Yes, literally… that’s my name. Born to English / Spanish parentage and an estranged father with a supposed sense of humour (read: vitriolic), I’ve been blessed with a moniker that invokes vulgar connotations. Unfortunately, the narrative became even more humiliating when I married my childhood sweetheart some years later. I won’t go into that right now but this bitter-sweet episode of my life has been well documented in my autobiography, One Shade Of Brown, which is coming soon (pardon the pun).

So here’s a little background info on me. Originally from London and now residing in Manchester (because my persona is better suited to it’s ‘grim up north’ portrayal), I’m a 40 something year old father of three and a failed entrepreneur turned author and blogger. My total lifetime achievements amount to little more than procreating my (mostly) happy and relatively ‘normal’ kids, although that could still come into question given their dysfunctional genetics. I say they’re an achievement although my contribution to their existence doesn’t entirely justify the accolade – a knee trembling delivery of man juice to an expectant ovum on at least three separate occasions… a bit like a Deliveroo rider on a super peak streak I guess. All things considered, this has to be a win in itself, given my otherwise unremarkable disposition.

As you may have noticed, I go about my daily business incognito. So when I’m not sat in front of my computer editing (and reminding myself of the complete clusterf##k that my life has become) my preference is to be seen but not seen, if you get what I mean? That way, I can just about tolerate my reflection in the bathroom mirror without having the urge to throw myself headfirst into the toilet and succumb to drowning in my own stale piss. Occasionally my disguise could mean an elaborate get up or even a complete gender change (without the surgery). And it’s probably worth mentioning that I’m not always Juan King either. My alter ego, Eileen Dover-Hiscock, scrubs up quite well with her blonde bangs, a face full of Charlotte Tilbury and a set of top notch fake titties. In fact, I could even fancy her myself if I was blissfully unaware of the looser behind the mask!

Now, I’m no psychologist and I’m not sure of it’s significance but I have this recurring dream where Juan and Eileen are madly in love in some sort of parallel universe. The scene is set… they’re on stage in front of a lush red velvet curtain just about to engage in hot, passionate coitus. The civilised crowd is made up exclusively of gentry, nobility and, more worryingly, thoroughbred race horses. Eager for the star couple to perform their show stopper, the audience cajole Juan into an expedited penetration when suddenly the curtain raises to reveal a naked Kevin Rowland, frontman from the famous 80’s band Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Kevin, in turn, breaks into an impromptu a cappella version of their hit single ‘Come On Eileen’ to a rapturous applause from the audience. Then I wake in a hot sweat, my heart pounding in my chest, absolutely terrified for some reason (probably because I’m just about to ‘hang out the back’ of myself) yet still fully erect. And then the dream is all over… until the next time.

However, I digress. More often than not, the disguise is just a simple bag or cardboard box on my head. It’s less effort but equally as effective. I also like to think that it adds an air of mystery and intrigue to my persona… a bit like the French synth-pop duo Daft Punk although, admittedly, they have talent whereas I don’t.

Having said that, I’ve just become an author so I guess there must be a modicum of ability lurking somewhere deep inside. Not that any of my previous entrepreneurial exploits would back this up you understand… having failed miserably at pretty much everything I’ve ever turned my hand to. In fact, that’s exactly why I did write this book. It came as a consequence of me spending countless hours in the pub on Friday evenings humouring my so-called ‘friends’ with my weekly stories of misfortune, failure and downright misery. More often than not, their empathy would be expressed in their parting salutations which always included counselling along the lines of “f##k me, you should write a book you stupid c##t!” So, it occurred to me, maybe I should do just that.

Now don’t get me wrong, writing this book wasn’t at all easy. My affinity with Johnny and his obsession to inflict a torturous bloodbath on his wife and child with a rusty hatchet grew increasingly apparent from page two onwards. Thankfully, in the movie the death blow never actually came to Wendy or Danny and, likewise, my wife doesn’t need to worry about me wielding my chopper around just yet. Suffice to say, let’s see how the book sales go first.