My Life Oy Vay (DIARY OF A MAD DRUNK BASTARD)
MY! LIFE OY VAY 1
Stopped drinking - again. S'pose I'll start again in a couple of
minutes. Went into college today with monumental hangover, well not so
much monu as mental. Came back and re-wrote a children's story from
memory's twist. I pass Chelsea Clinton on my way back, she was walking
with a guy who was on crutches. Chelsea Clinton is in Oxford studying
for a year. I was aghast ( well o.k. not aghast) that someone who would
be a main target of terrorists, was seemingly walking without any
protection from crop-haired goons in dark glasses, with their hands
permanently inside their jacket pockets. It was only when I got home
that I realised that the crutches were obviously cunningly disguised AK
47 machine guns. What a wheeze.
I popped into a drop-in centre on the way and discussed going on their
treatment programme. The only drawback about it is that you have to
stop drinking. I also talked to an acupuncturist who works there to
discuss my dodgy knees (which have been bad recently - it's all that
genuflecting over the years) and he felt that the problem lies in my
lower back. He said that he'd also be treating me for my alcoholism
which lies in way back. I told him that my father was correct in one
thing, he always said that I was weak-kneed.
Mother in strange mood at the moment more than is usual. She's been
like that since YOB - my youngest brother - started coming around
again. He is most certainly her favourite - poor bastard. Well here I
am droning on when I only meant to write a couple of lines. Wouldn't
mind snorting a couple though. I suppose I'll have to make do with my
bottle of industrial grade cider.
Just for a joke some years ago before a party, I completely cleaned
out a bottle of bleach (it took a lot of time!) and filled said
container with white cider. I stashed it at the party in the kitchen
under the sink. When we inevitably ended up in the kitchen with all the
drink gone in the early hours with everybody smashed I decided that it
was time for my party piece. I had stayed fairly sober just for this
moment. I said fairly loudly that I was desperate for a drink. So I
turned and open the sink cupboard picked up the bottle of bleach
unscrewed the top, put the bottle to my lips and glugged. The look of
horror even on fairly drunk faces will comfort me well into my
In the chinchilla days
Of freezing air
You felt sometimes
That you'd been somewhere
And now it had gone
Without a care
And your frosty airs.
Went downstairs this morning and resolved never to do that little trip
again without wearing shoes. My mother's waterworks are somewhat
impetuous at any given moment, so I squelched my way through a urine
sodden carpet quietly muttering expletives and wondering if I had been
terribly bad in a past life to warrant this. Yob came round and said
"Aren't old people supposed to piss and shit all over the place and
smell of urinals "? Charming boy. I know that she hasn't had a shower
since the district nurse came round about six weeks ago, and as she
neither changes over or underwear she is beginning to smell a bit
gamey. I suppose it's the stale vaginal smells that I find the most
Decide to air my hangover with a walk downtown. On the way I was
bearded by a woman clutching a clipboard and a clipped smiled. She was
middle class pretty so I thought 'what the hey! - you never know' She
blurted out the preliminaries 'Would you mind answering a few
questions. It'll only take yada yada'. The first question was 'do you
ever go into pubs' ? After five minutes of maniacally ironic laughter,
I managed to blurt out "no - but pubs seem to have a tendency to
envelop me". I left her chewing on her pencil.
Got back after walk and realise I've only a few days before my
interview at the college and I have to have something coherent (and
recent) for my interview at the college next Tuesday. So I think 'fuck
it' I'll go for another walk without my walking stick as the knee is
beginning to hold up, although it's still giving me 'gip'. I ponder on
that word and can only surmise it was one of those words that came back
from The Colonies some time ago. I looked up 'gip' and it's spelt gyp
and is a contraction of 'giddy up', as in whipping a horse to move
quickly thereby causing pain. Isn't education a wonderful thing -
especially in the wrong hands?.
'You should not have your best trousers on when you go out to fight for
freedom or truth.'
This is a quote attributed to Henrik Ibsen or maybe it was Mike
'I object to violence because, when it appears to do good, the good is
only temporary. The evil it does is permanent.'
'An eye for an eye makes the world go blind'
These are quotes by Ben Kingsley, the great philosopher who liberated
vast swathes of Knightsbridge from the tyranny of New Labour voters,
supported by that libertarian Dame Shirley Porter. He was played in the
film of that great struggle by the great Bollywood actor Mahatma
Ghandi. There is talk that Madonna may well play the part of our Shirl
in the forthcoming film, but the word is that Madonna may well feel
that even she may not be up to the level of Machiavellian tendencies
displayed by Mrs. Tesco. She owes about 27 mill in used 'onecers' does
Madge Porter, but as she's hiding in Palestine there's no chance of a
monetary reconciliation with the destitute of Westminster. There was
some kind of scam that Madge Potty came up with, that if she fed the
poor of Westminster with Asbestosburgers then within a few years they'd
be too dead to complain about their misbegotten feckless lives, and
simply let in 'the better orf '
Now I'm sure that this is not a template even being considered my our
Shirl's mate Bunter Sharon, the owl of the Jewish remove.
I Have my interview at the college in 11hrs. and 50mins. and I feel a
strange calm descend upon me. Who says that drugs don't work. I'm
buggered but I feel a soliloquy coming on.
'The only nightmare is that you die as you are born, and that when you
die you become alive. To love and be hated in return, to never feel
your significance, to never get used to the unspeakable love and
beautiful parity of life around you, to seek pain in the happiest
places, to reach for ugliness as it beckons, to never simplify what can
be complicated, or simplify what is complicated. To respect the weak
for they have power, and above all that you are simply staring not
looking, and never try to understand and always look away, so that you
never never remember.'
Cor blime o'riley what ever that means. I must thank Arundhati Roy for
that, it's taken from The End of Imagination, I just paraphrased
somewhat. Maybe I'll call it the Beginning of Imagination.
Been awake since 6a.m. having awoken from a dream about Alicia Keys,
so the line about dying as you are born springs to life. The delicia
Alicia was not engaged in any sexual act with me but one can dream
can't one?. Can one dream about dreaming? This is quickly turning into
a nightmare of esoteric metaphysicality. (Didn't Olivia Neutron-Bomb
have a hit with 'Lets get Metaphysical' many years ago?) Anyway my
dream involved Alicia Keys some other soul singers a cassette tape that
kept jamming and the Mafia. Go figure.
'Many of our values were forged against the church. And when it comes
to democracy, the rights of man and equality, God is only a recent
The above is a quote by Josep Borrell Fontelles. Spanish philospher
Bounced into town, well I accidentally caught a side image of myself
in a shop window and I was bouncing. I can't believe that I've put on
so much weight. Bought a coffee and sat in St. Giles's churchyard. I
noticed a woman vicar chatting to someone, she seemed to have an aura
of serenity about her vestments. I pondered upon the latest scandal
down under (how appropriate) about paedophile priests in the Catholic
church and realised I was looking at the solution to the problem. Women
I see that England are about to import the worlds strongest beer. It's
called something like Ye Olde Dogsbreath Head Batterer Ale - coming in
at a monumental 23% which is virtually as strong as your average bottle
of spirits. Don't be fooled by the labelling of spirits as 70% -
they're not. On one of my many trips to rehabilitation centres it was
explained that spirits get a different set of variables to label their
wares. If you drank anything that was 70% alcohol, you would begin to
whimper, you would speak in tongues and then die very slowly. So, back
to this new beer which is actually called Dogfish Head Worldwide Stout.
(I prefer my label) Safeway are about to import it which is slightly
ironic as after a few bottles of Dogbreath it is not a safeway that
you'll be walking. Staggerway? Now that's a name for an off-licence
Mr. Calagione the brewer said that "After the first glass, you see
things as you wish they were, after the second, you see things as they
are not, finally you see things as they really are - and that is the
most horrible thing in the world". Mr. Calagione brews this stuff in
his back yard. Now I'm getting a picture here and it's not a completely
wholesome one. Has the Drugs, Alcohol and Tobacco agency been informed?
It seems it's all on the up and up though. Mr Calagione insists that
his new beverage will elevate ale to a new level; while taking drinkers
to a new low - i.e. 6 feet under. Mr Calagione when asked said he'd
never heard of the mafia.
Had my interview at the college, it was with someone with the most
entrancing name of Mr. Whisker. Sounds like a character from Dickens.
We got on very well and don't ask me, I don't know how we got on the
subject but it seems he's a good friend of the poet Alan Brownjohn. I
built Alan Brownjohn's library many moons ago and got on with the old
duffer very well and I only mention this because I'm such a tart. Ah -
I remember how this arose now. I mentioned that I'd lived in Belsize
Park and Mr. Whisker said that a good friend of his the aforementioned
Alan Brownjohn lived there. Well anyway t'would seem that I'm only a
whisker away from being accepted at college. But isn't it odd how
disparate people link up, in this crazy honeycombed cobweb that we
think of as life? I probably have friends who know people who have
friends who's aunt's baby sitter knew Osama bin Laden's dog walker.
Fiction's stranger than life you know.
Got home and I was in the middle of doing yoga when mum yelled up at
me that YOB had phoned and that he needed some brake fluid. (He's
fixing my car - yes I know not a good idea!) I didn't - well couldn't
reply as I was performing The Scorpion's Embrace, which involves
twisting my body in such a way that I end up eating my own mouth. If I
should so wish. I phoned him later and he mumbled in that Neanderthal
way of his that he needed money for brake fluid. So I explained that it
could actually wait until tomorrow. He put the phone down and appeared
about five minutes later, drunk and even more incoherent than normal.
Has he been drinking brake fluid? Or maybe he's been brewing Dogsbreath
in his backyard, oh dear me Graeme leave the alcoholism to me.
Am still pissed. Cider rules house. Am finding it more difficult to
write anything resembling anything meaningful as I get more pissed. How
about; the Queen is a parasitic old hag and should vacate Buck House,
wear five overcoats and collect lots of plastic bags and put all kinds
of rubbish in them and walk up and down Oxford Street railing at all
the tourists. Oh she does that already!?
Christmas day. Post midday masticatory machinations. It'll be a relief
to get away from my sister Georgina's voluble vernacularisms at
velocity. Ah - there that's better, nothing like a little alliteration
to relax those post-prandial blues. Well, maybe a pint of absinthe with
a mogadon top might do the trick.
Have just heard that a cousin of mine has been buried, one hopes he was
dead. He was 40 stone and a special coffin had to be ordered from the
States. Where else? But the trag-comic thing that happened at the
funeral was that the coffin broke as he was being lowered into the
ground. If it wasn't so funny it would be tragic. That tells you all
you need to know about the American diet and it's consequences. So if
Osama Bin Hidin' just waits patiently the West will just gorge itself
to death. And they say the Americans don't do irony! Am listening to
Sam Cooke singing Change Gonna Come. He was shot dead soon after
recording this song by a woman he was harassing. Yup the Americans do
irony. Oh the persiflage of it all.
'This is a lie so I know it to be true
It's a love story full of hate
And bile and distress
It's too early in the day
For this kind of passion
So I'll write about it later
To ease your pain
It was an epiphany of unease
That came early that day.'
Crikey, what have they been putting in my drink!
I'm listening to Soul Limbo that fiercely funky tune used as the theme
for cricket programmes on the B.B.C. God it makes my teeth want to
'There is no more miserable human being than one in whom nothing is
habitual than indecision' so sayeth Henry James. Maybe I'll drink to
that. Will we ever see the death of murder? Life is nasty brutish and
short. Henry James. Or was that Mike Tyson again? What are the chances
of dying prematurely?
There was a knock at the door and on opening there stood my scag
riddled paphian babe. We'd met some months ago when I was in a bit of a
bad way and she was desperate for a fix,so I gave her some money, told
her where I lived and pop around sometime. This was now a regular
occurence. The great thing about heroin users is that - well the
females anyway - they lose their teeth and will give the most sublime
'head' you've ever had. Well this one did anyway.
I suppose it's the same with elderly women, which must me one of the
few consolations about entering the world of the twilit. My scuzbag was
desperate for a hit from desperation's look in her eyes. So I beckoned
her in, went upstairs took my trousers and pants down without saying a
word. I wondered if it was ever at all possible to have sexual congress
with another human being, even one as raddled as this without engaging
in intercourse of a verbal kind. You can with animals, particularly
"You've got a fucking cheek" she said hands on hips, half serious half
"Don't go all niminy piminy on me now, you can't afford to" I added.
"O.k." she said as she knelt down in front of me. As her head bobbed up
and down I mused on how important blood was in what was, a pretty
emotionally bloodless sexual act. I hoped it wasn't bloody in that sort
of real physical kind of way as she may well be HIV positive. That's
another advantage of being toothless. As I got close to climax I patted
her on the head and grunted "Another fiver if you swallow". She earned
She stood up; she was very tall, close to six feet. In another life
given her trailer trash good looks she may well have been a model or
even an air stewardess. She would have lent some validity to the
'heroin chic' look prevalent in the modelling world. "What did you say
just now?" she said. "What do you mean?, I didn't say anything other
than 'uuuurrrrgggghhhh'. "No, that jiminy jaminy thing". "Oh that's
just an old Serbo-Croat word for don't get above your station" "O.k.
I'm gonna get sorted - ta". She turned around down the stairs and let
herself out. I checked that she had actually gone, you just can't be
too sure with addicts. No scruples.
I stared out over the arcadian view from my window as I 'tissued the
issue' from my slackened appendage.
'I do not believe that the meek will inherit the earth. It is the bold,
the loud mouthed, the cruel, the vital, the revolutionaries, the mighty
in arms and will, who march over the soft patient flesh that lies
beneath their cleated boots.' I wish I'd written that.
'I can stand brute force but brute reason is quite unbearable, it is
hitting below the intellect.' Yes that was Charlie Manson, don't tell
me that prison has no rehabilitative powers.
Dunno what's wrong with me I think I must have RSI; Repetitive Senility
Injury. God I need the Sanatogen Hot line. I think that the ambition to
communicate can elbow the desire to be unique. But I only think that
when I am drunk, but as I'm always drunk I think that all the
Bugger! - I forgot to go to my amnesiacs anonymous meeting last
I was thinking - as you do, about Chris Evans and Billie the pop
chanteuse.Not a hide nor hair seen since they were photographed
staggering out from Sainsco's with a truckload of booze. There's a
story in the making I fear. Red haired jackass T.V. presenter and
producer aged 38, marries 16 year old waifette pop singer. They sink
into abject alcoholism. She winds up choking to death on his vomit. He
discovers 12-step recovery and is offered multi million pound contract
to front a rolling recovery programme entitled - The Lice Man Cometh.
Close credits and fade.
An item on the news: Winona Rider the thespian, who I think still holds
the record, for making more films than any woman before the age of 30,
and therefore very rich - has just been arrested in Hollywood for
shoplifting. She said that she was preparing for a forthcoming part in
a film, where she will play a thief. Yeh right! Maybe Chris Evans can
I'm still getting more pissed but I don't get as raddled as I did a
year or so ago; that's probably the result of the anti-depressant that
I take. It makes me fairly dozy. I feel like sleeping rather than going
out and getting more drunk, but I'll probably do both. I'm supposed to
have acupuncture tomorrow, but it would be a waste of time and the beer
might start pouring out of the holes.
I'm going to find a pub that's open and have a calming drink. I wonder
if they'll do a pint of absinthe with a mogadon top? Proust said that
'No man is a complete mystery except to himself. But he was a mad
fucker. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on London: 'That great cesspool into
which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly
drained'. So-that's why
I love the place.
We walk the gilded path
This glistering day
The patchwork life
And gunshot wound eyes
Stab the light
In its recess of mould
And beg for money
To ease the strife.
To be enslaved by alcoholism for nigh on 35 years then suddenly be
released, is well - intoxicating. Har de har. Wore my Babe Magnet T
shirt to an 'open' lesbian A.A. meeting today. God those lezzers have
got no sense of humour. (But they punch like men though.) Have decided
to stop the Libra recovery programme for the time being. It's too
difficult trying to juggle everything what with mum being so ill. She
needs to go to the toilet whenever she needs to go, and if I'm not
there to take her, I have a squishy carpet to deal with. Or worse -
Mummy 'pats' (similar to cow pats - but you catch my drift) Graeme
still pig-ignorant and Georgina all swivel-eyed paranoia so everything
is just hunky dory.
Zoomed up to see Maryanne and we met at Kenwood for tea and buns. She
told me that an Aunt had died and left her a 'bit' of money. I just
speculated - 50 grand? Yes that was a good guess she replied. I had
seriously thought about 10 grand. Mmmmmmmmm she is an attractive
Mum woke me at 3am this morning, of how the fallen are mighty. Managed
to convince her when I got back from Libra that I need carers to come
in. Phew!. The Dr. came later on and has diagnosed Parkinson's disease.
Had a good day at Ruskin today, I do need that push to make me
construct. I have a fecund mind. I have a fecund good mind to take you
outside and give you a good drubbing young sir. (Whatever that might
be) I hope it doesn't involve a pair of rubber gloves, a large jar of
Vaseline and an industrial size cucumber. Mmmm I don't know though.
I've devised a low tech. system for mum calling me in the night. I
leave my phone off the hook and when she needs me she just picks hers
up and yells 'room service!'
Got back from Libra and mum had kacked herself up to her armpits,
luckily the carers came a few minutes and are hosing her down at this
moment. I've been drinking for a few days now and the daemons return.
Feeling a bit 'rattley' but there is always a little dark in this
dystopia. Georgina came and is ignoring me completely. There is a
Went up to London to oversee a new carpet being laid. Sue came round
and I 'laid' her on my new carpet. I think. I did get rather squiffy
and got back here I think. I think therefore I drink. Took a rather
wibbly wobbly walk downtown and had a coffee and a Beta Blocker
sandwich. Came back and read another whinge by Elizabeth 'Prozac
Nation' Wurtzel or pretzel. Maybe that's what Dubya choked on , no not
a pretzel but another whining article by the Princess of Prozac. Mind
you she may well come close to saving the world if Dubya had
Now there's someone who's taking everyone on a 'white knuckle ride' of
his own making. George get over it - so you can't fucking drink, go to
a fucking A.A. meeting!. Maybe you could write your own confessional
novel, you could call it Hubba Bubba Dubya Nation. It will tell how we
are all going to hell in a handcart and you and your cohort Osama Dun
Bommin will lead us there. Oh I forgot to mention our very own, Saint
Tony the Vicar of dribbly is happily going on the ride. Iraq the next
stop on the cartwheel to catastrophe. It makes your timbers shiver and
your collys wobble.
Yet another relapse, I'm not too bad at the moment, I suppose it'll be
around with me until the end. Maybe I should write a novel about how I
had to leave A.A. to get sober, and how I started my own fellowship
called the R.A.C. The Royal Alcoholics Club. Or something else: T.T. -
Torpid Topers, B.B. Bibulous Bashers, Dipso Diehards or (my favourite)
R.R. Ratarsed Reprobates. I could go on and just might.
In the news
The Stephen Byers/Jo Moore/Stephen Sixsmith brou ha ha rumbles on. Both
Moore and Sixsmith have gone, and is it soon to be bye bye Byers? He's
variously described as beleaguered, embattled, and besieged. But the
most disturbing phrase is from St. Tony of Hinduja himself, 'He has my
full support'. Time to dust off that C.V. Stephen.
The Winter Olympics have just finished (Hands up those who hadn't
realised they'd started) and it seems that we have done rather well. We
have won a gold medal in something called curling. This involves
shoving a huge lump of metal along a strip of ice, so that you can
knock your opponents lump of metal off a bulls eye. It's a little like
bowls but without the excitement. It was curling alright - fucking toe
curling. Can't we win a medal at something exciting? Like running quite
fast or jumping up and down a lot. Phtooey!
Now we all know that St. Tony of Hinduja used to play the banjo in a
skiffle band - well his old mate Blind Lemon Blunkett is a real goer on
the shilleghlagh. It's the Irish version of the Jew's Harp only it's
not circumcised. But anyway old Blunkers has come up with a wizard
wheeze to combat 'youth crime'. No, he's not going to redistribute the
wealth of this country eqitably so that hoi polloi get an even break.
What he is proposing is to electrocute all juvenile defenders who are
allowed bail. Sorry - what? Oh electronically tag them. Bugger it. The
thought of juvenile flesh sizzling had me going there for a
I suppose these tags could be made luminous pink for all to see. And
if everyone over the age of sixty had a special gizmo, tuned to the
tags, all they would have to do is press a button and said hobbledehoy
would be zapped with a few hundred volts of electricity. Watch them
kids 'break dance' then eh?
Or; they could be placed around their necks and call them Winnie
Mandelatronics, (Tm.) a sort of Hi Tec version of the petrol filled
tyres so effective in bringing law 'n' order to the townships in South
Africa. If they so much as looked at a little old lady, one tiny burst
of electronic impulse would have them yammering the Swahili national
God I'm tired I could do with a little cat nap. Now there's a misnomer
if ever I heard one, every cat I've ever known sleeps all fucking day!.
I've just heard that my benefit book has gone missing. It seems I have
to go into the benefit office and wait all day, while screaming kids
are screamed at by peroxide blond, chain smoking mothers. And groups of
street drinkers tilt at the windmills who remain sullen and unspeaking
behind their bullet proof glass. I'd rather have earwigs mate in my
Very sad news: Spike Milligan has died. The goon has gone.
My favourite Milligan moment: 'Legs are hereditary - they tend to run
The Stephen Byers saga rolls on as does he; apparently a lie is not a
lie if you are misleading wilfully. This kind of metaphysical clap-trap
will get you nowhere Byers. Maybe we could get our politicians to wear
these new tags and every time they told a 'porkie' - zzzzap! Mind you
we wouldn't be left with many politicians. Mmm I'm warming to the idea
My knee's fucking painful, so I took a load of drugs and hey pesto (no
that's an accompaniment to pasta) I mean presto, no more pain. Lets
hear it for allopathic medicine. Speaking of drugs, some wag has sent
toxic substances through the post to the Vicar of Hinduja. The meeja
are rather vague about toxic; do they mean in a mephitic sense, or in a
vague and smokey sense, as in nonsense and insensibility, which happens
due to the inhalation of smoke containing marijuana sense? Ooer, can
you imagine the Blairs chillin' out with a chillum, and a kilo of
Colombian cataleptic laughing grass?
Well if you can't I jolly well can.
T.B. "Hey Euan, don't Bogart that joint son"
E. "it's a chillum daddio"
T.B. "Oh are you cold son, throw another log on the fire"
E. No I'm not cold I'm referring to this pipe, and we don't have a fire
to throw logs on to"
'Ooh crikey thought Tone, what did I set light to?' Never mind John's
here he'll sort it.
Tony gazed over at Cherie, her bilabiate grin seemed to be not quite
where it normally was. It seemed to be sandwiched between a pair of
hairy legs. Oh. My. God. She's having soix-en-neuf with John!.
T.B. "Euan Euan don't look! oh crikey I'm sorry about your mum and
He began crawling over to the crimsoned rictus and threw his jacket
over the offending pair. Euan was convulsed with laughter barely able
to draw breath.
T.B. "What's so funny son?"
E. "Har har har har har har eeeehhhh har har har har!" was Euan's
Tony thought through his drug induced miasma, that Euan was so
traumatised at seeing his mother engaging in a sexual perversion with
the deputy Prime Minister, that his only defence was mania.
T.B. "God I must get help, what's Susie Orbach's number?"
He then made the sign of the cross over Euan and then himself.
E. "No dad stop! Don't you remember? John was mooning 'Diabolic Ali'
last night, but was so stoned he fell over with his trousers around his
ankles. He then fell asleep like that so Ali thought it a wicked idea
to draw a couple of lips on John's bum with mum's lipstick. God we
couldn't stop laughing"
Tony had no real recollection of that, but he vaguely remembered
getting a blow job from Cherie in the early hours, when everyone else
was asleep. OH. MY. GOD! I Hope it was Cherie. Now get a grip man -
think, think - who instigated the congresse amour?
Slept well, apart from a strange dream. Not that I slept well apart
from a strange dream, I was very much part of the dream - I think. But
how can I know? I was asleep. Mmmmm.
A existential crisis looms. Anyway. Jah know warrah mean?
Does one ever have normal dreams? As in - I dreamt I went to the shops
and bought tea and biscuits. Said hello to Mrs. Grimshaw, she said her
husband had a terrible case of Dhobie Itch, I said she ought to get
some of that Chamomile lotion. She said that she'd tried that already,
with them there tea bags, but when she poured it over 'im he started
awailing and a'ollerin' so loud, that she 'ad to put a pillow over his
face for 'alf an hour. She said it seems to have done the trick he's
not made a peep for a couple 'o' days now.
Anyway, I came home watched TV with a cup of tea - just a splash of
milk - no sugar and ate two of the biscuits. They were Hob Nobs. Oh yeh
there was a channel 5 film on BBC2 which featured Nicole Kidman giving
a blow job to a great Dane. Now that's what I mean by a normal
Went downtown to meet Suzanne,one of my sisters, she told me that she
was off to Scotland at the end of the week to climb Ben Nevis. Whoever
this geezer is I hope he wears protection.
Came home and mum watching shite TV. Mordantly obese people screaming
abuse at one another, and making out as if to attack each other
physically. I'm sure they're all from 'Central Casting'. The mean
weight seems to be about 23 stone for either sex. Speaking of sex how
do they manage to copulate? I suppose they corpulate.
Mum said 'Food now!' or some such, and the only instant meal was Quorn
lumps, in a mixture that looked like lard with green snot bogies. About
5 minutes after 'wolfing' it down she projectile vomited the lot over
the television. Which seemed somehow appropriate as 'Richard and Judy'
were on at the time. To see the effluent slowly oozing it's way down
the screen seemed a condign critique by mother. Mind you if she begins
extruding green bile and her head starts swivelling and she starts
speaking in tongues - I'm outa here! I'll have to call the
Have been drinking again. Not a great deal, I do think I'm getting a
handle on my drinking. Admittedly in a fairly loose handled kind of
way; a bit stumblebum, makeshift, spatchcock and - well - Stephen kind
of way. (The day after that other day when I was getting a handle on my
drinking day.) I couldn't write yesterday because I was emotionally and
physically drained (as was the bottle) by Professor Smirnoff. My
brother Richard and myself went to the poetry hoedown at Ruskin College
last night. It was poetry navel gazing at its worst. One woman droned
on interminably about her father dying. Poor fucker - I hope she wasn't
singing to him as he lay there. I can imagine his eyes pleading with
the Good Lord to end this purgatory right now. Richard at one point
muttered into my ear "I hope he dies soon"
I started to make up a poem of my own about my dear old pappy who long
exited this mortal coil.
'So you old fucker
You'll soon be dead
I can't wait so that
I can jump on your head
Stone the crows
The vultures have fled'
Yada yada; and so it would go, if I could be arsed.
We both fled giggling like schoolboys and repaired to a music pub
where there was a Jewish/Zydeco funk band playing, 'already'! And I
don't think I was hallucinating. Swamp Rock meets Pawnbroker Jazz. If
you've never heard Hava Nagila played with a back beat so funky that
you want to eat your own hair, you haven't lived. I didn't know whether
to laugh or dance - so I did both.
Having first drink of the day and going over what I've written and the
old man tends to feature. Any link you think? When I do think about
him, I hope there is a Christian God. Why? Because then there would be
purgatory and that's where he would be, propping up the bar. This is a
bar where the beer tastes of ant's piss - BUT - it makes you more sober
the more you drink. The bar maids are naked, but a hundred and fifty
years old and you are forced to make love to them but you can't come.
And they fart all the time from their gummy old mouths as they stick
their tongues so far down your throat that you vomit up your own
These following quotes are from an Abel Ferrara film about vampirism
with a sub-text on
'THERE IS A DULL NATURE TO THE ADDICTION THAT SATISFIES THE HUNGER THAT
EVIL ENGENDERS. IT SATISFIES THE HUNGER BUT IT ALSO DULLS OUR
PERCEPTION, SO WE ARE HELPED TO FORGET HOW ILL WE REALLY ARE. WE DRINK
TO ESCAPE THE FACT WE'RE LIKE ALCOHOLICS. EXISTENCE IS THE SEARCH FOR
RELIEF FROM OUR HABIT - AND OUR HABIT IS THE ONLY RELIEF WE CAN
'WE ARE NOT SINNERS BECAUSE WE HAVE SINNED, BUT WE SIN BECAUSE WE ARE
'WE ARE NOT EVIL BECAUSE OF THE EVIL THAT WE DO,
WE DO EVIL THINGS BECAUSE WE ARE EVIL'
Just heard on the news that a delegation of Morris dancers is going to
appear in Leicester Square in London to encourage people to visit the
countryside. I can think of nothing more calculated to discourage
people from visiting the countryside. I think it was Laurie Lee who
said 'There are two things that one should never try - incest and
Morris Dancing' I can't watch the primping prissiness of it, let alone
listen. Morris Dancing I mean!
Of course you have the makeshift and the make do and the ne'er do well
something I started to write but seems to have drifted off. A bit like
'I have been hewed amain with swords mill sharp' Anglo-Saxon saying. I
just like it.
I've just heard something being described as 'sham chewing' which is
when you pretend to chew gum. Eh?! Why would you want to pretend to do
something that makes you look like some sort of Bovine idiot! I can see
that there's been a huge increase in the number of people chewing. Are
they genuinely chewing or are they sham chewing? There's more to this
Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy than meets the mad staring eye.
Mad drunken starey eyed poem to follow------
'You made me laugh
You made me cry
We never did see eye to eye
You being shorter than I'
Great news! The Queen Mum - Gawd blessa - has snuffed it. That's
another matriarchal reactionary parasite silenced. Even more great
news! Margaret Thatcher has had not one -but six minor strokes, and she
won't be able to make any more public speeches. Rejoice! Ah a death by
a thousand cuts. So only another 994 strokes to go. Revenge is
I've counted up the days I've been sober and it's 50 out of 90 days.
Not too bad for an alky, I suppose it's better than 90 out of 50 which
might pose a problem for the mathematically challenged drinker.
Went to London, saw Maryanne screwed around and came back. Mum called
me in and said 'Can you sit down please?' I thought that she was going
to tell me that she'd decided to end it all and could I get some stout
rope and a chair. She announced with some triumph that Georgina had
been sectioned in the local nut house. I swear that mum seemed to wear
it as a twisted badge of honour. It seems that Georgina had been
smashing up her flat, breaking windows and eating her cats. (Seems that
she might have a viable circus act there.) Anyway suffice to say that
she was generally behaving normally.
Poor sod she's in Littlemore for 28 days assessment. I'll go and see
her when I get the car, I'll take her a brick to play with. I'm off on
the 'Red Eye' to London in the morning. I'm borrowing some money from a
friend of mine to buy a car. Borrowed the money from John, came back
and got the car. Christ it's only taken me 30 years to get a decent car
for myself. You don't think that drink has had anything to do with that
do you? ----- NAH!
The weather is beautiful v. hot, I wish I could just bugger off to the
south of France. But I have no money. Why have I no money? Is it
because The Imperialist Capitalist Running Dogs of Oppression need an
underclass to promote their fiscal didactic? Or is it 'cos I is a
drunk? Saw a great T shirt today. I'm not an alcoholic I'm a drunk.
Alcoholics go to meetings.
I have to see Georgina's Psychiatrist to fill her in on some detail of
Georgina's life, as Georgina is saying nowt. I asked her name over the
phone and I thought she said 'Penis'. She had a fairly strong accent so
I asked her to spell it. It's Peiris. So I'm off to see the 'Penis'
woman at the eccentrically titled village of Littlemore. The 'Penis'
woman kept me waiting for 35 minutes, I was going to make a premature
withdrawal. I did tell her when we finally met that I was pissed off
about being kept waiting, which is not bad for me. So we talked about
Georgina and the story of the family, God how depressing it all is,
there must be a major motion picture here. Get Spielberg on the
I saw Georgina and she was in a terrible state. She said when she saw
me as I poked my head around the door 'Oh I thought that was you
walking up the path' She thought that she was in the familial home 40
years ago. Poor cow.
I'm drinking industrial grade cider with diet Coke. Yum!
My elder brother Robert, who lives in The States and works for a
computer company has sent me a laptop. It's got everything on it, DVD
and CD player/rewriter, it plays CD video discs and makes a lovely cup
of tea in the morning. I'm sure if I twiddle with it enough I can brew
poteen on it. Richard called and he says he knows someone who wants to
rent my flat in London. She's from Peru and it'll mean an extra fifty
pounds a week. Yahoo for Peru.
In the news??? The far right politician Pim Fortuyn (pronounced
fortune) has been assassinated in Holland. T'would seem Mr Fortuyn has
Yet another bummer of a relapse. I've rented my flat to the yahoo from
Peru she seems very nice. Bit of a babe actually. The world cup started
a few days ago and England Played Argentina today and we beat them 1-0.
And I forget the near misses and great saves their keeper made, it
could have been 4-0. England for the cup? We'll see. Not sleeping much,
but I've been buggering about on the computer a lot which is some
compensation. England through to the quarter finals, only to lose
rather feebly to Brazil 2-1. Seaman beaten by what was the most
audacious goal, or a fluke by Ronaldhino.
Due to see a chiropractor about my knees. I've been told that the
problem lies in my back. My right knee playing up like fuck, my
impression of Long John Silver improves by the day though. Must get
myself a parrot. Oh yes and an eye patch. Where does one buy an eye
patch? Joke shop I suppose. Maybe they can sort me out a parrot as
well. Of the stuffed variety of course. Don't want it crapping on
Signed on at Ruskin and to celebrate I got ver ver drunk. Managed 18
days of sobriety prior to this though. Went to see a great blues/rock
band at The 'Bully' yesterday with Maryanne. They called themselves
Jose Gonzales and The Maracas or some such. My shoulder playing up like
fuck now. I'm sure it's nothing to do with dancing like an idiot all
night. Well not quite like an idiot more like an overweight 56 year
old, groovy fucker.
Went downtown to amuse myself by feeding the pigeons. It's great fun
chucking the breadcrumbs and watching them skittering around coo
cooing. But the bestest fun of all is that knowing that I've soaked the
crumbs in a solution of rat poison. They look so cute when they begin
to start staggering around and the little kiddies think they're drunk
pigeons. "Look mummy - just like daddy!" they cry. Whoops! Better
scarper methinks as a child picks up a breadcrumb and shoves it in its
Decide on a trip to the park, think I'll feed the ducks - to my cat. I
keep him in a large holdall slung nonchalantly over my shoulder. He
doesn't mind, he knows it's lunch time. Mallards are his favourite. I
let him kill the bird and chew a little but snatch it from him. I
always wear gardening gloves, he's not called Nosferatu for nothing. So
it's Duck L'Orange again this evening, or should that be Mallard de
Malady? Always have trouble getting orange up its arse. Maybe I should
peel orange first.
In the news:
Ant and Dec reveal that they are indeed; after many weeks of
speculation, John Major and Edwina Currie's love children. They also
reveal that the show that they host, Shite Idol, is merely a dry run
for a new voting electoral system, which the Tories hope will
re-energise their flagging appeal to the British electorate. Candidates
will have to perform song 'n' dance routines and the viewers can then
vote by phone, text or email. The thought of The Tory leader Michael
Alucard's poor little etoliated face crumple into abject despair, as
Simon Cowell lacerates the dance routine he'd used while performing The
Stones classic 'Satisfaction', doesn't bare thinking about. Actually.
It does. A lot. All day and every day.
Rumour has it that Neil and Christine Hamilton will be dueting on
'What a swell party this is'. But there is no substance to the rumour
that John Major and Edwina Currie are going to have a bash at 'Je Taime
mon a'mour plus' - thank fuck! The thought of John and the 'sticky'
Edwina, writhing on the floor grunting and groaning in the fashion of a
couple of French tarts, has caused my teeth to furrover. But we can
reveal that John Redwood will be performing a version of James Brown's
Sex Machine, complete with eye and hip-swivelling. But he says he won't
be doing the splits, 'I'll leave that to The Tory party' he said before
emitting an ear splitting JB type scream.
Our reporter has taken to his bed and is drinking gin with Night Nurse
chasers, and sucking his thumb very hard and constantly calls for his
mummy. STOP PRESS! Anne Widdecombe has just stated that she will be
performing the Kylie classic, 'I should be so lucky' in a figure
hugging leotard. I can't wait. Yes I can.
I'm drinking in a deathly way at the moment - but hey! - I'm the man
who put the fun into funeral.
Sober again after a rough couple of months. I stopped on April Fool's
day - how appropriate. I seem to be dieting again and I'm a martyr to
me bowels so I am. Still suffering from my arm/back. T'would seem that
some of the upper vertebrae are not moving as they should, hence nerves
are being pinched. I'm just off to the Osteopath for what will be quite
literally a crunching session.
2 weeks later and the arm is improving, I'm losing weight and feeling
good about myself. This is scaring me now. Not familiar. What can I
Fuck you and that getting well crap in a Julie Andrews kinda way. Snot
me. I do depression and angst Lite in a Scandinavian kind of a way. God
this techtonic strength cider sure keeps that humbuggy group-hug
cesspit of emotions bullshit at bay. O.k. so I'm pished -
Some days later.
Christ this is becoming tedious, the tumult treadmill of addiction. Sat
up and tried to read some of Martin Amis's Experience. Ver ver
difficult to read (no not Martin Amis, he's easy on the ear) when I'm
slightly sloshed. Maryanne bought me the book last Christmas, and here
we are well into May and I'm only quarter of the way through.
Some more sober days later.
Being sober might just become my new addiction. It's a beautiful
morning and I'm feeling kinda fucking sparky, nardamean? What time does
the 'offy' open?
Many more days later. I think it's June.
Well since I last put pen to paper in a spilling my guts in an
Diarrhoreally kinda way the impossible happened. No Tony Blair has not
admitted to having made a mistake on anything. I sent my son David a
card for his birthday this year with my telephone no. ------ and he's
just phoned! It seems he's been seeing a family counsellor since my
card and he's decided to bite the bullet. He's arranged a meeting with
said counsellor, a Mr. Asen. Pronounced arsen. I kid you not.
David and I have had a couple of sessions, and the first meeting went
very well. So I got drunk. David friendly and loving. The second
session not so good for me. So I got drunk. David very pissed off about
the dark days with that old harpy Veronica that I lived with. Me too
son, me too. What climacteric days these are. I never thought I'd ever
have any kind of relationship with him. I'm not sure about Mr. Asen,
he's a real dyed in the wool Freudian.
Or is that Fraudian?
Oh it's fucking hot at the moment by the way, it's in the 90s. I
managed to get my arm better with the help of the osteopath, did about
half an hours work for Maryanne, and it's bad again. Fuck it's painful!
Very painful when walking which is a real pisser for me. I did a 12
mile hike the other week and lost 4 pounds in weight that day.
July/August V. hot, in the 80s and 90s
Have been drinking on and off etc blah blah. Had one more meeting with
Arsen and David in a session. Not good. Got drunk.
2 weeks later.
David and I met at Kenwood on our own and it was so much better. We
were so easy with each other, we seemed like father and son. David is
playing drums or rather he isn't. He was practising up to 6 hours every
day and developed RSI. So he can't play at the moment. I told him that
that seemed a bit obsessive. Wonder where he gets that from. Gagging
for a drink today, but didn't have one, which is unusual.
Saw a brilliant music documentary at the cinema yesterday. It was
called Standing in the Shadow of Motown. And it was of course about the
Motown record co. and the history of the musicians and singers. It was
moving in more ways than one. First I wanted to dance then I wanted to
cry. The music is so emotional, of course nostalgia plays a part and it
was the musical backdrop of my youth; along with Stax/Atlantic records.
It was a catalogue of some of the greatest soul musicians of the era,
falling foul of drink and drugs. They had a roll call as the credits
rolled and the tears were just streaming down my cheeks. Went to see it
a again with Maryanne and we were both weeping at the end. As we left
there were two young girls in front of us who were obviously quite
moved. So I tapped one on the shoulder and asked why she had come to
see a film about music that was being made before she was born. She
said that she'd heard it when her dad played his Tamla Motown records.
She said it was also her second visit. Sweet. So it was not just me
being nostalgic about the music of my time. It's just great
Back on track. After 6 months or so of pfaffing around (o.k. o.k.! 20
years) I seem to be in a very good space at the moment. Just for the
day, live in the moment, carpe diem and all that. I've even begun
practising again, at home and will shortly make time to go down to the
studio in James St.
Strictly speaking the date is incorrect as I'm writing this at 2am on
the 9th but what the fuck.
It's the 5th day of sobriety after the worst relapse in about 4 years.
When I stopped I was shaking so much for 2 days, I began to think that
I might well have fucked up my central nervous system for good. I'm
just beginning to calm down now. Managed to walk 10 miles today. I'm
going to aim for 12 miles tomorrow. March 10th.
7th day and feeling much better after 7 hours of blissful drug-induced
sleep. But I'm suffering from social constipation, it's a strain to get
out. But get out I will for I am to have acupuncture with the wonderful
Jenny at Libra this morning. After that I shall go for a 12 mile hike.
It's a beautiful spring morning (I must remember to take more drugs)
and I feel quite skittish. I'm meeting a woman on Friday from The
Guardian Lonely Farts Club. She sounds very sweet with a sardonic wit,
well she does over the phone. I wonder what she looks like. I'm hoping
she'll be attractive, and not in that Lonely Hearts club advert kind of
a way. Which means plain, or even; I understand why you don't have a
partner kind of a way. But I imagine she'll look quite ordinary. For
purposes of identification she did say that she'll wear a cape; fucking
hell I'm meeting Batwoman!
I wonder if she'll use her x-ray vision to gauge what I'm thinking? I'd
better make sure I've got clean underpants on.
It's 1.20 am and it's snowing outside so I might be going nowhere
tomorrow. I wonder if I called Batlady, would she come and pick me up
in her BatPorsche?
10.am. It's been snowing so Batchick and I have decided to meet
tomorrow, she has promised not to wear her knickers over her clothes.
Well not yet anyway.
In the news. 12/3/04
In Dubya's brave new 'safe' world, Spain takes a direct hit from
terrorists. About 190 killed and rising when several bombs went off on
packed commuter trains. The Spanish government is immediately blaming
ETA, the Basque terrorist organisation, who have denied any
involvement. They normally claim responsibility. This does have the
whiff of Al Quaida about it. I think what 'Gorgeous George' meant was
that he was going to make the world safe for America. But George -
America needs to be saved from Americans.
4 days sober after a week long binge, which was almost as bad as the
Hey, but who'd want to stay sober in this insane world? Not me.
News just in: apparently a brand new nuclear powered Russian warship
Peter The Great, is about to go pop! According to the man who should
know - The Admiral of the Fleet.
(Or as the position is now known, The Admiral of the not so Fleet) His
name is Vladimir Homer J Simpsonski who apparently went down with his
American nuclear power plant, when it went critical some time ago, and
plunged through the core of the earth. Vladimir fetched up in
Vladivostok Harbour, the fact that Vladivostok had no harbour prior to
this, troubled the local residents somewhat. Mr. Simpsonski just
scratched his head ruefully and said - Dohski!
They should re-name the ship Peter the Great Big Fucking Bang!
Reports about the health of the Liberal Democrat leader are being
bandied about the Houses of Westminster. Some scallywags are suggesting
that our Chas, one of the remaining members of the Kennedy dynasty
likes a tipple or three. Nuttin' wrong with that, I myself have been
known to indulge in a snifter or three, but before or rather as
breakfast Chas? C'mon, talk to your older brother Ted, we don't want
another Chappaquidick now do we? This all arose because he missed the
debate on Gordon Brown's budget. Well snoresville!!! I think this is
more of an indication that ol' carrot top (as he likes to be known) has
more sense than the most of us, if he chooses that particular event to
go on the rampage in the bars of Westminster. These reports were
further fuelled when Chas gave a speech and was seen to be sweating
profusely, and was continually having to mop his brow. Now that doesn't
seem to sound like someone has over indulged the night before now does
it? Stop smaning at the back!
Maybe he'd had one of these curries that had been coloured a deep red
with a magenta coloured powder. This may well explain his barnet's
shade of hue. T'would seem that the Brits will not eat curries that are
natural looking. They like them to be strongly coloured and the
restaurants have been only too happy to oblige. Apparently they've been
slinging great big dollops of Tartrazine, Sunset Yellow and Ponceau 4r?
(no, me neither) to cancer inducing limits. Now I know the above sound
like different flavours of Sunny Delight, which I'm sure they share
provenance, but having seen pictures of these curries why oh why do the
English want to eat food that looks like dog shit? And Ponceau 4r, it
sounds like something that L'Oreal would want effeminate men to put on
Oh yet another recovery from an alcoholic Blitzkrieg on my tubby
little body. I don't so much have a beer gut as a swollen liver. It's a
good job it's made of granite. It's day 3 and I'm beginning to come
round a bit, but still sweating and exuding a smell not unlike those
strange plants from foreign climes that smell of kaka.
From kaka to Kafka. Oh woe! Trying to get my mother's pension paid
into my account (I'm her appointee as she is blind) would have been
grist to the mill to the great Czech writer. Every phone call - about
15 - was met with the response 'Oh we don't have your details' 'yes you
do' was my considered reply. And after much ferreting around at their
end they would come back with 'Yes we've found them' But then it would
be 'but we don't have your bank details' and my considered response
would be 'Oh yes you do' And etc etc If you get cross with them they
reply 'I'm sorry but we are not going to put up with any abuse' and put
the phone down. I've chewed through 3 telephone cables. I think I've
sorted it out and they promise that the money will be paid in from next
week. I'm sure I detected a sarcastic as if note in her voice.
Last week before I succumbed to 'Lord Smirnoff' I did manage to sort
out appointments for sundry operations on my 'bod'. I am slightly
worried that I go in for a minor hernia op, and develop the MRSA virus.
Though I am told that anyone who consumes a lot of garlic like myself,
seems immune to the bug. And it also cures athletes foot, garlic not
flipping MRSA. Stay with me! You just crush it (the garlic not the foot
- please concentrate) and smear it between the toes and hey presto, no
more athletes foot. Though it probably might mean an interesting foot
odour. Mmmmmmmm garlic and cheese flavour. Don't Walkers crisps do that
flavour? I wonder where they got the idea?
I see we lead the cocaine snorting stakes in Europe, at last,
something we're good at. It gives a whole new meaning to the term,
'keep in line please'. This news comes on the same day that it's been
reported there has been a massive computer cock-up at The Ministry of
Ill Health and Social Insecurity. Maybe that should read coke-up. This
has resulted in payments being late and Giros having to be written by
hand. I can see it now. Gary has been writing out Giros so ferociously
that smoke was beginning to waft around his writing hand. He begins to
G. "Whoops! I seem to have written my own name on this Giro, what can I
do about it our Mavis?"
M. "Well just do what I did, put it in yer 'andbag and take it home
so's you can dispose of it in the proper manner"
G. "Ain't got a handbag"
M. Sighs. "I mean purrit in yer pocket 'cos if you don't and management
finds out, you'll be up the swannee wivout a paddle"
G. "Yeh an' I can't swim"
M. "You can't swim - ooh ever 'eard of such a fing?"
G. "Just don't like waw'ah"
M "Don' like waw'ah? You likes it in yer whiskey?"
G. "Yeh and that's the only place it's good for as far as I'm
M. "Well you baves every day dontcha?"
G. Looking shifty. "Yeh course I do"
M. "So you can't be afraid of waw'ah" She said with an air of
M. "What you needs to do to overcome your fear, is to snort some of
that coke we got and you won't fear anyfing"
G. "But if I got a load 'o' coke up me nose, how's I'm gonna
M. "Wiv difficulty - har har har har har har!"
There is a long silence; she begins to try to compose herself.
I see that Blind Lemon Jefferson Blunkett that well known blues singer
and sex god, has been legginover a certain Kimberly Quinn, which is all
well and good, but she is married - which is not. Certainly not for a
Government minister whose boss upon being elected, promised he would
root out sleaze.
But not only has he been banging someone else's wife but he has got
her 'banged up' not once but twice. Allegedly. He is claiming paternity
of one of her children and also claims that the first child is also
his. Way to go 'Blunky'! But what intrigues me is that he managed to
pull such a raven haired 'babe', twenty years his junior. I mean he
could easily have pulled someone like Camilla Parker-Jowls, and he
wouldn't have known the difference - would he? I know he's been accused
that he's not very far-sighted in his job but; janardamean?
I see that some 11 year old hobbledehoy called Aneeze Wilson has been
getting into trouble on the estate where he lives. Well with a name
like that who wouldn't? He's been terrifying his neighbours by hurling
bricks and racist taunts, farting in lifts and setting cats on fire.
Well for his troubles he's been served with an ASBO (Anti Social
Behaviour Order). It's one of the most draconian ASBOs that's ever been
handed out to someone so young. He cannot leave his housing estate
unless accompanied by his mother, Grandfather or one of four uncles.
Now this seems a wizard idea but why should ASBOs be confined to
youngsters? I think that they could be used on adults who have a habit
of straying from the straight and narrow. Step forward that man
Whatever happened to electronic tagging? I think this might be a more
condign a punishment for old Blunkers, but instead of attaching it to
his ankle, it could be attached to his knob.
Well fifth day sober. Didn't go to bed until 7am this morning, just
stayed up all night listening to music and drinking industrial grade
coffee. This of course had nothing to do with me being unable to
In the news - It seems we men who have been using our laptops a little
too much, and have jiggered our chances of ever having children. Suits
me. Apparently the guts of a laptop can reach temperatures of 70C
thereby causing infertility. Yahoo! I can cook sausages on this thing
while I compose my witty little apothegms. Both literal and literary
juices will flow. So if the 70C inside the machine doesn't fry my
goolies the hot chip fat will. So when I'm smooching a girl and want to
go at it eau naturelle, instead of using the old phrase 'It's ok I've
had a vasectomy' I can now say 'It's ok I use a laptop'. Maybe they
should make old Blind Lemon Jefferson Blunkett use one.
Not in the news:
Just before I went in to town today, my mother dropped a cow pat sized
load of shit on the bathroom floor. Thank God my little sister had
arrived 5 minutes before. So I left quickly. I've done my fair share of
shit cleaning. (How do you clean shit? A can of Pledge and a cloth I
On the way in to town I bumped into my paphian babe. She was desperate
for a fix and so was I, but I didn't want heroin. As we were near the
grave yard which had a lot of over growth, I realised that I could sate
one of my long-held urges, which was to fuck on a gravestone. To hell
with if she had AIDS, they can keep you alive for years with these new
wonder drugs. And anyway, if she didn't bleed and I didn't, then I'd be
We fought our way through the undergrowth until we were hidden from
prying eyes. I think the love act should be private. Don't you? I found
a suitable gravestone with the engraving, 'Captain Philip Oates killed
in The Great War 1917 Serving his King and Country'. Sorry old boy but
I will be doing my own brand of serving. But Captain Oates I am
outside, but I won't be some time. I got her into the doggy-style
position and lifted her rather mucky dress and shifted aside her - well
- muckier knickers. But what the hey! It didn't take long, my knees
were killing me. We finished up I gave her some tissues - you see
chivalry's not dead - gave her the 20 quid, bade her adieu, and went on
I stopped off at Boots to get some lo-cal. sandwiches. No, not local
lo-cal as in low calorie. Dontcha just hate the Americanisation of our
language. Bugger off! We had the language first. What I want to know
is; how the frigging hell they can make each pack of sandwiches 482
calories exactly. Surely a few crumbs here and a few crumbs there and
you'll have 474 or 497 but no, they get it spot on every time. They
must use micrometers or something.
I bypassed all the drones queuing 10 deep at the tills nearby, went to
the vacant perfume counter, paid for my sandwich and was gone before
you could say micrometer. Went and got a tectonic strength coffee at a
deli-sandwich bar, crossed over to St. Giles grave yard and sat at my
It seems grave yards figure heavily today. But this one would be no
good for fucking in, not enough cover. God the coffee gave me a rush, I
could go another round with the paphian one. I suppose one could come
here in the middle of the night, a clear moonlit one would be perfect.
But we would have to sling all the drunks out, the easiest would be to
give a tenner between them, and send them off to the all-night 'offy'
down the road.
The grunting and groaning wouldn't upset the locals (or is that
lo-cals?) because they would think it was the drunks arguing over who
should go and get the next bottle of cider.
I see old 'Blunkers' is re-assessing his new bill called 'Clamping
down on free speech: part 9', about what one might say. Well, when
complaining about or lampooning organised religion. He says that
comedians will be given free reign on what they might say, or joke
about i.e. ridicule believers in a faith. Tell that to Salman Rushdie.
Maybe the other side is not listening 'Blinkers'. My feeling is that if
you have such a tenuous hold on your faith, that you get so upset that
you want to kill someone, if they make fun of it or question it, I
think you have to go back and have a look at the strength of your
Looking at the wax models of David Beckham and Vicky Posh at Madame
Tussaud's Nativity, I can't help but wonder at the incredible likeness
that they've managed to portray. They're both wooden and
Yes it's not long now, the big day will be here soon, oh the
excitement! I can hardly contain myself. Yes Jan. 1st is just around
the corner and it'll be all over. God I hate the collective shopping
mania it's shudderingly frightening. A shark feeding frenzy is nothing
in comparison, and I refuse to be a part of it - why - I probably won't
even get drunk. Yes the masses are about to genuflect to the great
deities of Marks &; Spencer, Harvey Nicholls, Sainsbury's and Tesco.
I guess God, Jesus et al can pack their celestial bags 'cos Mammon has
won. 'Goodwill and peace on earth to all men' (unless they're
Well that's Christmas, Channukah, Diwahli, Eid, Hogmanay and the
Chinese new year out of the way. Roll on Easter. I'm plum partied out,
I need a shot of beta phenylethylamine. Which sounds like a substance
MFI use to make their wardrobe units from, but is in fact something
that occurs in the brain when you're in the early stages of being in
love. This chemical apparently will make you go weak at the knees, you
will say things that you don't really mean, and make you think that the
woman that you're with is the most beautiful woman in the world.
Although dogs shrink back, put their tales between their legs and begin
to whine when she approaches. And when you wake up next to her in the
morning with a throbbing psyche, she says "Oh I can't wait to tell my
parents!" So; this is the reason for my behaviour over the years,
they've been putting beta phenalethylemine in my beer!
Goodness me I was in form and in file at Tesco.Does it bug you when
you see the sign 10 items or less?. I think they mean 10 items or
fewer. But strictly speaking it should be 10 items or fewer than 10.
But who's going to carp? ME! that's who. Would you ask for fewer soup?
I think not.) Anyway where was I? Oh yes, the queue. There was a young
student looking fella in front of me who had 12 cans of Guinness and a
shrivelled piece of broccoli. I said "Well that's you set for the
night" He replied in equal good humour "Well my mum always said that
you have to eat your greens". Oh how we chuckled at the middle class
repartee. And ignored his burgeoning alcoholism. Mind you Guinness is
almost a meal in itself , isn't it?
Then not a few seconds later someone knocked something hard into the
hamstring section of my leg. I turned, and a pretty young lady whom I
immediately took to be a Paramedic, on account of her being dressed in
Paramedic's gear, said "Whoops, sorry!". I rejoined "Well if you're
going to be injured by someone, who better than a paramedic?" Oh how we
all guffawed. And at the end tittered.
I said "It's the supermarket equivalent of being run over by an
ambulance" She and her co-worker suddenly looked shifty and both went
I didn't pursue it.
What's in the news? The Pope is pooped, and may well pop his papal
paraphernalia in the next few days. (That's enough alliteration, Ed.)
Speaking of religion, what about the scandal surrounding the Greek
Orthodox Church? Gay sex, straight sex, bendy sex and just plain old
weird sex seems to be engulfing this sect. There was even a photograph
taken of a 92 year old priest in bed with a nubile girl. How can they??
It's disgusting! I'm fuming and angry. I want to complain to their
website, an email address, fax number or even a humble phone number?
It's so frustrating; how do I join?!
I went out to a lonely hearts meeting tonight labouring under the
heading Inter Varsity Club. It was as I thought it might be, old
fuckers talking about their impending open-heart surgery. (Is there
such a thing as closed-heart? Ed.)
I see that this week that Yusuf Islam formerly known as Cat Stevens,
has won substantial damages against two national newspapers for
suggesting that he supported terrorism. This is of course a monumental
mix-up with the Yusuf Islam who said in 1989 that the 'fatwa' against
Salman Rushdie was justified. I think Salman Rushdie was terrorised,
I see that Jamie 'geezer' Oliver is back in the news and at school.
He's trying to get our yoof to eat proper food. Love him or hate him,
and I know you all do, he's doing a spiffing job in weaning our kids
off shite food. He's had an incredible effect so far, with lots of kids
threatening to kill themselves if they can't have Turdburgers ?. Well
it's either or. If the slashing blade don't get em the Turdburgers
will. Next stop the hospitals Jamie. As I'm about to go into hospital
for an op. and feel ill at the memory of my last visit, and the
inedible mush that was served up, let him at 'em! I'm sure he'll be
able to sort out the MRSA super bug as well.
And what's with this insatiable urge to put the prefix - super - in
front of a lot of words. Are their no ordinary bugs or models?
Just out of another major bender and am I'm glad of modern technology.
If I had to write this long hand, I wouldn't be able to. The shakes and
all that. But it's sunny outside and I'm about to partake of it. So
it's not all bad.
Back on the subject of schools again, I see that a school is going to
bring in a horse whisperer to deal with troublesome or disruptive
pupils. Now as someone who was both, I can categorically state that
this method was in use at my school, many years ago. And it worked
brilliantly. The deputy head would whisper in my ear, "See me in my
office immediately" in a tone not unlike that used by Laurence Olivier
in The Marathon Man as he tortured Dustin Hoffman, after some minor
discretion like whipping my knob out to Mavis Thrindle in metal work. I
began to behave straight away, and for a short time after. Well until
the wheals on my bum began to heal anyway.
Well what a turn up for the books, The Pope has just emailed me
wishing me all the best. And me not even a Catholic. I see those
sociopaths at Annoying Inventions Inc. have been working overtime
again. Their latest wheeze is an alarm clock that looks like a gremlin
and acts like one. It's round and covered in fur and when the alarm
goes off at the appointed time, leaps off the bedside table and because
of a microchip inside, rolls all around the bedroom floor, uttering its
morning cacophony, the idea being that you have leapt out of bed and
are chasing it. Yeah right!. With a fucking great hammer.
Me; I keep a bottle of chilled Frascati already opened, in the kitchen
downstairs. Mmmmmm that just slooshes me into the day the way that my
ARE WE GOING MAD? Part 423.
A man was thrown out of a comedy club - wait for it - for laughing too
loud! Apparently the comedian on stage (and the manager) took umbrage
at the style, tone and volume of the man's laughter. Now as someone who
has a laugh that has been described as 'earthy' I am a little worried
by this tack. Whatever next? We've had Food Nazis, Smoking Nazis (I'm a
member) Vegetarian Nazis and now we have Laughter Nazis. Are we going
to get Fat Nazis standing outside McDonalds? Booze Nazis standing
outside pubs? Mind you that was done many years ago by The Temperance
society. Will we have the Maitre De stopping a rather overweight couple
from entering his restaurant with a discreet "Don't you think that
you've had enough already?" as they do in pubs. I'm expecting a knock
on the door in the middle of the night from the Fashion Nazis, as I sit
here in my Lycra tracksuit and sandals with socks.
There's what looks to be a good film on TV tonight. It's called Enigma
and stars the estimable Kate Winslett and the horny Saffron Burrows.
Kate Winslett was last seen by me in that piece of turgid melodrama
Titanic. Oh how I clapped and cheered as Leonardo De Coprophile froze
to death at the end. Oh how the audience cheered as I was slung out on
my ear by the Film Nazis. Oh and by the way I was threatened by 'her
indoors' who's a member of the No Sex Nazis that if I didn't go with
her - well you catch my drift.
On the subject of the Enigma Codes, wouldn't it have been quicker to
let a dyslexic have a go first?
Jeffrey Archer the secret love child of Charles and Camilla Parker
Bowels is to challenge his conviction for perjury and perverting the
course of justice in 2001. It seems that some evidence was withheld
from the defence, including the monstrous claim that he had ordered the
killing of his former employee Angela Peppiat. Ms Peppiat apparently
looked very like the murdered Jill Dando and lived close by and drove a
similar car. Now forgive me for asking but surely he would want that
sort of erroneous allegation to be kept quiet? Shut it Jeffrey. Low
profile. Count your millions.
Oh well tomorrow's a big day. I'm going to a place called The Core
Trust. It's a non-residential treatment centre. It's 7 days a week for
3 months and is not 12 step thank God. No pun intended. I've been
interviewed there before but came out and went straight out and into
the pub. Not going to do that this time. If I get in I will move back
into my own flat. Bit scary.
Other news. We seem to be in the middle of election fever, one prosaic
and one spiritual. But as with most fevers, we are hot and sweaty and
want to vomit all the time.
On the prosaic side we know that we'll get some old right wing duffer
shoe-horned in, and on the spiritual side we'll get Tony Blair
shoe-horned in. Ah well only 90.000min. to go. I wonder what will
happen on the other side of the water, (No I don't mean Sweden) if
Michael Alucard were to get in. He's already been snubbed by the White
House. Do I catch a whiff of anti-Semitism somewhere? But what if the
really unthinkable happened - no I don't think SHE will return for the
Tories - but what if that little red-topped whippersnapper from one of
our colonies were to get it.
Scene: The White House Banqueting Hall.
May 6th 7am. the morning after the Brit. election. A television
flickers silently in the background. Two secret service goons with
sunglasses stand to attention close by.
A figure is slumped with his head resting sideways on the table, He's
surrounded by scattered pretzels, empty beer cans, some marshmallows
and a bottle of Jack Daniels. he is drooling and his drool mixes with
spilt beer on the table. It forms a rivulet of spit that drips onto the
The figure is that of Dubya Bush. An aide rushes in with a large cup
of coffee. He shakes the President vigorously.
Aide. "Sir you wanted me to wake you with the result of the
D. Jolts upright "Result? I won for Crissake!"
A. "No the election in Britain"
D. "I thought it was in Englerdom"
A. "Yes it's there as well"
D. "Would you make your goddamn mind up"
A . "They are one and the same sir"
Bush sighs and pours a Jack Daniels into his cup of coffee, he picks up
a couple of marshmallows and puts them in. He downs the coffee in one,
scoops out the marshmallows and shoves them in his mouth.
D. "Ok you got me, I'm too pooped to pop. Who in tarnation won
A. "It was Kennedy sir"
Dubya sprays out coffee and marshmallow all over the hapless
D. "What - you telling' me that those bastards have got in over there,
I thought we had them all sh"
The aide immediately puts his hand over Dubya's mouth and whispers in
A. "Shhhh we may be being bugged"
D. "By who"
A. "By us sir". "And it's whom"
D. " Waddaya mean whom? Ya god dam faggot"
D. "Jesus fuckin' H Christ what are we gonna do? I know Bumsfeltd get
me Bumsfeltd, an' get me that Black chic, uhh Condominium Rice they'll
know what to do"
A. "Uh I don't think we can interfere in another countries elections
The piercing shriek of laughter that emanated from Dubya startled a pack of
wolves in Wyoming.
D. "Yes we can yuh dumb motherfucker we do it all the time, whaddya
think we're doing in Eyeraq"
A. "But England don't have any oil sir"
D. "Don't they? We better send 'em some"