My Life Oy Vey 12 (Diary Of A Drunk Bastard)

My Life Oy Vey 12
Doncha just hate these black keyboards they’re far too springy. I punched a particular key - I think it was an F - and the resultant recoil nearly had my eye out! My elder sister remembers the good old days of the old typewriters where you had to really bash down hard; she had forearms like hams. She could open tins of peas without a tin opener.
As you can tell I'm in good form but 5 days ago - ouch! I thought I was going to go into convulsions I was shaking so much. The people next door must have thought that the girlfriend had come round to visit. I'm still shaking now and can only type with my right index finger. Those last few lines took 2 hours. Anyway, the upshot is that I said to myself I'm never going to go through this again and I've asked to go in for a detox. I may go on from there into re-hab, but that isn't a cure-all. The last time I went I lasted 3 weeks. A good friend of mine who lives just up the road never did anything like that, doesn't do any meetings or have therapy and has been sober for years. No: I've had enough. I'm going to do something with what's left of my life. I’d love to be able to crunch around on my drums again, arthritic hands notwithstanding.

Well I’ve gone and done it again, I’m on another ‘jag’. And it’s all the fault of an AA evangelical. I went to a meeting yesterday afternoon and it was a good meeting, I was with an old friend of mine who used to teach drama. It’s a shame that he taught, he should have been on the stage. England - nay the world lost one of its great comic actors. He’s like a funkier version of Alastair Sim, he has the same slightly wobbly eye too.

My friend, lets call him Chris because that’s his name, delivers his lines (he doesn’t do talk) in a laconic fashion and when the joke comes, well you don’t see it coming, your laughter almost envelopes you and you realise that you’re in the presence of a great comedian. Well he had us all in fits of laughter and lo the meeting was good. Until the evangelical pounced. Oh for crying out fucking loud. He was gibbering on about getting down on your knees and thanking God for a sober day. This was all said about an inch from my nose. Yep he was one of those. All the while I was backing up but he just kept following. I wanted to say that the only time I’m on my knees is when I’m sucking a knob.

If he’s there next week and starts doing his thing in front of my nose, I’ll just grab him and administer a great big slobbery kiss on his lips. Mmmmmm maybe not a good idea, he might like it and want to take it to the next level. Urrrrgggghhhh! I did rather stupidly give him my telephone number just to get rid of him. He phoned me just now and he speaks in a very monotone way. I’m sure I’ve just attracted a serial killer. God he’s spooky. All good source material though. But in all of this I try to maintain a confident emotional hue. It’s not ‘the grass is always greener on the other side syndrome’ because quite frankly it is: I’ve been there and believe me; money works. No, I live in hope that somehow some way I’ll make some money and won’t have to be at the bottom of the pile anymore.

I see ‘Teflon Tone’ has been fingered by ‘The Filth’ for a second time around, in the cash for beverages farrago. His mate Lord ‘Lucan’ Levy or LLL as he’s known in the trade, has also been fingered again. I guess the cops blame him for inflicting Alvin Stardust on us all, a far more serious offence than fiddling the canteen expenses. The tiny little man when he was arrested said to the interviewing officer “but we need our cheap choccy biscuits and teas, if we had to pay for them then they wouldn’t be free would they me old cocker”? This did seem to send the arresting officer into a philosophical deliquium. “Yep you got me there Lucan, you can go. So Levy put on his platform boots and scarpered sharpish.

Oh dear me ‘Suicide Shirley’ came around the other night absolutely ‘battered’. This is an Irish expression and is self-explanatory. But instead of warming up to her abuse of me, she tore straight in. “It’s all your bloody fault, I was fine before I met you” she screeched, which I had to concur was true. But I pointed out that she only started to drink heavily when her extremely talented and beautiful daughter, decided against becoming a slave to the classical world, so dropped out and became a squatter. A pretend one at that. She would come home regularly and have baths, change clothes, watch some TV and then go out and sell the Big Issue. I knew what she was doing and would come out of it alright; she has: she is now a tutor and earning lots of dosh.
I knew the evening was not going swimmingly when she went out onto the balcony, stood on the rails and began to scream like a banshee. I’m told they scream loudly. At this juncture I called the cops. Well I didn’t want people thinking that this was a madhouse. It was quite sweet actually, all the neighbours opposite were coming out onto their verandas, bringing pints of beer, some even bringing chairs to sit on, “Cor this is better than the tele” I could here them saying. She suddenly leapt back down and came in and got a large kitchen knife. ‘Ooer’ I thought as my gonads began to shrink. I leapt out of the way and out of the flat. My next-door neighbour said “come in mate until the cops come”.
They came within a few minutes, 2 man cops and 2 gal cops. C’mon Shirl (she is known to them). She did a strange thing: she presented my phone to me as if it were some sort of sacrificial lamb. Now being pretty pissed at the time and just wanting her out of the house I didn’t realise the significance of this. They all left and I realised the significance of that act the next morning. She’d cut the wires. Not only of that but all the wires on my new computer too. Sometimes there are defining moments in any relationship; and this was one. ‘Right you cunt, you’re never getting in here again’ I thought. Also at that point I knew it was finally over.
Now I don’t want to go all Freudian on you, what with her living vicariously through her daughter and then through me, but in her more drunken moments she would try to trash my stuff. Some years ago I’d woken up and went into the kitchen for a refreshing drink of cider, and there were all my writings stuffed into the rubbish bin. (?) She, recently in a drunken rage, phoned all the schools that her daughter was working at, and told the administrators that her daughter was a drug addict and a drunk and was a bad influence on the kids and that they shouldn’t employ her.
I mean: this is the stuff of TV drama or film. I wonder who would play her? A completely mad, barking, over the top Miranda Richardson I think. Who would play me? A rather scrofulous Robert De Niro I imagine. Her daughter? Keira Knightly, but with tits.

I feel I may well have screwed up my central nervous system permanently. I usually get ‘the shakes’ for a day or two and don’t even try to type, but on the third day I can fly around the keyboard. This isn’t happening this time. It’s six days now and it’s only thanks to modern technology - the computer - that this doesn’t look a complete mess. Another worrying thing is that my eyes have taken a strange turn. No matter which glasses I put on, the screen is blurred. And no I’m not pissed. Maybe that’s the problem. It’s probably got everything to do with my last 2 relapses, and when I came out of them both, I was so ill I literally had nothing to eat for 3 days. I shook like a jelly in an earthquake, all I could drink was water. I lost a stone in 2 weeks. Now this could well be the new diet fad.
GET PISSED AND LOSE WEIGHT.
It has a certain ring to it don’t you agree?

Wobbled into town or as it’s generally known the West End. I was going to see a documentary at my favourite cinema The Prince Charles, but I kind of got side-tracked. I went to get a coffee which was situated next to a strip joint. Now standing in the doorway was a gorgeous black girl at least six feet tall. (Doesn’t it annoy you when people say six foot tall? Foot, singular, feet plural. And this girl was definitely plural.) I thought ‘why not?’ She smiled at me so I said “Do you do any outreach work?” “Wah” she replied. Do you visit people such as myself in their homes to, you know, perform sexual favours. “Oh yeh, didn’t know wot you were on abaht.” “What sort of remuneration would you be asking for?” “Wah you on abaht, can you speak English?” “How much?” “Oh, yeh, £200.” I was somewhat taken aback, as you would be. So I said “In the spirit of Black and White détente might you reduce your price to say a £100?” She was extremely diplomatic when she said “Fuck off and die you fat old git.”

God times are hard on the sexual front, I’m even having to fake my own orgasms when I masturbate. Shame that Suicide Shirley has gone all critical on me I daren’t let her in the flat again after her last performance. You can attack me all you want and I’ll come back for more, but fuck with my computer and that’s it. She phoned just now in a bit of a state, she tends to bleat when she’s like that and I can’t stand it. When I’m bad I just go quiet and isolate. When she starts that mewling I just want to give her a slap and tell her that she shouldn’t have picked up that first drink. It’s what I tell myself anyway. I told her that it was all over between us and not to call me again and put the phone down. She phoned about ten minutes later so I just told her to fuck off. She’ll probably get well now.

Heard on the TV tonight: there was an item on the news about people using their mobile phones and a policeman said “People are getting seriously killed and injured.” Oooh, I’d hate to be seriously killed.

There’s an ad in the lonely farts column of The Guardian from a 60+ female who describes herself as ‘foxy.’ I’m going to phone her as she sounds fun. ‘Many a good tune played on an old fiddle’ a builder friend of mine was always fond of saying. Maybe I’ll find out. Well I’ve just phoned the ad and listened to her message: she sounds like Joanna Lumley’s posher sister. She’s terrblee terrblee posh. There was I expecting someone who sounds like a racy version of Kathy Burke, and this blue stocking comes on the line. Now I really am interested.

Blue Stocking phoned this morning and left a message; did I detect just a hint of desperation? And waddayaknow, she’s lives just around the corner. I’ve just phoned her and we’ve agreed to meet on Sunday. Hey I’m going granny fucking! I wonder if she does have false teeth? There’s a brou ha ha in the world of celebrity at the moment about Anna Nicole Smith’s body and who to hand it over to. Well if I can warm her up and if she’s not too decomposed, I’ve got a spare room and some K Y jelly; catch my drift?

Well I’ve gone and done it, I’m booked in for a detox from next Wednesday, I’m sure there’ll be some crazies in there so watch this space.