Richard Cobb

I've always felt that autobiographies were reserved for the ridiculously famous types in this world like The Rock, Bruce Springsteen or one of the immemorable ones from Blue. Writing an autobiography seemed as elusive as getting a blue tick on Twitter. If you're not famous, off you pop- come back when you've been on Love Island. I'm not famous. You've probably never heard of me. If you have, I'm not the romantic pianist or the sarcastic murderer of the same name (Google it.) I haven't really done that much of note the last thirty years. With that in mind, I decided to write an autobiography. I used to love posting nonsense on social media about burning toast or faking injury at the gym three seconds into a failed treadmill session. Two days and two likes later (one from my Grandma) these stories would be forgotten about. Everyone has pointless anecdotes that they wish they would remember outside the one dimensional airbrushed wall of their Facebook page, but it's basically become a disposable tool, with many of these stories disappearing into the abyss. If I ever have kids, I'd want them to read about the tin of beans incident in West Linton, video shop culture, the time I threw up on my sister, my numerous failed attempts at love and the time I got a bollocking from the Home Economics teacher that looked like Big Bird from Sesame Street. I'd also like others to share my pain of having to wear tracksuits, partake in country dancing at school and listen to Steps as a youngster growing up in the '90s. "Everyone should buy his book." Nick Cave.