On Love, Tea and Alienship: kitty kitty no name

It’s long overdue for a post about my cat. Here are some facts.

He doesn’t have a name. When we adopted him, he was called Shannon, which was clearly dumb. I had offered for Jeremy to choose the name as a lure towards getting a cat in the first place (also clearly dumb). Jeremy’s first suggestion was Spaceship Carrot Slicer. Mine was Scout. Nothing really stuck. He is most routinely called Kitty, alternating also between Tronald (Jeremy), Ollie (me), Kitchya (Jeremy) and Trouble / Bugger / Stinker (me).
He sleeps either in our bed, a purring hot water bottle, or on top of the covers between us in hammock like fashion.
He wakes up around 5.58am and stamps on my face. When that doesn’t work he attacks my fingers. When that doesn’t work he bites my nose. This is when he gets called Bugger.
He only drinks out of people glasses and if they’re empty they get batted onto the floor. As does anything else I leave on my bedside table.
He’s currently not allowed outside. In America terms, this means he’s an ‘inside cat’, which I’ve always argued doesn’t really exist. But we had to sign something swearing not to let him outside because of things like Coyotes, FIV (the kitty version of HIV) and cars. They also seemed to think that since he was a stray, going outside might trigger some sort of nervous breakdown, but he’s escaped a few times and is equally psychotic as he was before he escaped. I expect that, come summer, keeping him inside will be near impossible but, for now, he’s an ‘inside cat’ even though he thinks otherwise.
He favours Jeremy and routinely bites that hand that feeds him (me).
He’s ridiculously, wonderfully, cute. Which makes up for him behaving like devil spawn 30% of the time.