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:


"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.

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