26 Jan 2004

The rain falls onto my head. My hair is all wet. My jacket sticks to my shoulders. My trousers cling to my ankles. My cigarettes are damp and stained. My lighter will not spark. My socks have slipped over my ankles. My shoe has water in it. My keys are lost. My car is stolen and my glasses smashed. My watch has gone. My ring slipped off. My throat is sore. My cough does not help. My wallet is gone. My mobile is flat. My lip is bleeding and I am lost.

I ask myself why. I already know.

Bloody Women.


I am miles from home. What was my home. I cannot go back even if I could get there. The door would not be opened. Nobody knows where I am. Nobody cares where I am. I do not know what to do.

I ask myself why I am smiling. I already know.

Bloody Women.

21 Jan 2004

He found himself standing there staring out of the wide window onto the panorama which lay across the valley and into woods on the opposite side. The altar obstructed a little of the view but he was taller than most and so he could easily see the damp grass, the wet wood and grey sky. He watched the arrowhead collective of Canadian geese that chose that moment to take off from in front of the woods, from the damp crotch of the valley, off on their lengthy flight to somewhere eminently warmer. “Wise fuckers.” he thought.

He could feel the wool of the suit on his wrists. The smart shirt he was wearing was one of his father’s old ones. It was short in the arm, short in the length and strangulating on the neck. In the silence of the room his movement to loosen the constriction around his neck with a hooked finger seemed almost rude. “It would be better and more in keeping with the moment to stand here and suffer,” he thought. It was very tight though. “Fuck it, best to loosen this button than have another one of us keel over dead.” he decided.

He twisted his head to the left as he pulled at the collar and he saw the coffin in front of the blue curtains. The undertaker and pallbearers had wheeled it in ahead of the six mourners, only after he had stood in the way of them for an age, unaware that he was impeding the progression of things. He had never been to a cremation before. The only death that he had suffered was his dog’s. The vet had whisked him straight off afterwards, no words, no actions, and just a bill. “Which was fair enough,” he thought, “At least she was straight up about everything. If those fuckers had told me that I was in the way and asked me to move rather than just waiting behind me, shuffling feet, being so goddamn overly polite and apparently sensitive….”

He looked out of the window again. The Reverend Father was talking. He had left his pulpit to stand right in front of the mourners. It made his address far more intimate, even though he had never met the deceased. The Reverend was earnestly telling her nearest and dearest all about her. It did not help that he had remembered that she had spent time in a certain part of Africa. Her husband corrected him with the right part. He felt himself begin to smile. “Check yourself. Fucking inappropriate,” he thought.

And then he had to smile to stop himself from laughing out loud. Everyone was singing a psalm and the words were the same as those he used to sing a decade before in some abbey, on a daily basis. He looked at kneeling mats, at the hymnbook in his hand, at the décor, he listened to the organ behind him and the father who sang with overstated clarity in front of him. He felt immensely hypercritical. He had renounced all this sort of thing years before. “But here I am now and if I don’t smile I’m going to laugh loud. No fucking joke.” he thought.

He soon became aware of the pallbearers behind him. Apparently their job was not solely to cart the coffin in but to add weight to the whole service. As the organ began, as the weak voices of the mourners started, the pallbearers added their experienced voices to the noise. They added timing, volume, annunciation and weight. He listened to them. He heard when they stopped mid way through the second verse and let him and the family continue under their own lacklustre speed. Then he heard them again as they joined in on the last verse to make sure everything finished as it was meant to. “How many times do they do this a day. How can they take this fucking seriously? This is not far off from being a fucking farce. I bet Granny is watching and laughing right about now.”

7 Jan 2004

I was told this a story once, quite a long time ago, back in the days when blood ran in the rivers and the last that anyone had seen of sense was on the chopping block. Each for their own back then. Survival of the strongest and all that. That sort of existence is hard to imagine now, I know, but it was real. All of us were composed of soft and vulnerable flesh, a shivering shell around what, now we know to be, is all important. Our consciousness. To think we were once confined to slow bipedal ambulation, at risk to shifting ground or tree roots. Now we float. I know you find it hard to believe but it is true. I was there. Anyway, I lose my point in setting the scene. It was one or two centuries after the collapse of civilization as it was then know. Having rebuilt itself after the Third Onslaught, mankind thought that we had learnt our lesson, much as I believe was foolishly thought before. We hadn't. We recovered, regrouped and rearmed for what was to be the final go at it.

At what, you say?

At our extinction.

A lot of us were for it, working under the premiss that if we couldn't help ourselves then best get it over with as soon as humanly possible and let some other species have a crack at this earth, while there was still some of it to be had. I had my money on the cockroaches, but that is neither here nor there.

It would have happened if it were not for the timely arrival of a certain someone. Aszzh was his name and he came from the past and the future, arriving at that very point as he had recognised it as a pivotal one. He came with unknown technology from the future and forgotten wisdom from the past, with a streak of grey down the left side of his black haired head and with only his right hand and by the gods, did he kick arse.

What? O, you've heard this one before? Bugger. What about the one with the robotic frog? RoboRibbit? You have? Bollocks.

Ummm...

Well, what about the one with wizened old storyteller who used to disappear in a cloud of *poof*..............



Where the fuck has he gone?

He just disappeared!

Yeah, in a cloud of pink smelly stuff. It smells like...

....a mixed-fruit urinal biscuit.

Yeah!
Yeah!

Too bad, I was starting to like him.

6 Jan 2004

Also, whilst I remember, here are two links to the only two decent and mildly interesting blogs I have seen. Admittedly, I haven't looked at that many but that is no excuse.

Angelica, the Angel of Detox

and

Mysterious and Informative Lady of London Nights


Check 'em. They is worth the minutes.

Wrote a letter today to this chap who makes inks for tattooists in the US. Want to find out about ink that reacts to UV light. Always been something I wanted.

Hey August,

Hi there. Saw your advert in Feb's Tattoo. I have always wanted to have some UV reactive ink done. Ever since I was 17 (about ten long years ago), when I used to do a little stage dancing in raves in London, about the time when white gloves were necessary adornments, all the better to help spin out the crowd as your hands flashed through the air...sorry, a little flashback there. Anyhoo, I thought why not get UV tats on my hands so doing away with the need for gloves and fulfilling a desire to have some ink whilst avoiding expulsion from the very draconian school I found myself at, at the time. I had the designs all sorted out but then I read some articles about the ink being carcinegenic etc. etc. which put the fear of god into me.

Now, I am not sure if those were just the normal type of rumours that circulate but I left it alone. In the Tattoo mag, a few pages before your advert (neat positioning, intentionally or otherwise) there was a piece on a studio (I forget which and I do not have it to hand) and a chap who had some blacklight inking done. I am highly interested. My good friend Cris, an excellent tattooist and owner at The Aquaries Tattoo studio Cornwall, UK, talked to me about it and we've come up with a few questions before we go ahead and buy a bottle of the stuff and try it out on me. If you would be so kind as to try and answer a few queries, we would be chuffed, especially I as I really want some UV INK in me!

-Are those stories of the UV ink of about a decade ago still relevant? Understandably, I feel, I do not want my hands to fall off.

-Do the outlines done in your blacklight ink show up in any fashion during the day? You know, are they raised as much as a normal tat?

-Cris has heard of some people having adverse reactions to this ink (or ink similar to it, I imagine). Have you any experience of this? Even if you have, I am still going to try it, but we would just like to know.

Other than that, if you have any more info that you reckon we would benefit from that would be great. Plus, I totally dig your hand piece under the UV. It is most definitely slamming!

Cheers for your time man,
Toodle Pip
Bruce

5 Jan 2004

I feel the ponderous weight of my blood as it drags its way around my veins and arteries. Corpuscles made fat and deformed by the prolonged onslaught of strong and mixed spirits, the plasma weak and diluted by lagerish tipples and the oxygen content negligible, the fault of hundreds of rollies and great big spliff doobies.

But what a time was had! Was not last night a recapturing of the spirit of a Medieval after-battle victory party? Were not the nights before strewn with a healthy delirium surely reminiscent of a late-night tea party round at Byron's gaff? If they were not then I must have been really wasted, to so confuse the jumbled and inane inner workings of my mind with an obviously pale and shriveled reality.

I speak from experience when I tell you that too much alter-reality, be it induced by drugs, alcohol, no sleep, no food, a swift kick to the knackers, will eventually spill over into real-reality. Trust me on this, you big purple anaconda - no, wait, well, you see what I mean.

In great big massive ways, these alternative experiences pervert and shade our clear-headed perception. In tiny, wee subtle ways they adjust our world view. Aldous knew it. The All Reality. Shit, lots of people know it. Aldous welcomed it. Well, I've welcomed it but I always have in the back of my fourteenth mind the niggling question as to what and where and who I would be today if I hadn't dropped all that LSD, smoked that weed, snorted that shit, some of that shit and a bit of that shit, jacked up that with a bit of that and munched on those things and drank that whilst sniffing that and standing, momentarily, on my head.

But that is idle speculation. Pointlessness in a world already overflowing with unnecessaryness. If I was not me then 'I' quite possibly would not be considering this and what you have just read would not have been written and maybe you wouldn't be here to not read it because if I hadn't necked that bottle of pills and chased 'em down with that tequila then possibly I wouldn't have stumbled when I did and knocked you out of your stride in Camden one day, a disruption to your direction that meant you didn't make that tube on time and had to wait for the next one which was alright really because the first one crashed and killed everybody and whilst you were waiting for the next one you sat next to that person with whom you ended up in a tight clinch with later that night and now you have eleven offspring together. Pointless speculation. What was I saying?

You see what happens?! Just say no kids!

Nah, just ask how much and where it's from and can I try a quick dab first.

So, I write this bloggage pants with the assurance that noone who knows me will read it. Well, to be honest Bruce, I write this blog just because I can and I really should start writing again, for whatever reason, to get those old turbines a'whirring and spitting out the good and worthwhile shit. I admit, if someone were to stumble across it and after correcting my spelling and grammar in their heads, might enjoy it then great, whoppee doo! I know what I like when it comes to writing and that is what I try and capture in mine. There is so much verbiage out there that sometimes I feel like I am trying to force my way upstream through a twenty fathom deep river of effluent. I'd rather not, thank you very much.

Once again I sidestep my point.

The point being...ohh yes. I keep opening this page on friends and accomplices' machines late at night so to regale them with some of my past outpourings and then forget to clean out the history and then I awake at 14:00 hours (just say no to that sixteenth drink!) and whilst feeling ruff as fuck, as per normal, I get the flash of realisation that I have infected another machine with this address, which makes me feel even worse (My capability for suffering is huge and expands every fucking day). If I know there is a chance that someone I know is reading it, the that takes the edge off my ability to be a complete bastard. The loss of total anonymity means that I start thinking ,'Well, what is she gonna think about me if I write that she has a truly wonderful twat and will he ever pass me the ball again if I point out that he is, actually, an utter twat?' I do not want any self-imposed restrictions to bare any relevance here, as they so often do in everyday shenanigans.

I saw one bloggage which had a disclaimer on it, requesting that family and friends of the blogger should leave now. Yes, I imagine that works quite effectively:

DO NOT ENTER!

"Why doesn't Sheryl want us to look in here?"

"I don't know mate. It must be private or something."

"I guess. I wonder what she has to be private about?"

"I don't know, I never thought about it before she told me not to."

"Yeah, me neither. Shall we take a look then?"

"Mais oui!"

Ahhh, but then perhaps Sheryl wants you to look. Playing the old double bluff number. Who knows. Who cares. Certainly not I. I dribble onwards. Bloody Stella.

4 Jan 2004

Having read a nonsensical letter to the editor in the Times the other day which proposed some truly inane practices within licensed premisi, I felt compelled to write a little something for the sake of my non-sobriety, a state I value just about above all others. A state which must continue.

Sir,

As both a working professional and responsible drunkard I took great fright at elements of Dr Alan B. Shrank's reasoning in his letter of Dec 31 in reference to British binge-drinking.

The suggestion that licensees should keep a tally of units consumed by each individual whilst delivering the drinks from the bar to the tables and only in numbers that would not constitute a "round", all the time being aware of those who were no longer only tipsy but had entered the realm of "drunk", presumably by breathalysing every patron every five minutes, would mean such a huge increase in cost that barely anyone would be able to afford to drink in public. But then, maybe, that is the whole idea.

I have no solutions to the social problems that many binge-drinkers cause. 24 hour licenses or licensed marijuana bars might help but please do not attempt to take away my ability to become sans jambes in my local pub. It is one of life's pleasures. Nor let us forget the Iron Law of Prohibition ,"...the more intense the law enforcement, the more potent the prohibited substance becomes." Actually, that sounds rather good.

I remain yours,
Sincerely Inebriated
BRUCE CAMPBELL

There was a couple who had names,
They woke up and......

So, everyone is drunk. The basic breakdown to the evening is thus. I woke up, Gran had a stroke, I complained about the noise, the reasoning behind it was explained. "Your Gran is having a stroke." Much like I often do, or am I referring to something else?! Who knows, but I am not disturbed. We are all animals and sometimes, often, we die. So, I got a parcel from the lovely lass and it included a phone (so now I am mobile again - same number and all that), a letter that left nothing to the imagination and is document I imagine I will be studying at great length and with much exertion, plus, and this is ingenius and it shows she knows me so well so soon, a copy of 1969's June issue of Playboy. What a gift. The porn is miniscule but relevant, and I am loving the appreciation it gives me of the epoch. The adverts. I shan't attempt to describe them but, trust me, it is a gift worth having. The girl is a player. I want to be with her right now, but she is miles away. What is to be done? I know, I should catch a plane. She will wait, she will simmer and then, when the time is right, we shall be together. Nuff said.

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