gasp. sniff. snort.

I have just been enlightened with some catastrophic information that has the capability of ruining my ever-shrinking prospects of finding myself a suitable partner.


I snore.

I am devastated.

I never thought I would be the one who snored at night. I always thought I would be the sufferer of someone who snores – because I despise any noise when I sleep unless it’s music playing in the background.

What’s even worse is that I don’t merely snore apparently. I bellow.

How very warthog-esque of me.

There is even a Museum of Snoring where snorers used to be treated worse than criminals. Snoring soldiers would have canon balls stitched to the inner side of their uniform so they could not turn over to their backs and disturb the others.

Another anti-snoring torture tool was the mask – a leather mask that straps the chin so the mouth remains closed – this is probably what it felt like to be Hannibal.

Yet another ancient remedy – “Pins”– they stretch the nostrils to a point when the sleeper gets more oxygen. Well he may have more oxygen – but will he get any sleep with pins in his nose?

Should I take comfort in the fact that many famous greats snored their heart out?

The likes of Winston Churchill, Brahms, Albert Einstein, even the mighty Greek God of wine, Dionysus.

Of course not. Because clearly only fat, old, fanatical men with bad-hair lifetimes snore.

As Anthony Burgess once wrote,
“Laugh and the world laughs with you. Snore and you sleep alone.”

I’m devastated.




I snore!