tube fed gruel. Perhaps that’s why the courting controversy argument only comes from those people who lack the wherewithal to form decent arguments about why I’m wrong to hate the term ‘making love’, despise the pinkification of the world or rail against the continuing abhorrence that is The Sun’s page 3.
Finally, if I sound fevered right now it’s not because I am faking it, it’s because I am – guess what? – fevered and that’s the way I intend to stay. Even better that’s the way I intend to write and to keep on writing. One of the things this world needs is more political, cultural, social and female agitation and I don’t intend to disappoint it. If there are any non-kraken lovers out there who prefer the world to wash over them I don’t expect them to linger here not leasts because the ITV website is thataway. Until then I, The Kraken, is wide awake and yes, I’m still forming that black hole of fury.