29 Dec 2003

Booyakka. This season of merriment is already beginning to take a noticeable toll on this intrepid Doctor’s constitution. It started about a week ago, in earnest, and apart from the odd night of restrained alcoholic indulgence, it has not stopped since. A few examples of the detrimental effects. On Saturday afternoon, after a Friday night of lager, wine and cava and passionate/drunken love making with a large lady of considerable means, a few hours sleep, a plate of Dr Bruce’s Speciality Scrambled Eggs, it was off to Ivyleaf for a leisurely nine-hole knockabout with a good chum. A means of restoring one’s internal homeostasis before the unavoidable evening’s onslaught of prawn curry and cold lager with honoured invited guests. Now, we must all bear in mind that, unlike many other undertakings, I have never failed to finish a round of golf. Never, despite hailstorms, gale force coastal winds and playing like a fucking muppet. Until last Saturday. The eggs were giving notice of a sudden and glorious return to the light of day, the way they had gone in, and my brow was furrowed and, despite the fresh chill abroad, perspiring. I felt, not entirely unlike I looked, I imagine, bedraggled and barely able to support myself. So I called the whole thing off. Jason was entreatingly perturbed, as he was winning at this point and it would have been the second time ever he would have smote me with mashie niblock. He annoyingly persisted that he was not going to accompany me to the pub for immediate hair of the dog, but would instead finish the round by himself. I was too proud to leave on my lonesome so we agreed this victory would count as four separate wins and soon after we were half way through the first pint of lager. Of course, I will never admit to the four games, not even the one. Quite clearly there were extenuating circumstance.

The second example of my present lifestyle being for one not so advanced in years as me and my twenty-seven occurred this very morn. I awoke with ten minutes to get where I had to be, a journey, via the bathroom and toothbrush, which normally takes about fifteen minutes at least, but I have a flexible remit pertaining to this particular responsibility and so who cares about the odd five minutes of tardiness. Certainly not I. However, when I plugged in my car key to turn over my monstrous 1.5 litre engine, it merely audibly shrugged at me and lay quite dormant. My monstrous car stereo blared at me briefly and then too squeaked out of existence. Brain had not yet fully kicked into gear so I watched myself from outside my body sitting there in my cold and damp car, flummoxed by the lack of progress in any direction and at a loss as to what to do next. Grey matter colluded and thought occurred and I grabbed my parent’s car to jump-start my automobile. And then I was at work, picking up another car with which I would journey afar to the bottom of Devon. Not ten minutes into this adventure, I caught myself slipping off into sleep at about sixty miles per hour. Not acceptable, thought the responsible survivalist in me and so, admittedly only after about an hour and ninety five percent of the journey, I pulled into a service station to catch some winkage. Which I immediately achieved, for about an hour and a half, suitably long to take the edge off my sleepiness. I awoke, refreshed and raring to go, and I slipped the key into the ignition and turned it one notch, on came the stereo, then another, on came the dashboard lights and then the third and the engine farted and went back to sleep. Once again, only freshly arisen from sleepyland, my head failed to fully appreciate the situation it found itself in, for the second time in the same day, nor was it yet able to enjoy this darkly humourous predicament. In all seriousness, it took about two minutes for it all to sink in, as I sat there in the carpark, every wasted second making me later and later for my work appointments. Eventually I came to, swore loudly and crept off to call the RAC who swiftly vanned to my aid.

8 Dec 2003

Well, goddam it, due to unforeseen logistical problems, I found myself taking the day off. Which was nice, after the weekend of hockey, late nights, excessive inebriation and being attacked by a good mate, who obviously has a strand of lunacy running through his genetic ladder. Having barely survived all that, it was a pleasure to be able to return to bed, fleeing the testicle freezing morning, and watch flipped out Jap movies. However, I failed to remember that Cris was supposed to be filling in some more of me tat tomorrow, a day which will now find me employed. Drattage! I want the fucker finished so that I can decide if I want it extended over the ankle and under the foot. It just started itching a little today, especially just below the knee. That Kamolisan cream (for sore nipples and baby’s bottom rash – and now for tats) is the shit. Better than prep H and Savlon. The scab is not hardening up and just brushes off – hopefully taking no more than just the overfill of ink under my dermis. Fuck this, why am I writing a diary. It’s because I just browsed through some other blogs and got carried away. Every blog I have ever read (except for Angelina’s thedetox, in the old days) has made me cringe. Well, perhaps not all of them and I haven’t ever bothered to read that many. Whatever Bruce mate! Anyway, fuck all this shit, I’m off.

|Instead of that obviously pre-prepared dribble at the airport about the last weekend that you were down making me forget that I am over you, what I really wanted to say was,”Gemma, FUCK OFF!” I didn’t keep it to my original three words for several reasons, the most prominent of which was that there was a large chance that you may have taken such an outburst the wrong way and kneed me one right in the balls. “Well, how should I have taken it?” is a fair question and I will tell you how.

There is no way I could ever want to stop being friends with you, you are far too exceedingly cool and entertaining for that to ever even be a consideration, but as you pointed out on numerous occasions and I eventually realised, that is all you have ever and will ever see me as. A friend. Which is great, although admittedly I did not feel that way at first. It took awhile, a few years, the odd tear and probably about eighty barrels of beer but I had come round to the idea and this meant I could be around you without trying to win your attention/affection/amour, be consumed with jealousy and an inescapable feeling of inadequacy when evidently failing to win your a/a/a and instead just get on with having a good time. The first time I saw you without (metaphorically) exploding inside, it made me start. I later likened it to having a small soft lump on my earlobe which used to irritate me slightly but at the same time was highly enjoyable to play with in those quiet moments, and then to awake one day and reach for it and to find it gone. Even though its disappearance meant that it wasn’t cancerous and that my ear wasn’t about to fall off, I still missed it. However, much like finding a new lump on some other part of my anatomy shortly afterwards, I didn’t miss missing you for long and became preoccupied with something else. Instead of being ‘Gemma, Love of my Life’ you were ‘Gemma, Top Mate, Illuminated Person of a Certain Style and Grace, Loudest Burper in the West.’

“So why is it that you write this affected bullshit to me?”, you may well be asking yourself, as a secondary question, the first still having remained unanswered upto now. And |I shall answer that too. I write because, like I said, you made me forget that I was over you. That last weekend you came down, you allowed my hands to wander and didn’t seem at all adverse to me exploring you (although, admittedly, once again you barely touched me, a hint with which I should have been hitting myself over the head with). At that time, I was really starting to get into Bex, and I remember worrying slightly that she might take affront to me inviting another female friend to one of our meetings like I had done before, even though the thought of you and I even thinking about getting it on was not a thought I had naturally of my own volition. Then, what with the alcohol, the fire, the alcohol, the lack of Bex, I started molesting you, and for a change, you didn’t slap me. That night (despite my failure to truly push the point home, again) combined with the comfort which I felt hanging out with you before (as a totally platonic friend) combined to reinstigate this blasted feeling of complete desire for everything that you are.

So, off you popped back to London, and here I stayed, foolishly enjoying thinking less and less of Bex and more and more of you. It was so easy to slip back into old habits, especially when this time I thought it might even be worthwhile. The embers were blown upon, the flames fanned, the plutonium placed into the hearth and the desire was rampant. Anyway, then you came back down and it was immediately apparent that, somehow, I had got it all wrong. And that is why I write now.

So, basically, Gemma, I don’t get it. I am spending these few days after your return expunging you from my mind. It is bloody hard work; everywhere I look I keep seeing you. It is a pain, but one which I have dealt with before so I do not envisage too much more of a problem. The upside of this downturn is that I have realised that you can be a complete fucking bitch. No, sorry, let me take that back. You can be a complete fucking sexy bitch (you see, I’m not quite entirely over you yet!) Why would you fuck with me, for just about the first time ever, just when I had hooked up with someone as enticing to me as Bex is, and then fail to even explain to me or recognise the fact when I was in obvious confusion? Some people could get away with feigning ignorance of their actions but you cannot. You are a head-do and you have successfully done mine right in. I might be tempted to explain it as some kind of game of control. I know this shit goes on and am often guilty of taking advantage but never so heinously. Certainly, most of the last weekend I spent cowering, like a simple minded mongrel not being able to keep up with his Dungeon Master!

SO, that is why I write and that is how you should take it. I love you to bits, think you are utterly special, but now I also think you are a tricky bitch. The very fact that I am writing this is healthy. Someone did kind of warn me that you might be tricky but, at the time when I looked upon you as a friend, this was of no relevance. I guess I also thought that, when you and I did get together, it wouldn’t be an issue. I suppose I am also largely at fault for being such a soppy so and so, such a push over, but normally that is never a problem. Enough of this. I want my buzz back.

Of course, I’m never going to send this diatribe. At one point I thought I might but a day later and it all seems mildly irrelevant, and I imagine its effect would be minimal and unimportant if you were to read it. You would probably laugh a little and although I am always happy to make you happy, not like this with this baring off my frustration. I will say it again though ,”GEMMA, FUCK OFF!”

There, that’s all better now.

But wait, the saga is not over. Two weeks later and I awoke this morning to find that which is below scribbled in a jotter pad with the discernable physical struggle of a drunken mind and hand. Recorded here for posterity and shits and giggles.

“I’ve been trying to extinguish you from my thoughts but I just cannot. You are to me like berries on a tree, no, you are breath. To extinguish it would, at the same time, negate my ability to live, to enjoy. I hope you appreciate the hold that you have over me. I know you do. I’m living on the “perhaps one day” approach. Call it crazy, call it a non-worker, yet still I find it easier to deal with these possibilities than to deal with those that don’t include you.”

Kerist, I’m still completely hooked on the bitch! Or it might just be because I have not recently met anyone who could replace/supercede/knock for six the Gem bitch. Fuck, I don’t know, but I am sure that she will always mean something to me, but probably not what I want. Maybe I am just emotionally immature, or a slack jawed romantic with no appreciation of reality in these matters of the heart. Then again, are these even matters of the heart? Maybe there are concerns of the mind and I am ably doing my own nut right in. Go figure!

Thoughts on designing my third tattoo:

Intended to be black shape down left leg outside hemline:

Initially thought maybe a Polynesian style. Samoan or the like.
These are all very personal tattoos and mean special unique things to each wearer.
So, can’t directly rip one out of a mag/website.

Got me thinking though – design my own, with its own special meanings to me.

So, here I am. What’s important enough and relevant enough to have on me for the rest of my time?

My Mantra:
“Woke up, Got up, Went out and Got laid, Then died and Got Buried Dead in the Grave, Man.”

In Chinese symbols, or hieroglyphs perhaps? Or letters within the shapes?

Okay so probably hieroglyphs down ze leg avec a few lines to add form and structure.

Maybe not necessarily Egyptian hieroglyphs. There must a more than one system of pictographs. Maybe create my own.

Reach a compromise of emphasis between meaning and aesthetics.

N.B. Other things to ponder upon.

A) Explosion in popularity of tattoos. What does this mean (if anything) about society. Where’s it all going? Or is it just another fad like Queen Elizabeth and her lead face paint.

B) Is Britain polite? Is Britain too polite? Story of holding door open and having to wait and causing discomfort to oneself and the person now having to hurry to take the offered open door so not to seem rude themselves.

I have decided. The only thing that meets with the requirements of relevance to me and general coolness is the above mantra. Must have it. Will have it. Wunderbar!!

More research needed into everything. Everything I say!!

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