fight of the wrongchords

Is it just me, or does anyone else love a comedown? A creative low, a blur low? No?...

I’d be a manic depressive if I could only get the hang of this depression.

It’s good to be sad sometimes…….

Anyway, it’s been quite a week. Last Friday I took my honourable wife to Worthing for a dirty weekend. It was weird and dark, tinged with relationship breakups. She bought my mum flowers to take. They were dead…..

Which brings me swiftly forward to tomorrow. (linear time is for wimps). The young man leaveth to travel far and wide and stray from the good path. The lady doth not vanish……

How do I feel about him being away for six weeks? Gawd knows. I found this bit of paper I had to write to myself following a course on diversity and inclusion, and on it I’d written ‘hahahaha remember what you did on April 10’.

Remember, yes I do sir, I pulled the boy! So I’d written to myself trying to cheer my future barren self up with the fact I had squeezed the lovejuice from a near-minor.

Well I did, and I have been ever since, the poor fucker. I just thought one of us would have died by now, or something. But instead, he’s leaving me on the longest day, the shortest night, midsummer.

And in fact, tomorrow is daddy’s day. And he has a ‘complex’ relationship with his Mafioso sperm donor. And I will be with him and his mum, eating some kind of traditional food. Help.

I know I shouldn’t be a twat, I know it’s just his mum. I know it’s the only way I’ll see him anyway, and he isn’t bothered. But I don’t think mothers are my thing, that’s all.

Boyfriend number:
1. mother thought I was a slut. Used to smoke post-coital fags with his father in the kitchen in dressing gowns.
2. irish mother. Thought I was a slut. Once remarked she’d like daniel o’donnell’s shoes under her bed. Nothing in common. Banned me from the house.
3. horrible psycho mother. Lasagne and quiche. Volatile and sinister relationship with son. Goodbye.
4. dead mother.
5. dead mother.
6. dead mother. That one was a good one, he’d carried her to sleep paralytic at Christmas and the next thing she was dead. Broken boy. Good for sex and writing songs.
7. can’t remember many others

the point being that I really haven’t had that much practise at it, most look appalled, and this one has been described to me as ‘fragile’. Jeremy beadle, where are you now?

Sitting at a table (I sit on the floor), eating her food (I scavenge from bins), wanting to squeeze her son (11 years my junior). It’s going to be a breeze.

‘don’t worry about it’, he tells me. Oh, for a young-man brain transplant.

I told him I’d prepare my costume. I may as well annoy him as much as I can before he leaves. It’ll take longer to forget that way……………….

Anyway, for the rest of my strange and hectic week; Monday, pop video in the arches of london bridge. Indian trousers, fluorescent balloon, pissed stain doorway. Tuesday, dinner with the boy. Spat my food on the table and talked about bum sex and puking. Wednesday, open mic night with my wife – terrified the crowd into fear as I unleashed my untamed country powers on them. The rest is a blur.

So tomorrow comes, eh Ronan? I want to enjoy him, I want to enjoy me, but I fear that ejection from finishing school may make number 8 on the mother list

‘mother found clubbing cougar to death on the lawn’