Diary of a Teenage Murderer
Emlyn Hall
Diary of a Teenage Murderer
Emlyn Hall
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Copyright © 2015 by Emlyn Hall. All rights reserved.
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For JOM
Table of Contents
Diary of a teenage murderer
Me
January
February
March
April
Diary of a teenage murderer
Me
Dear diary, I appreciate that I didn’t do such a great job writing to you last year, so this year one of my resolutions is to write in you as often as I can. Last year I only managed to get to May I seem to remember (and I remember that being a little half - arsed too). Given that my only other New Year’s resolution is to reduce the immense vastness of my man breasts, I really have no excuses.
I suppose a good place to start is a few things about me (just in case I develop amnesia at some point during the year or have a massive head trauma). My name is Matthew Patterson, I have just turned 16 (12th December) and I am in the last year of my GCSEs (year 11). I go to Kingswood Community College in Worthing (Sussex) and live in Beacon Street (also in Worthing). Bloody hell, that’s a lot of brackets! (Might as well go for one more.)
I have a younger brother called Oliver who is seven and generally a pain in the ass – no sisters, thank god. My mum and dad are Alison and Patrick, my mum is a hairdresser (she has her own salon about five minutes from our house) and my dad works as an estate agent in Worthing, selling “Overpriced houses to idiots who can’t afford them!” to quote the slightly balding, middle-aged fella. Mum and Dad are generally a pain in the ass too.
I am an average student in school, I suppose. I can be a little lazy and only really work when I really have to. I do, however, enjoy writing poems and short stories, but surprisingly I’m a little bit crap at English, rarely scoring a C grade in exams. Everyone is agreed that I have ability, but the word ‘lazy’ and Matthew Patterson generally go hand in hand.
I am not particularly sporty or overly active, but I do attend karate classes once a week, which I think I enjoy. I seem to pick up injuries far too often though, which I definitely do not enjoy. It is a good stress reliever and gets me out of the house, doing something sort of constructive with my life. I have been going for about three years now and I think I’m getting pretty good. I gained my brown belt last summer and if all goes well and I can keep the injuries to a minimum, I should be able to go for my black belt in around a year and a half.
I’m still a virgin. Not that I am particularly bothered by this, but figured I would share this with you, dear diary, in the spirit of openness and sharing.
I am, however, likely to remain a virgin for a fair while as the recent large dose of festive cheer has left me with a distinct cleavage, which I am certain the female of the species do not find at all attractive.
That’s enough about me for now, I’m sure we will get to know each other more as the year goes on.
January
Sunday, January 1st
It’s New Year’s Day here in sunny Sussex and all is well. I have not had a particularly constructive day. I dug out the old PlayStation from the attic yesterday and pretty much managed about 12 hours of good old fashioned slobbing on it today: Tekken, Tomb Raider and Grand Theft Auto were the main sources of time wasting. Oliver came in and played for about half an hour until Mum called him down to go to a friend’s house for a ‘play date’. I am not too sure that I’m all that happy with him having a better social life than me, the little shit – but he definitely does. I do have friends, but they involve effort and I don’t think I really have it in me at the moment. Far easier to sit on my ass and wiggle my thumbs!
I’m generally quite lazy, but today has been monumentally pathetic, even by my standards. I am sure that it has something to do with the large amount of vodka and gin I consumed last night. My dad had a few of his boring estate agent chums over for New Year and Mum had invited a few overly chatty ladies from the salon. Needless to say they all managed to get completely smashed and I sneakily helped myself to copious shots. I can safely conclude that I have now experienced my first hangover. It’s a little bit like someone has just removed all of the water from your body and pumped up your brain with sewage so it doesn’t quite fit in your skull. Not nice.
Mum made tea at around six o’clock, a cooked dinner – well, an over-cooked dinner to be precise. My mum’s cooking is shocking! And as the years go by I am certain it is getting worse. Obviously it was Christmas Day last week, and she decided that she would do us a family fry-up for our festive breakfast. This was the rather unattractive breakfast menu on offer:
Sausages: charcoal
Bacon: identifiable only by dental records
Beans: like little evil orange balls of steel
Tomatoes (I didn’t have any!): they looked OK but smelt a little of smoked haddock that was grilled the night before – I’m not a big fan of haddock at the best of times, and certainly not for breakfast.
Eggs: surprisingly undercooked
Other Matter: I can only describe it as a ‘slimy organic mess’. I am assuming it was black pudding, but to be honest it could have been anything – again I opted out
Thankfully my dad cooked the Christmas dinner, so at least that was semi edible, in comparison to Mum he’s like the head chef at the Savoy.
I think tomorrow I will leave the house and head into town. I have £165 of Christmas money to spend and there is a second-hand Sony PS Vita with my name on it in the Cash Converter shop. It’s not so much a second-hand shop, but more of a place where stolen goods end up. Poor people or those on drugs, rob stuff and take it there to sell. I bet the poor junkie that took in the PS Vita got about £5 for it and they have it on sale for £85 for the console and a free game.
During the evening, my mum insisted that we all get together in the living room and play some family games. Not the best idea, given how dysfunctional my family is most of the time. The evening progressed as follows:
Charades: started well, Mum did a great display of The Matrix (you could definitely tell that she used to be good at gymnastics). Nobody got Dad’s attempt at Dirty Dancing, which was basically just him grinding the air in a rather desperate way. Oliver managed to demonstrate a blinding version of The Lion King. Then we had to stop the game, as my mum found my first syllable for Titanic a little too suggestive for a family game. (Tit-an-ic, how else could you do it?) “Let’s play another game, before this gets any ruder!” said Mum. Perhaps if I hadn’t simulated licking the nipples on my imaginary giant breasts we would have played this game for slightly longer.
Frustration: Frustration basically involves pressing a dice in the centre of a game board and moving your counters around in an attempt to get them safely home. The fun (and arguments and violence) begins when you land on an opponent and send them back to the start of the board. This becomes particularly irritating when you are just about to get one of your counters safely home, and gets unbearably distressing when everyone gangs up on you. Our relaxed ‘family’ game ended prematurely with Oliver punching the ‘popomatic’ dice mechanism into a million pieces, throwing the board across the room while shouting, “I hate this pissing game. What a load of piss!” A superb outburst from the seven-year-old, which got him sen
t straight to bed. Ironically, I was laughing so much that I almost pissed myself.
Trivial Pursuit: minus Oliver, the three of us managed a reasonably civilised game of Trivial Pursuit. A boring game really as there are hardly any ways of effectively cheating.
Monopoly: the best game for cheating and the only game guaranteed to result in a family argument. The game followed the same pattern as the previous 1000 games of Monopoly we have played together as a family:
• I wind everyone up by attempting to short-change them during every transaction (which I still think is funny!).
• My mum (as she is too nice) is reduced to the status of a big issue seller within 10 minutes and gives all of her remaining money and cards to my dad to help him win.
• My dad attempted to steal property cards on at least two occasions.
• At least one argument about the rules surrounding getting out of jail, using a ‘get out of jail free card’ or whether you should receive rent while in jail. This sometimes reaches a point where my dad says, “Right, where the hell is the rule book! Let’s sort this out once and for all!” Needless to say, we have no rule book.
• My dad landing on one of my mega properties and declaring that he is too tired to carry on and that the game is a draw.
• Me, winding my dad
