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Showing posts from January, 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.
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 butt
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. A
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 cir
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 se
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,
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