Tim Key

Tim Key is an English actor, writer, and performance poet

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Tim Key: I'm in an internet café. It's not as exciting as it used to be

I am in an internet café. It's strange being in one of these. I'd forgotten they existed. But I'm delighted that they still do. I've just had one of those mornings you get sometimes when you're a columnist for The Independent. I found myself sans laptop and waddling between Prets, when it suddenly struck me – "I HAVEN'T FILED". I stopped sipping my apple juice and started slapping my forehead as hard as I could. My bloody deadline was upon me! I needed a keyboard and an internet connection fast or I'd have to lie about being ill, or invent something about having a lot on my mind. I swapped hands and continued to slap my forehead, and also tried to work out what to do next.

Tim Key: Last Sunday, I spent the afternoon trying to get my hands on a pig's heart

It was a muggy day, I wore a leather jacket that melted in the September sun, and after a couple of hours of plodding, I was on my knees. Hot, heartless and crawling in the direction of Morrisons, my quest was breaking me.

At one point, a chap put a paw on the handle of my pint

Tim Key: I got squeezed out at the pub last night and I'm still seething

I'm in my late thirties these days – I'm 38 – so I guess I must have been to the pub maybe 4,000 times over the years, but even with that wealth of experience behind me, I struggled to cope with last night's events.

Tim Key: One guest demonstrated his thoughts on the meal by lifting his plate to his face and licking it

I'm 38 now, so I had a dinner party this week. Stuffed a couple of lemons into a bird and stuffed the bird into the oven for a couple of hours and served it up with green beans, green broccoli and scrumptious golden-brown roast potatoes. It was as delicious as it sounds, but it's the reaction of one my guests that I want to talk about. He was fervent in his appreciation for what I had achieved in my modestly-sized kitchen. It was the way he showed his appreciation that I had a problem with. I'm still having flashbacks.

Tim Key: There's all this talk about living in the moment, but just look where it gets you...

I'm sat in my kitchen looking at a bag of rice. It's a large bag, and inside, hidden deep, deep among the brown grains, is my mobile phone. I'm hoping that the rice will draw out the moisture and it will start working again. Occasionally I tut or curse or slap my palm against my forehead. I blame myself for my sodden phone. It's sodden because I walked through a fountain last night.

Tim Key: My tongue is lolling out of my mouth as I survey the room. Nothing makes sense'

There is nothing more disorientating or more demeaning than finding you've fallen asleep on a sofa. And no more dismal age to do it at than 37. But, stiff-necked and gummy-eyed, that's the situation I find myself trying to adjust to right now. Contorted, sprawling and unclear what the time is, I am squinting like a mole. There's sailing on the telly.

Tim Key: There is nothing so liberating as a pile of pineapple chunks

I've just ordered 'off menu'. I think that's the phrase I'm after. What I'm saying is, I've asked the guy for some stuff that's not written down, he's given me the nod, and now I'm sat here waiting for it. And I am feeling very, very alive.

Tim Key: I do find it tough to get a tan. I think I'm just not built for it in the way that my dad is

I feel like I'm not getting enough credit for my suntan. I've got one, don't worry about that. I've just spent two weeks on holiday in Taiwan, so I have got a suntan. But the way people have been reacting, it's as if I've just returned from a couple of weeks doing something indoor-based in Leeds. I'm just not getting the credit.

Tim Key: I wouldn't say I've travelled the world to listen to karaoke, but...

My God. I love karaoke. Not doing it, obviously. But watching it. Or, more accurately, listening to it. I'm in the thrall of some now. Sat by a temple, in a deckchair, guzzling Perrier and beholding some real grade-A stuff. The sun's beating down, the air is full to the brim of amateur vocals and I am a pig in shit.

Tim Key: My reaction when opening my wardrobe is the same as opening my fridge. A gloom descends

On Wednesday evening I was suddenly struck by just how piss-poor my wardrobe is. It was around 8pm, I had dressed one of my friends up in some of my clothes and sat him on my sofa, and, after staring at him for about 15 minutes, I have to report I was almost physically sick.

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