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Showing posts from April, 2004
Too much to smoke last night. I woke up this morning with my head stuck firmly up my arse. I have only been awake for 45 minutes and already I have made three basic errors. I've skinned my knuckles, left something vital behind and mistakenly waved at somebody I probably shouldn't have. Now I shall be in an ambigous mood for the rest of the day. When you do something foolish and there is only one person to blame you can derive no satisfaction from taking your anger out upon a door or a bucket or anything inanimate and completely innocent. Then again, it is no good kicking yourself. These situations are why swear words are so necessary. You can relieve so much pressure by just bellowing "FUCKING FUCK, YOU TWAT!" Marijuana. It has its uses. One of which is no longer daily puffing. The smoke of ages past reveals to the mind the fires of the present. Which is just a load of horseshit. Skunky buds. Will make you laugh harder than normal at something that is normally
It was the annual hockey dinner last night at the Falcon. About a hundred and fifty people were invited. This year is the 21st anniversary of the creation of Bude Hockey Club and faces from the mist of the past came along. Someone also managed to get some chap called John Shaw to come along. Noone knew who he was or what he wanted but apparently he used to play for the Great Britain hockey side in days gone by. Through the haze of alcohol I seem to remember him telling me about playing along side the likes of Sean Curley (fuck it, that's not how you spell his name) and the One, the Only, Imran Sherwani (that doesn't look right either.) John told me that Imran now works in a newsagency. How the mighty must fall. There's never been any money in hockey anyway. God, what am I writing? This is just so terribly boring. I'm sending myself to sleep. Why was I writing about this anyway? So, everybody in tux's apart from Bruce who simply insists on being different. Aloof.
Good Fucking God, I am in a total bastard of a mood. I have no idea where it came from, why it's sitting in my head making me snap at my nearest and dearest, but the fucker is certainly here. I have had a peach of a day, doing my thing, and now pretty soon I am going to make movements toward the kitchen and start boiling up a pot of live, wild mussels from Plymouth. I have two good friends coming round to munch. Willem, the chippy who keeps avoiding getting invited around and Jack, the dentist, who invites himself around. But what is on with this mood? I can tell it is a really good bad mood because I am enjoying it. It is as if one of my personalities has taken control and shut me out and smiles and eggs me onward as the other me makes contorted faces of general and all round disapproval whilst banging fists against bulletproof glass. I have the answer to it, of course. Alcohol. I have lager in front of me, wine in the fridge and more wine for the moules. Instead of being i
There's not much to be said when someone's sitting on your head. Plenty to be mumbled. As long as I have a face you'll always have somewhere to sit! Read that on a T-shirt in the back of a biker magazine I flipped through when of tender years. My mind boggled and imagination blew cylinders trying to create for me exactly what that might be like. To want to have your face sat upon. That bit I pretty much dealt with by comparing it to my constant craving for sucrose. To have your face sat upon. This bit was more tricky as I really had no idea how it might work. As the years passed, things became clearer until that wonderful day when some athletic young gal leapt, did a back-flip and landed on my face. There was grinding of her crotch on my jack-hammering tongue and lips. I felt like a man, like a badass, hairy, smelly and moist, manly biker chap, man, in that special way that you only can when your face has been used for a saddle. In the morning I wen
I awoke on Sunday morning a broken man. As I rolled over to grab for the pint glass of water I yelped like a small puppy might, having had its little paw accidentally crushed in a ten-ton industrial vice. My brain rushed to present my mind with some reason for this excruciating pain emanating from the small of my back. It ‘ummed’ for awhile but then had other matters to contend with. My congealed eyes focused on my outstretched right hand and then on the plethora of Kenji written upon it in bright red. I held my hands in front of my disbelieving eyeballs, rotating them to fully appreciate the intricacy of the writing upon them. No, not writing, but scratches. As I fearfully exposed the rest of my body to the light it became apparent that I must have, at some point last night, forced myself on some mountain cat who had returned the favour with the five sharp ends of its arsenal of six. I was at a loss and feared for my sanity. As my mind careened off in dark directions of supposition as
I suspect it is only a matter of time before the Mosques are put to the sword. Before that the British National Party will come to power, a rise to prominence facilitated by our fear and an increasingly insular perspective towards Arabs and Muslims. We have yet to suffer from a global terrorist attack, at the hands of Al Quaeda or some other battling brigade of believers, but the first one cannot be too far off. We may be bracing ourselves for impact but when it does happen it will change much. Being an island we have always a sense of separation from even our closest neighbours and from that comes a sense of security. When the Docklands in London suffered bomb attacks thanks to the IRA, it did not come as a great surprise nor did it shake the foundations of society as the perpetrators were well known to us. When the London Eye is blown off its spindle and rolls ponderously into the Thames where it falls to one side, crashing into an office building several seconds before two men dress