Excuse Me For Laughing
Feelings in Song Titles While Writing
I'm So Tired. So Tired. My Poor Brain. Brain Stew. Insane in The Brain. No Sleep Till Brooklyn. No Sleep 'Til Bedtime. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead. Sunset Soon Forgotten. Jaded. Sleepwalk. Sick and Tired. Dazed and Confused. So Confused. Trying Not to Think About Time. Losing My Mind. Madness (Is All In My Mind). I Almost Lost My Mind. Never Mind. Hang Down Your Head. O I Sleep. Asleep On A Sunbeam. Unmade Bed. Go:
112995 words
Christ I need a holiday
For one week only…
Kind Maureen from the Beeb tells me you should go to this
PAGE and click on the latest edition, thus enabling you to listen to me say stuff on national radio (!!!). Or alternatively just click on this
ASS-KICKING LINK. Well, it’s not literally ass-kicking. Only I thought it would make the link more obvious. By making it ass-kicking.
You could also listen in on Saturday night at 11. I won’t though. I will probably writhing in a ditch or lying on some pebbles with pieces of my stomach lining ringing my mouth. Oh, why did I write that?
But be quick. Come next Monday, it will be gone forever. And make sure you have Realplayer.
I'll make this quick... perfecting my Jack Kerouac logorrhea
Weekend: hot, look house, moan, pub, drink beer in brick lane and islington, moan didn't find house, Southwark pub, quite pissed already, tapas restaurant, squished, sangria tastes like ribena, refused chicken livers, didn't like the calamari, vindicated!, bar is open, why? guinness, i hate guinness, spew into old vic toilets, nice, very nice, people sleepy, taxi, the bright dull lights of south london, crash out, this flat is immaculate methinks, stinking headache in the morning, actually it was a migraine, didn't quite go home yet, brixton vibrant, tube to piccadilly, pizza hut sorry about that but wagamama's was closed and it was fucking sick, cheap books bought bainbridge carter peace and kundera from you know where, cinema bourne supremacy, great fun, exhilirating, edit edit edit, greengrass is god, girl from lilya 4-ever cried and she still looks beautiful, err she is old enough not to play an exploited teenage prostitute now? right?, train home, read observer because I have to, sullen sunday blues again, unable to move for the stultifying and stagnant feeling that permeates my bones, find out someone let me down in respect of an important task, I become angry and petty, screaming out 'incompetent', sister has a spot, take the piss, my cruelty gives me a brief moment of happiness in exchange for inflicting soft throbbing pain and misery dilute but that is the way of the elder brother, it has always been so, do not doubt the sibling bond, and anyway she's getting a quarter million inheritance from a fat twat who calls her munchkin, she doesn't like it, but for a quarter mill, she will sure keep that mouth of hers shut.
I've been using the 'Next blog' function many times on other people's blogs today. Let me just say this. 99% of blogs are shit. So bad, with their ellipses, Beavis and Butthead style utterances, banality and ignorance, I may well spend another hour pressing the 'next blog' button to confirm this. It is sport of a sort, in the manner of pointing at the village idiot. Only this time there is a whole city of them. Laugh? I almost cried all the way.
The Horror, The Madness
I've just got my gmail account (me first two names at you know what) and I've just realised, for the casual, I-don't-plan-my-blog-postings, blogger it's bad news. Because it records everything; every pointless email exchange, every vicious observation and juvenile joke that rockets from my sub-conscious, and there is no need to delete it, that I have no need to spout shit here. For you. But I promise I will. Think of something. This weekend I will apparently drink lots of wine and get violent. Hooray for wine and violence! Would the French Revolution have happened without it?
August? Augaarrrrhhhhh ... more like
Eleven months. Hmmmm. I am an idiot for running out of money on my sister's birthday and having to beg a loan so I could go to Harvey Nicks, and buy her some bleedin' Paco Rabonne Pour Elle, but some mouthy woman goes 'BUT IT IS FOR A WOMAN' and I say its for my sister actually. And she goes Harumph, and I wonder do you have a stick inserted in your rectum the minute you successfully pass the job interview, and can I please have the price list so I can buy the cheapest option that is not deoderant? God, this city is one stinking hot cauldron of foreign languages and browning flesh if it wasnt already. I want to go dip in the green blue sea and look at that blazing sun but I didnt when I had the chance because I was writing a lot of trash, of course only certain people will understand what that really means but it is very interesting and addictive and takes my eyes off the prize. one pint last night and I cant get to sleep filthy alcohol rupturing my unconsciousness, man I really need that money, I did the idiot thing of going on play.com and thinking man that is so much more cheaper than the rubbish prices on HMV et voila I buy Down by Law, a trio of Powell and Pressburger films and jesus' son and so I have no money, I am bereft and silly and because I have 80% disposable income it gets disposed very quickly. Tho I mightve been phished or keylogged. Going back to the sister thing I remember the night she was born, me and my brother were herded off to a safehouse, while our darling angel sister was born, while we were being licked senseless by a dog. A very big dog. 1986 the year of Maradona and our first video recorder and dad weightlifting when he was drunk and there being a glass coffee table directly behind the silly bastard, and yes, now its very funny to think about it and the shattered glass, fucking hilarious. I can see the falling, thinner father propellled backwards, magicking the table away into a thousand pieces.
And relax...
Oh yeah, I've been reading Big Sur by Jack Kerouac (Can't you see the genius of this exercise? Beg for mercy when your time is at hand) What a twat, I sometimes think, reading this juvenile, sweaty prose. James Ellroy was right, because he told me PERSONALLY, YEAH!!! - these guys were fucking dangerous, stupid and needed the shit beat out of them. If I had a Delorean and some plutonium I'd be at the City Lights bookshop with some pliers and a blowtorch waiting for Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Burroughs and all those freaking scumbags. It makes me think, rules are good. Rules are our friend. Les Regles de Jeu is still a great movie.
However, it is a lot of fun trying to write like them,if only for about 12 minutes, which is what I have just done; freestyling as it were. I only would like to add that The Futureheads are Sunderlandese Gods come from the part of heaven that designs music that decent, sane people want to hear. And that I will never finish Confessions of an English Opium Eater by Thomas de Quincey; not because the classical stuff about Romans' moral concepts put me off, nor the silly, "I'm not a weak stupid drug addict and Coleridge you're a twat for being so hypocritical about it", but because Dominic Mohan, dressed in a fetching shade of rubbish 70s beige, allowed his children, one of whom was called Gabe to scream like no little blond brat bastards has ever screamed before. It was a piercing banshee cry which put me right off my ravioli and de Quincey. People fled in his presence. The unholy expressions on their faces, of the brain-eating earwig variety. And Dominic merely smiled. Drop the iPOD, Dominic and cut your son's vocal chords. Or bring him up in a Victorian fashion. But I'm intrigued, does he like Gabriel Byrne? ... No, I've got it. Just found it on IMDB. Blond child-monster Macaulay Culkin played Gabe in the nightmarish, 'it's all a hallucinatory!' Vietnam death dream movie Jacob's Ladder. It makes me wonder, did I die when I was smacked in the head by that Andy Frost bouncer when I was 14? Is this all a fantasy? Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha....
Because if Dominic Mohan really didn't exist, then ... would life be grand.
Look!!! Roger and Me is only £11.99. Press the button. It will make me happy.
If only for a little while.
