First of all, any post that in any way references Heroes automatically deserves a mention of Kristen Bell, and a link to a hot picture (notice how I don’t plaster your screen with pictures of her hot, pliable, pale flesh… I have mastered the art of self-control, obviously…)

With that out of the way (and it’s hard to push Kristen to one side, I assure you, but I’ll do my best, for the 10 or 15 minutes it takes to write this), in case the Gods really are smiling down on me, and someone from the cast of Heroes happens to read this blog, I should probably mention that Hayden Panettiere is also very beautiful. I would turn neither of these fine blonde beauties down, given the opportunity. Everyone deserves a chance, after all. Save Seb’s libido, save the world, remember?

Anyway, I had my hair cut today. My sister’s a hairdresser for some snobby salon called ‘Rush‘, so I get funky and ‘modern’ hair cuts at a fraction of the price that other mere mortals might pay. It was only later, as I was looking through some photos of my new hair, that I looked remarkably like Sylar. Similar shape of face, fairly large eyebrows, and the same air of evil omnipotent malevolence (it’s true,  I’m evil). You wouldn’t leave me in the same room as your teenage, blonde daughter, would you?

Well, maybe if she’d misbehaved a little…

Recently Heroes has received a lot of bad press (although not as bad as Season 2, but we can blame the WGA writers’ strike for that!), with total viewing figures still way down on Season 1 (and losing out to some truly atrocious American programming). I thought the episodes we had before Christmas were fantastic! Hopefully the end of season 3 (volume 4) will continue the upwards curve of excitement and mystery that Heroes really thrives upon. And stay away from the time travel please — don’t writers understand that time-travel paradoxes drive intelligent people utterly nuts? “But he could go back in time again to fix it…!” that wouldn’t make for a great story though — Hiro only goes back in time when it best befits the burgeoning paradoxical plot.

The thing is, it’s still far greater than any other supernatural drama on TV (but BSG is starting again on Friday…) I guess after such an awesome first season it was only natural that people would grow a little tired after a poor second season and not tune into season 3. I guess season 4 will make or break the show, as long as we’re treated to an awesome finale to season 3!

I think people forget that downloadable TV episodes (and on-demand via a variety of services) bite into viewing shares significantly. I know of one TV distribution group that can shift over 500,000 copies of popular TV shows on a weekly basis (Lost, House, Heroes, etc.) Not all of these downloaders are from the USA, but some certainly are (most are Europeans that don’t want to wait for their local TV stations to syndicate the shows).

Anyway, while I’m on this fairly-geeky streak, I’m going to slip in one link on flying… cars! Yes, flying cars. No, they haven’t been injected with some kind of ‘Hero serum’ — they’re just flying cars. Slightly impractical? Maybe. Awesome? Hell yeah!

I’ll leave you with a picture of me, posing with two of my cute female friends.

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Tonight my cousin, one of the few people I am close enough to consider ‘a friend’ — and there aren’t many of those, as I’ve said before — called into question my sexuality.

Attractive but hairy and short cousin (definitely a Beta male, compared to my Alphaness): “Have you got a girlfriend yet?”
Seb: “No…”
Cousin: “I’m starting to seriously worry about your sexuality.”
Seb: “Just because I like musicals, and wear pink pashminas doesn’t necessarily make me gay. Just confident with my sexuality. There is a difference you know, big boy.”

I mean… what’s the rush? Sure, if you’re female, and you have some kind of ticking biological clock (why do girls run out of eggs, while men can continue churning out those wriggly little bad-boys well into their 80s?), there might be some urgency to the whole procreation thing; but as a man, am I meant to feel that every girl I meat (er, meet) is the partner I’ve so desperately been seeking to create my genetically-superior Uber Race? Okay, so I’m not blonde, nor am I blue-eyed, but Hitler didn’t necessarily get it right. Maybe that’s why he tried to exterminate my ancestors — he knew that from the ashes, a 6′5″ brutish beast would arise. A monstrous male so potent, so indomitable that he felt a world war was necessary to remove any chance of his blood line persisting –

But I digress. If my cousin is to be believed, I’m gay, so any chance of me making babies is pretty damn small. Sorry mum. Sorry ladies.

Now, I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of me on this blog. I don’t look gay. You’ve also heard me; do I sound gay?

So what’s the problem?

I certainly get on better with girls than boys, which is odd (and I don’t really know why — other than the things listed above, I don’t really share any common ‘female’ interests). Perhaps I’m lucky to have known a couple of girls that have appreciated geeky, cool things as much as me. They’re both in America now.

So, why do I get on better with girls? Why does my cousin think I’m gay? I think our long nights spent in tents, in the middle of cold, rainy fields, snuggling for warmth have biased him.  But no, seriously, it’s because… I’m girly. I’m camp.

I like musicals. I own around 200 recordings, from the 1950s through to today. I was listening to Guys & Dolls earlier, and then I sang along to Wicked a few hours later. My second trip to the USA was actually a 5 day jaunt to New York City where I somehow crammed 6 musicals in. Is that gay?

I have long hair (OK, it’s short right now, but it’s been long for years!) I have a pink hair brush too (a big, lovely flat brush that slides silkily through my hair). I have been known to tie my hair into pigtails, ponytails, pineapples. I remember the day I asked a girl in my class to show me how to braid my own hair (it never stayed in… apparently I didn’t do it tight enough). Does that make me gay?

I love the colour pink. I have pink shirts, pashminas, jackets, hats and scarfes. Whenever I go out somewhere, I think I should wear at least something that’s pink. But then look at this way: I love a girl that’s wearing pink. Baby pink, hot pink. Naked, with a pink blush covering her cheeks, her stomach. Luckily my ex-girlfriends have all been fans of pink too. Or quickly become fans…

Musical theatre is easier to defend — it’s complex music. I like complex. Simple is boring (this goes for people too!) The standard composition of verse, chorus, verse, chorus all but disappears in musical theatre; instead you are treated with themes and reprises. Characters can have their own chords, or even their own notes. The music itself tells the story of the moment, rather than the lyric — the lyric becomes more of a dialogue between the characters, often driving the story forward. Some musicals are almost entirely song-driven, so this is of course the case! The music leads you towards other planes of emotion — the sudden plunge of violins propelling you down a path, a sad path, a romantic path. An easy example here is ‘Something There‘ from Beauty & The Beast. The song is incredibly simple, and the lyric is mostly spoken, but the music is what really tells you what’s going on: they’re having fun, they’re rolling around in the snow, they’re getting more comfortable with each other, almost intimate. In just 2 minutes, you have a damn good idea of how these two (seemingly) disparate characters came together.

That’s what I like about musical theatre. It’s harder to listen to, and I certainly don’t get much work done while I have a musical playing, but there’s just so much more to appreciate! If you can see past the often overly-trite and simple story-telling from the lyrics, the songs take you on a ride, much like a very well engineered album by one of the greats (like Bruce Springsteen). Just try to remember that the lyrics have been shoe-horned into the music: the full orchestral music, as opposed to pop music where the lyric is what seperates a hit, from a truly great tune.

If you were wondering, before I move on from musicals, the title of this blog is a line from Avenue Q, a musical that you must ALL see! How can you resist a musical starring muppets? Muppets that have sex with each other, no less.

Now, I must remind you to cast your vote on the poll! You have until Tuesday. I would just like to thank the cruel bastards that voted for the Eastern Europe/Slavic option. Thanks. Don’t take advantage of my generosity next time!

I went with the going-slowly-insane route for the plot of Day 37, my new epic video diary/vlog. Who needs sanity anyway? It’s a totally overvalued trait… Right?

As always, it was rehearsed and recorded in about 45 minutes, so don’t expect fantastic production values. If you titter, just once, I’ll be happy. If you grin broadly, laugh out loud, or — dare I say it — gigglesnort, I’ll chalk it up as a massive victory for hairy, yeti-like British men the world over!

Enjoy!

Do I wash my hair, or do I keep it for another installment of Day 37?!

If you couldn’t see it very well in Chapter 2 of the vlog yesterday, here’s a well-lit version:

It’s a tough choice…  I guess I have until tonight to decide.

It is with great pride, and with almost no hesitance at all, I give to you the third — and final (for now!) — chapter of Day 37, a story that chronicles the poor plight of a Brit destined to spend all of eternity in a bunker, where no one can hear him fart.

There will be proper pictures of the half-beard to follow, don’t worry!

I know it sounds like a treatise of utmost, contemporary importance, but actually it’s just a recap of a few things that I’ve been up to in the past week, and what’s to come.

If you’re an avid Sebite (OK, perhaps it’s too early to go and deify myself) you’re probably well-aware of the what’s to follow… but it wouldn’t do any harm to read all about what’s hapnin’ (too much Marvin Gaye!) here on my blog.

First of all, I am still running a fantastic competition that everyone should enter. It’s free to enter, you just need to tell me what you’re most passionate about. It can be good, or bad, or ugly — just something that really gets your juices going. The prize is some original art which I will lovingly craft for you, using my awesome photographic skills, which you will be able to use for your blog, or avatar, or… for anything really! If you still didn’t enter, enter now.

Next, and probably most importantly, I made my debut on YouTube. Not one to pander to peer pressure, I decided that if I wanted to video blog with 3 weeks’ worth of facial hair… I damn well would! Forsaking my razor, shampoo and sanity, I filmed 3 chapters of a ground-breaking and revolutionary drama, Day 37. Follow a hairy, cross-dressing Brit as he slowly loses his sanity after falling into a subterranean bunker. If you missed the link, HERE’S ANOTHER (after watching chapter 1, check out 2 and 3… it gets better!) 200 people have watched me lose my sanity and don a leopard-print spandex shirt… don’t you want to see what all the fuss is about?

Penultimately, for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been taking part in a ‘photographic assignment’. This is basically a group of people that all take photos of a concept or phrase. ‘Watery Wednesday’, ‘Funny Friday’ (alliteration is sadly rife in such communities). There’s an awful lot of them, and they vary in quality a lot. Luckily the one I’ve been taking part in , Skywatch Friday is quite good! Not only do they garner bonus points for a distinct lack of alliteration and word play, my huge stocks of landscape photography tend to feature startling skies. I feel quite at home submitting my landscapes to be admired and pored over by discerning viewers (and, importantly, other landscape photographers!)

There have only been a few ‘That’s nice’ replies so far, which is good…!

I’ve also just taken up another, shared challenge: ‘Motoring Monday’ (…) I think it’s just going to be a one-off though, so I’ve created a new category on the blog for Motoring Monday, Skywatch Friday, and any other photographic assignments that I take part in. Feel free to visit it from time to time, if you want to see some pretty photos — they won’t turn up on the front page of the blog, or the normal RSS feed.

Finally, this week I regained my sex drive. Obviously that’s not really news that’ll stop presses, but it could become news, in the not-so-distant future! Hopefully not the ‘turn up on your doorstep 18 years later’ kind of news, either.

Oh, and because I love the picture just a bit too much (the picture, not myself, it’s an important distinction), I’m just going to stick it in again (!) for everyone to enjoy.

I still look like this, for anyone wondering. Walking around town today was interesting: those on the other side of the road all smiled at me; those I bumped into all quickly stepped away and begged Our Lord for protection…

Ever since I started writing here on this blog, I’ve been trying to work out the best way to tell you.

I alluded to it with numerous posts about musical theatre, and incredibly insightful articles on the inner workings of girls; something that a straight guy could never do, at least not with such alarming accuracy.

I even tried to tell you through my constant use, and love, of pink. My pink t-shirts, my pink scarves, my pink fluffy love-cuffs — I tried it all! Somehow… somehow you kept holding on, praying that it was all a ruse, a lie. He must be straight, surely…

I even thought it might’ve been the beard, so I shaved that off too.

I’ve told you tales of me waxing off my leg hair, and you’ve seen the photo of me with the handlebar moustache and hot-pink shoulder-padded jacket — that’s what I wear most weekends!

And then, of course, there were all those stories — the one about me turning a girl gay, or the next girl running off to become a priest. You didn’t actually think they were real? They were mere fabrications; figments of an imaginary world that I have lived in for the last decade. A world that I conjured into existence in an attempt to convince my family, my friends and myself that I’m straight.

Well, I’m not straight.

I’m gay.

Gay, like Boy George rolling up at Mardi Gras in a baby-pink Mini. Gay.

Time and time again I have sat down to dinner with my mother and father, unable to look them in the eye. ‘Got a girlfriend yet, Seb?’ followed by the words I’ve had to repeat each and every time, year after year: ‘No, not yet, Dad…’

Being a wimp — though, finally coming out must surely be the first step to getting some balls? — I thought I would post this entry, instead of telling my parents in person. They both read this blog.

So that’s that, then.

We have a family dinner tonight. I just know my father won’t be able to keep a straight face when dessert is served and I ask him to pass me the hot fudge sauce.

Now that I’ve stepped out of the closet, I’ve finally had a chance to look back INTO it. In doing so, I’ve had a shocking realisation: I have nothing to wear! All I have is that same outfit that I’ve worn on the rare occasion that I’ve been home alone, or to one of those  ‘Not-Straight’ nights at university.

So with the weather was nice, I thought it would be a good idea if I had a quick look around the shops for some clothing that states, in no uncertain terms, that I’m gay.

So far all I’ve found is this hot baby-blue jacket. Good idea? Bad idea? I think it accentuates my eyes, and my cheeky personality, but I need advice if I’m to succeed with this rather late-life change of plans

I’ll keep looking for more, but truth be told, I don’t really know what to buy. Does anyone have some shop names (or links?) that specialise in gay clothing? Or do I just buy all of the bright shades, some suspenders, and gel my hair into a wild shape?

Is this the stage where I have to decide if I’ll be a bear — one of those bearded, butch types — or a queen? Is there something inbetween? I really should have done some more research before I came out.

This continues on from my brief introduction to Poland, which actually turned into a bit of a history lesson, oops. I’d been invited to Poland for a weekend of excess: food, women, alcohol and video games. It would soon be apparent though that Polish food is a bit shit, and their women are veritable cesspits of disease and damnation.  At least the video games and alcohol were OK. I’ve scattered a few random photos of mine from Poland throughout this entry, don’t try to make sense of them — they’re completely unrelated, but pretty!

When I’d boarded the plane in England it had been sunny, warm, breezy. I’d been promised lovely weather — continential Europe, when it gets warm, gets really warm. I’d been promised a lot of things actually and the weather was going to be the first of many broken promises. The door to the plane opened with a hiss as the pressure dropped instantly. Snow. Frackin’ snow blew into the cabin and into our faces. We’d been promised sun and warmth! If we wanted precipitation, we’d have stayed in England.

Mike met me after I’d collected my bags. ‘I thought you’d sound more British.’

Seriously, do I really not sound British? 24 years — a quarter century, next week — of speaking English. The Queen’s English. And a Canadian, a fellow member of my Queen’s Commonwealth said I don’t sound British?! Not one to punch my host in the face — always better to do that on the way back to the airport, after they’ve kept a roof over your head — I let it lie. Britishness is in the heart anyway, right? In the crumpet-shaped heart…

We headed outside to his car, trudging through a few inches of sludgy grey snow. After slighting my accent, I made sure he carried my bag — it’s good to remind the colonials who still rules the Commonwealth roost. His car was a race-tuned BMW M3 (a really fast car). My face cracked into a grin. ‘I haven’t got around to putting winter tires on the car yet, Seb… so it might be quite a wild ride back to my place.’

‘We hadn’t anticipated quite so much snow…’ REALLY?

So we skidded and careened our way along the crappy Polish highways in an automotive example of Brownian motion. Mike’s car was pretty crappy too. The dash kept falling to pieces, and the rubber seals around the doors ‘needed to be fixed, but last time I sent it to the mechanic, they kept the car for 8 weeks without fixing it.’ Poland is not a highly functional country. It’s drab and grey. Driving through the slippery streets of Gdansk, we turned onto the road leading to Mike’s flat. Street after street of poorly-maintained concrete apartment blocks. They had been painted once, just after being built, back in the 60s — there were traces of pinks and greens and baby blues — but since then they’d just been left to dilapidate and wallow in their own crappiness. Gdansk was probably quite pretty once, but not today.

Fortunately, Gdansk belongs to the Tricity of Gdansk, Gdynia and Sopot — the latter two being both a lot more charming then Gdansk and not quite so… drab. Sopot is where we would spend most of our time: eating, drinking and carousing. Sopot is where we spent hundreds of pounds on sushi and saki, where we entertained the company of beautiful, chisel-cheeked Slavic beauties and where I threw up for only the third time in my life.

It started, as these things do, with an idea. In a group of guys, that idea isn’t usually very intelligent or sensible: ‘Let’s get naked and run around campus!’ or ‘Let’s inject our testicles with fish paste and dangle them in a hungry pool of piranhas!’ — men are not the most deep and meaningful creatures at the best of times, but when you get 2 or more of them trying to agree a course of action by consensus, there are only so many possible outcomes.

‘Let’s get DRUNK!!!’

When the English, Irish and French settlers headed over to North America, did all of the enthusiastic people go with? Put an American, Canadian and Brit in the same room and it’s hard to believe they all came from the same common genetic line.

‘Sure… let’s get drunk…!’ That was me, trying to echo Mike’s enthusiasm. The last time I’d got properly drunk was on my 20th birthday, at university, 3 years ago. That was also the last time I’d been sick, and I’d avoided alcohol abuse since.

As an aside, what gives with having to drink everything that’s bought and placed in front of you?

‘I’ve had at least half a litre of spirits and a bottle of wine… I’ve swilled and gargled 5 shots of Aftershock… I’m on my last legs. When you’re tall like me, you have a long way to fall if your legs give way… ‘ (Read the linked Aftershock Challenge — alcohol and the membranes in your cheeks/under tongue =  nasty)

‘But… I’ve just paid money for this drink!’

I knew that a night in Sopot would be the same deal, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Apathetical drunkenness. Drunkenness Induced By Benevolent And Generous Host.

‘Can we at least get some food in our stomachs first? There was that nice sushi place…’ Forever the Jew, I can spot a good restaurant from well over 200 yards.

That nice sushi place turned out to be awesome. A tiny little exclusive restaurant with 15 stools placed in a circle around a central food preparation area. In the middle stood 3 proper Japanese sushi chefs — I have no idea what they were doing in Poland, so don’t ask. Perhaps some Poles had kidnapped their families, who knows. Each one served whoever was sitting in front of them — you pointed at an item on the menu, and they prepared it, right under your nose.

But, it gets better! There’s a moat of of water between you and the chefs, with little boats in it, each one carrying some kind of side-dish. I sat and watched in awe as the little boats made their way around the restaurant. You don’t want to know how much it cost for that single, appetite-whetting mouthwateringly delicious tiger king prawn that floated by on a little bamboo raft. Or the next one. And the next.  In fact, after I’d taken 4, the couple sitting to our right started to get a little angry when no prawns had made it past me for 10 minutes…

Anyway, this story is about when I got drunk, not how I spent way too much of my host’s money in a snobby sashimi sushi saloon. We finished up our food, polished off the large bottle of aged red wine and headed down to the club.

The club was… cosy. It was only about 20 feet across — 5 meters — but it was deep, and on 3 floors. The ground floor was just a bar, the middle floor had some heavier rock music and the top floor was the dance-like-a-spastic cheesy-euro-disco zone. It was April, off-season, but this place was obviously the most popular club in town: shoulder to shoulder, nut-to-butt, gropefestingly jam-packed — FULL. Really damn full. We shouldered our way through the busy ground floor, hoping to find more space upstairs and guess what? It had a spiral staircase.

I guess fire regulations don’t exist in Poland — or at least, they’re not enforced. A 3-storey club, with perhaps 1000 or more wild, passionate Poles, all ascending and descending a tiny, wrought-iron spiral staircase. One thousand drunk and angry Polish people (and even a few Mafioso-looking types that everyone made way for). Making my way down that staircase at the end of the night, drunk out of my mind, struggling to put one foot in front of another — not even sure which feet were mine — is not something I want to repeat… ever.

A drunken stumble across town (cobbles are really not the best friend of the woefully inebriated) and a 5 minute drive later (Mike wasn’t drunk, I swear…) we arrive at the flat, me considerably worse for wear than him. He’d been giving me his drinks, instead of drinking them himself. Bastard.

‘I think I’m going to be sick, Mike…’

He just grinned at me. The cretinous Canadian cockmongler just grinned at me. ‘The bathroom’s over there.’

If you’ve ever seen the toilet in student accommodation, you’ll know that they’re dirty enough to cultivate at least three bacterial conurbations.

‘I think you’re getting close to recreating the conditions required for the genesis of multi-cellular organisms, Mike. This is pretty primordial down here!’ My voice was muffled and slurred, what with my head being almost fully in the bowl of the toilet. [I wanted to work in a joke about being pissed out of my head here, but I couldn't quite make it fit...]

‘What?’ I’m obviously more intelligent than backward backwater Canadians, even when drunk.

‘Never mind, come and hold back my hair…’

Sushi really doesn’t taste great the second time around, even the posh stuff. Mike and I came out of the weekend worse for wear, but closer friends than before.

Following on from the rampant, run-away success of last week’s column, I now bring you three more fresh and exciting problems for me to sink my teeth into. Only this week there’s a twist — I’ve invited the eccentric Mr. Apron to also offer his… alternative… point of view on the questions I’ve been sent this week. There’s a chance he’ll get his own column here on this blog, but let’s see how this goes first…

Dearest Sebby,

Can I ever compare to Katee Sackhoff? She’s so hot. Maybe I should just give up and hand my boyfriend over to her now. Of course I probably make better cakes than her, but I think he’d probably still be happier with her.

Please lavish me with your opinions o’ great geek,
Apollo’s Dad Is Sexier

Seb

Well the good news is that Katee — Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica — isn’t conventionally beautiful. There’s certainly something about her though — that rough, craggy exterior that only occasionally breaks open to reveal a soft, supple interior; much like an armadillo, really. By the end of the final season of BSG she also has an attractive element of mystery — what is she?! — something, let’s face it, you can probably never compete with.

My tip to you, like most style gurus, is to accentuate on your strong traits. If your hair is ruddy blonde — bleach it! Heck, even if it’s not, bleach it anyway! If there’s something about you that your boyfriend really likes, work it! If he likes the dirty, greasy, raw look — who are you to deny him that pleasure? If all else fails: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Smother him in baked goods, spread yourself eagled on the bed, covered in nothing but crumbled pieces of meringue and Chantilly cream.

For further advice, please send me a large slab of chocolate brownie.

Apron

Dear Katee Wannabee,

I must not watch enough television– I had no idea who this bitch was.  I had to Google Images her and was disappointed to see that, even with the SafeSearch filter turned off, there were no money shots anywhere.  I disagree with Sebastian on the matter of her beauty, intrinsic or otherwise.  Am I the only one who’s noticed that her left eye is all weird?

Then again, Wannabee, I guess your boyfriend isn’t spending too much time staring at her left eye.

Can you ever compete with her?  No.  Can you bash her in the leg with a lead pipe?  Well, it worked for Tonya Harding, but I wouldn’t recommend it.  Look, seriously, all you can do is put out more.  Five, six times a day if you have to.  Sure, your boyfriend will be thinking about Katee Sackhoff each and every time, but at least you’ll be keeping him busy and off Google Image with the SafeSearch filter off.

I disagree with Seb also, (sorry, mate) that you should alter your appearance by bleaching your hair to satisfy your schmuck boyfriend but, if you do decide to do that, I think you should then shave it all off and mail it to Katee Sackhoff.  That’ll teach her to be sexy.

Feel free to mail me brownies or whatever, too.

Dear Dr Sebby!!!

How the hell do I get an audio player to work on my blog? I think it involves converting MP4 files (like I know what that is) to MP3 (which sounds slightly familiar).

Or I need to know the “location” to something? Basically I want to play 99 red balloons on my blog and I don’t know how!!!

HELP ME NOW PLEASE!!
- Distressed Blogger

[I stripped out lots of punctuation, but I felt the three exclamations and ALL CAPS had to be left in -S]

Seb

I assume you mean the, um, German classic by Nena? I’m not sure how I feel about helping you spread German propaganda, and I’m sure my counterpart Apron will have something to say about that too. Fortunately, I will see past any prejudices I might have and fulfil my Hippocratic oath.

• It sounds like you need to start by converting the MP4s to MP3 by using a program. There’s a guide on how to use it, but it looks fairly self-explanatory: drag music in, click convert, enjoy your new MP3s.
• Next, you need to upload them to the Internet. This is slightly trickier. Start by registering at DivShare and then following the prompts to upload your MP3 files. When you’re done, you should have a link across the top of your browser window — you can either use this direct link in your MP3 player of choice, or click the link, then ‘Embed/Sharing Options’, and use their MP3 player (it’s up to you).
• If you decide to use your own MP3 player (which it sounds like you already have set up?), you then place the above link (http://www.divshare.com/download/something-123.mp3) into the embed code, and voila!

(If you have no idea what ‘embed code’ I speak of, there’s a great YouTube video that’ll walk you through the entire process, if you can put up with some kind of hideous English/Indian/Chav/Something?? accent.)

Apron

Dear Distressed,

I’m so sorry to hear that you’re having issues with playing music on your blog.  What a serious bummer.

Here’s a thought: instead of trying to snazz your blog up with music to distract your visitors’ attention from the fact that you have no meaningful content, why don’t you try to focus all the energy you’ve exhausted trying to figure out how to set up an MP3 player on your blog and put some of that effort into the actual writing?!

Now there’s a novel idea, isn’t it?  A blog with words.  That people read.  If people want to hear music, they’ll open Pandora [We can't use this in Europe any more, very sad -S] in a different window and listen to music while they read your blog.  If you want to share the music you love so much with the rest of the world, make us mix tapes, you hopeless romantic, you.

Your blog is also probably rife with exciting graphics and YouTube clips and pictures of cats wearing stupid hats saying “I Can Has Cheezburger?” isn’t it?

Jesus Christ.

Monsieur Seb,

I have a bit of a tricky one for you, one that I think might not have a right answer, but I’ll give your ‘Ask Me Anything’ a shot!

I’m in love with my brother’s girlfriend, or at least I think it is love. She’s 3 years older than me, but that hasn’t changed matters. I don’t think my brother knows, but he must be at least somewhat suspicious. I guess he just trusts us enough that he hasn’t entertained the thought of his girlfriend and me flirting.

But yeah, the problem is: she also likes me. We kissed last week, in the living room! Stupid, I know, and my brother came in after we’d finished. We both had the most telling, embarrassed faces. I don’t know how long we can keep it up. Should we elope to Vegas? Haha. His girlfriend has told me she really likes me, but she’s not sure who she likes more… Aaaargh!

Help me, Sir Seb!
In Love And Confused, USA

Seb

There’s definitely no easy solution to this one, sorry. It happens to us all: we fall for the forbidden fruit, the fruit that’s all the more ripe and tasty because someone else has already picked it. It’s like someone has already certified the fruit ‘highly tasty’ and you just gotta have a bite. It’s more commonly seen amongst adults as the ‘wedding ring’ syndrome — married men especially get chased a lot by women seeking a nice man!

Your situation is all the more complicated because it sounds like you’re still living at home, so your brother’s girlfriend is always about the place — no doubt you’ve caught her in pyjamas or other revealing clothing too…?

But to the resolution: first, you should try and forget all about her. Your brother got there first and she says she likes him. That’s the obvious solution. Without knowing the details of your brother’s relationship, it’s hard to say whether you should chase or let go of the girl — if she’s not happy with your brother, or your brother mistreats her… perhaps it’s worth chasing? You’re both young, and if you really love her, go for it! Unless this girl is the love of his life, of course, in which case, forget it.

No matter which route you take, you will have to talk to your brother sooner or later — preferably before he actually catches you doing something dishonourable, so you should probably start with that!

Apron

Dear In Love (Though Probably Not),

I’d love to know how old you are.  From the tone of your letter, I’m guessing you’re fourteen.  Son, you have to be old enough to drive before you can “elope to Vegas” and then you have to be old enough to get married.  As far as I know, the only people in America who can get married at 14 are the Amish, and they have enough problems.

Sebastian, I can’t believe you’re advising this kid to talk to his brother about this– what’s wrong with you? [Sorry, call it my 'inner belief in all things good and proper'... -S] First of all, Americans don’t “talk” to each other, about anything.  They text each other.  Second of all, this kid’s older brother is probably some square-jawed, Neanderthal, knuckle-dragging high school senior who will bury his hockey stick inside this kid’s head at the mere mention that he’s got the hots for his girlfriend.

I’ll bet she is pretty fucking hot, though, isn’t she?  Tank-tops, little shorts all rolled up at the waist, too, I’ll bet.  Mmmmm…

Which brings me quite neatly to the solution to your little problem: it’s this crazy new thing all the teens are doing these days.  It’s called: masturbation.  See, friend, you don’t have to fuck every chick you think is attractive, especially the one who happens to be attached to your brother’s midsection.  You think she’s hot?  Great.  Jerk off while thinking about her.

Problem solved.

P.S. Don’t you love how Sebastian and his fellow Brits write “dishonourable” and “pyjamas?”  Cute!