All aboard the wibbley wobbley.....

All aboard the wibbley wobbley….

You may recall that I do ridiculous things fairly often.

Last weekend was no exception.  It was time.  For my gig. On…… the wibbley wobbley!

The wibbley wobbley is a mad little boat in the docks of east end london.  That sells booze.  And curry.

Ms mountain had FBed me from spain in the christmas furore.  Her father, a notorious east end ‘business man’, was turning seventy – could I rustle up some songs for the occasion?  Say, johnny cash, tina turner, fats dominoe?..…

And, seeing as I thought it a good idea to leap around in camden singing elvis with my cavalry choir, I thought it also a good idea to say yes, I’d do it…..

I thought I’d better warm up for the gig by getting pissed the night before with kolvitch and tone.  Saturday came and all I could muster was a bit of croaky tina-crooning and some roast potatoes from the chrisso near the pissy bus stop.

At canada water tube I waited patiently amongst the straggle for my mountainous friends to embark upon me.  And sure enough, through the barricades came mcpherson, ms mountain, mr diy and rambunctious rubekins.

Trotting along the cobbled docks, haphazardly avoiding broken heels, we stumbled, ms mountain and I making an odd couple – me, guitar slung on back, her, baby seat.

Aboard the boat we get down to the important stuff.  Moet, veuve and some sort of pink shit greets us.  That’s better. 

Within five minutes of the party starting the boat is crammed full.  And though still waters run deep, I am not out of my depth, but I realise with horror that I may be the poshest thing there.  And that’s a first.

Later, I sourced a tall girl named margot who I decided was posher than me.  But she was by no means acting posh.  No one that night was.

Animal print is back.  But these people have been wearing it since the first time round.  Cockney mob women, bronzed and cackling, mysterious fat geordies screeching at me through my soundcheck.  I point out I can be violent if pushed.

Violence was a whiff in the curry-soaked air.  An old conspirator tells me he overheard four seventy year-olds in the bog together discussing an old mucker from days way-back-when.

“yeah, ‘e was alright.  ‘e ran a good pub….”

“Me only regret was that I never robbed ‘im.”

Fabulous.  They all have three-syllable names like ‘tony brown’, or ‘jackie ‘obbs’.

Robbie jobs.

And although the septuagenarian birthday boy has dragged a PA system halfway across the old smoke for me, samson’s words ring through my befuddled head with horror:

‘so, who’s doing the sound then?’

‘erm….’

‘do you know how to set up a PA?’

*silencio*

‘and what songs are you singing?’

*more silence…*

So after a couple of bubblies I curtail mr diy and tell him of the technical issues we may be facing.  He gets on it.  Someone’s boyfriend plays the bass, he’ll know.  Gold.

But as they do in these east-end slapstick situations, everyone mucked in and ‘ad a go.  At some expense….

Yes, dear darren ‘meant well’, but he has added to the top two most unwelcome groping incidents of this year, (mafioso waiter from last week being decidedly more sinister).

Yes, cheery darren set to work with his wires and buttons, but wouldn’t perform a trick without a little treat…..so as he gaffered an old microphone to some sort of makeshift pole and I barked orders as to exactly where I wanted him to put it, he’d slyly give my hips a good rub as he searched about the floor. 

I implored at ms mountain but she shrugged – you don’t get somefink for nuffink nowadays.  So I allowed the molestation to continue till we were set up, then turned into a complete screaming diva. 

Well I ain’t class, but these men do not seem to relate to women in a way I find familiar.  One man I shiftied past on the rockaboat said ‘nice voice’.  ‘Thanks’, I disinterestedly half-snarl.  But I can’t move for the thick whisky air.

‘not really’, he toothlessly grins, ‘I’m just tryin’ to get in your knick-as!’

Well there’s a sophisticated line.  Tried and tested before, no doubt.

What would be the appropriate response, one muses for a millisecond?

Probably all babs windsor, “oo, you saucy bugger!”  *laugh laugh, hand on tit*

I am not having it mister.  Do not mess.  Sucker.

I tentatively launch.  I decide I can’t look at the be-pied bugger, so instead turn to his surly scottish friend:

“what kind of a fucking response is that?  What kind of a fucking line is that?  Erm, you’re good at singing, no, not really, I just want to get in your pants?” *LOTS of gesticulating*

but the scottish one gets overexcited by my firey outburst:

“tell him, go on, I dare you to say to him, fuck off!  How fucking you dare say that to me!”

I recoil, serpent as I am.  No, I will not perform like an organ-monkey.

“you tell him.” I order.  “I have people to do that kind of thing for me”.  I haught off, the scottish one shouting “fuck off” in his friend’s face.  Mission accomplished.

And the actual gig?  A confusing, ridiculous, old-fashioned, knees up muvva braan.  And where the fuck was dirty darren when I needed him?  Up the galley and round the piss-soaked stairs with a wrap of our little friend, that’s where.

Set list:

·      Happy fuckin birfday, led by ms mountain

·      The one I love is gone – learnt whilst eating roast potatoes and dribbling, still not entirely sure of the chords but it shut ‘em up.

·      THE GRAND SUPRENDO – a song written for the birfday boy.  I forced him to stand before me, he didn’t like that.  I managed to fit in the words ‘I can tell you why he’s so gay’, which did not go un-noticed.  Word after the event was that he exclaimed ‘it’s all a bit overwhelming’, and snuck off to mischief.  But I made a mobster stand to attention before me whilst I sang about his funny games….

·      Tina Turner, I don’t wanna lose you, for mcpherson.  Classic.  Honked out in true country style.  Approved of by the person’s boyfriend who played the bass, someone’s husband and someone else’s husband.  I collected a pile of partners before noticing in close wibbley proximity their wives and others.  Whoops.

·      Grand finale…..what do you think it was?  Yes, that old classique, jesus don’t stick it in there.  To hell with it, why the fuck not?

To add to the disrespectful pile of chancers trying to stick it in there, was an old dude called albert.  I was on top deck quaffing pink shit, when he curtailed me by the cramped bar.

‘very pretty…….but you used to ‘ave dimples’, he says, to an audience of gizzardish women in leopard-print.  They laugh.

I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume, wrongly, that he thinks I am the birthday boy’s daughter.

‘oh, I’m, not his daughter you know!’

He shifts uncomfortably and goes red, poor old bugger.

‘well no, I didn’t fink you was, but you got me all imbarissed naa’.  The gizzards laugh.  I smile, forcing dimples.  We all knock it back.

And, after resisting several substances, it was definitely high time to leave the boat.

News came on deck that someone I girned with years back would be leaving to go…somewhere.  So I should too.

As she stoops to conquer a bag of hidden booze from the bushes, she explains to her new traveller squeeze how she knows me.

She tells him that they all cried on boxing day 2005 as they thought they had lost me to the tsunami.  And I have been thinking about my dear friends at this fraught time of year, those I’ve lost, those I have and those I’ll come to know, and the words of the DOCTOR resonate throughout my being:

“dance like everybody’s watching,

Love like you'll been hurt,

And sing like everyone’s listening”

Well, the wibbley wobbley wasn’t much listening, but it was full of friends – old, new, lost and found, which no tsunami could sweep away:

(listen out for when you hear me shout darren)

Shaft from the past……

“I’m still trying to work out how my cock ended up in your mouth”, he texted me this evening.  Me too, me too.  I’m considering setting up a support group due to the frequency at which this happens….

Yesterday evening, after waxing my legs in the bosses office and colouring in the portrait of my dear samson, I embarked on an escapade to london town.

Planned costume: high-class escort – foul new wardrobe composed of leopard, giraffe, tiger and zebra print. 

I intended to pull on shocking stockings, squeeze into a skintight black lycra minidress, and top it all off with a mohair jumper, but by the time I dragged myself from my postwork-deathbed at 6.30pm, I had ten minutes to get ready.  The carriage waits not for godiva.

Fuck it, I pulled on my ebay jeans, complete with beef gravy stains from a roast dinner fight with samson a week before, a slinky camisole and the leopard mohair number to attempt a persona.  Extra small.  Result.  Only it’s some sort of fashion style that means it stops above my midriff, and the shoulders are ruffled up like tense rejects from dynasty.  The persona is unconvincing, and my date goes back thirteen years to university, and it appears I have nothing to hide beneath…..

When I met ‘quantum jump’, he searched the whole town for a white rose to show me his love.  And this is why I am here.  I need some ‘love’.  “I am ready for love”, I text him in my new year’s crisis.  “Only took you thirteen years”, he quips.

- Will we, won’t we? -

I remember from our yonder years that he is prolifically late, and as I wait for the number 11 at victoria station I instruct him to get moving, shivering in my scanties.

We are both late.  We are shown to our table. 

“I like your jumper”, he says.  “I’m still trying to get used to the shoulders.”

“dynasty?” I enquire, hopefully.

“I was thinking more edwardian”, he rebutts.

- but will he rebutt me, WILL HE? -

Sandwiched between dysfunctional sloany drunks and sensible americans eating giant green olives, I go with edwardian escort for now.

The restaurant we are in is my favourite chelsea establishment.  Definite mafia connections, overpriced food chosen off a music stand, baby squids that induce tears, bresaola and pears, fucked-up poshos looking for a food-excuse to get rat-arsed.

The fruity house white is flowing, and soon enough so is the conversation.

The hours disappear, and suddenly the buck-toothed south american waiter is speaking fluent italian at me and rubbing various body parts of mine, as quantum jump relieves himself downstairs.

“I’m paying you”, I shout at the sinister waiter who has scrawled my name in the diary as ‘dori’, (one away from doris),

“I’m paying you”, I say, “not to touch me up!”

The doors are now locked, and we are the last men sitting.  A young mobster stares at me quizzically across the room.  A look that says ‘why are you here’, with no question mark.

The oldest waiter opens his mouth only to sing “it’s just another glass” each time the south american pours another shot of limoncello down my willing throat.

I can’t see anymore.  It must be time to go.  White roses adorn all tables.

I grab a rose.  We wobble off into the night, walking to kensington via victorian townhouses.  Me shoving my wilted rose under noses of unsuspecting toffs. 

Punching bushes, stumbling over, spanking some girl, which I am told she liked.  This all recounted to me the next morn - my memory now locked away in the wine vault of my liver. 

We reach the hotel and I ask quantum why it is that we are going into a hospital.  Has this whole night been a devious ploy to finally get me sectioned, categorised, labelled and put on a shelf forever?

No.  It is a hotel, I am told.  In the room we drink tea and watch a terrible shopping channel where the ladies wear animal attire too hideous even for lady g.  And then it’s the very late time.  The time for bed time.  Yes.

Well…….not really as it turns out.  I’m sure he omitted to tell me he was seeing someone.  He said I was babbling too much for him to slip it in edgewise.  I brush this information aside – ‘seeing’ is not the same as ‘being’ with someone surely?  And I’ve waited all these years for the grand reveal of what I remember to be quite a conspicuous member….

“I’m going out with her.  There’s two single beds here.”  He points.

“THAT one is yours”.

Not happy.  NOT HAPPY. Feeling like a rapist tortorti physically removed from the subject of my affections, I put myself in the bed.  It’s like a hospital.  Okay, I can smile when saying ‘single’ on buses.  Not so when saying ‘single bed’. 

Knowing there is a feeding creature beneath the sheets lurking but a metre from my thirsty loins feels like torture.  I’m sure it’s twitching at me.

I do the undoable.  The shouldn’t-doable.  The “oh god NO, get out of my face-able”. 

I tell him I am getting in his bed. 

I get in.  Its singledom ensures close proximity.  He tells me to be ‘good’.  Okay, I’ll be ‘good’ alright….

We snuggle, him rubbing up significant pile on my fluffy tank top to make it unreturnable.

Then it’s massage.  Back massage.

Suddenly we take a quantum leap.  Suddenly I have worked my way down his erect nipples, to his smooth torso, to his……whoop, there it is!

I hold a psychic conversation with ‘little mystery’, as I call it.  I am transmitting to my new friend that the chocolates and biscotti weren’t enough.  I want my just dessert….

Staring at my lost love from thirteen long years ago, it is time to be reacquainted, and I realise with drunken delight that never before has this mystery entered godiva’s wanton face-orifice.

The waiting is over.  I stop just short of the money shot.  Dagnamit, I need this gig.  And then I wait….anticipate…..for

“STOP!”

OH NO!

“We have to be good.”

WHAT?  How much restraint has this man got?  Having a girlfriend never stopped him before, as I recall.  But he is no spring chicken.  And I shall never be his hen.

He goes to spoon me gently, and I erupt. 

I eject myself into the hospital stretcher and don’t bother to disguise my utter contempt at this no-show.  Don’t get me wrong, one in the mouth is great, but it isn’t two in the bush.

I burst into angry tears.  Having escaped my entry, he is probably familiarising himself with the emergency exit. 

‘I’m going to kill myself’, I think.  Or maybe I say it.  Through my angry, hospitalisationable tears.

All consumed by fired-up reptilian desire, I want to quench this fire.  Which would mean rape, at this stage.  Or masturbation?  Angry masturbation.  Doesn’t work.  Luckily for both of us, plans for my suicide are interrupted with the wine kicking in, and me passing out.

It’s the morning.

I am still drunk.  I can see the funny side of it all in the blinding light of day, thank god. 

Good on him for stopping where we did.  I don’t want another man’s homewreck etched upon my epitaph.  And he knew that I was only wanting what I shouldn’t have, as always.  Which is all I ever want.  Which is usually all I ever get……

The curtains are drawn, time has disappeared altogether.  We have passed through the twilight zone, and I have to get back to the squirrel’s nest for a gig, and I have no idea where I am.

My favourite.

Stumbling through the hospital-like reception I make it into the street.  And suddenly I’m on high street ken, staring at beige smocks in the m & s window, with a vague memory of admiring them the night before, though completely unaware of what city, let alone time zone I was in.

I have shades on.   I haven’t fallen over yet.  I join a similar casualty at a bus stop.  He is cute.  I start up a conversation  -which way to victoria?  But he is not amused, and in a plummy voice banishes me to the tube.

Not bloody likely;- though underground is probably the best place for godiva right now, she can’t bear the thought of a crammed black hole, and staggers on.

Not sure whether drunk, hungover or about to lose her bowels completely, she walks. 

Past the irish embassy where she performed an impromptu gig for some midgets, past the royal albert hall in its splendour.  Giving up at south ken and hopping on the district line.  Overpriced baguette and an engineering-works train.  Two hours finding remarkable comparisons with a marketing student who attends the same university we did passes quickly and strangely.

And home.  To feel wretched.  To feel guilty at not blogging.  To feel hungover and frustrated.

£100 quid for cock-breath, and no cigar. 

There’s only one thing for it - I’m taking back the fluffy-piled jumper, (£24.99), and replacing it with a one-month subscription to sugardaddie.com, (£21.99), to sustainably farm some hungry fish.

bind us together lord....

Unibind boy couldn’t get enough of me.  Thought I was hilarious.  Kept exclaiming over the phone how FUNNY I was, how NO NONSENSE!!

‘Was I a manager?’, he stammered excitedly in disbelief at my imperative manner.  

‘No’,  my reply. 

"But I do speak on behalf of the managing director when I say

STOP WASTING MY TIME!”

*shriek!*

He keeps trying:

“I was in an office the other day giving a demonstration, and they showed me their binding system, and you wouldn’t BELIEVE how complicated and antiquated it was……..you may think we’re expensive, but honestly, you should have seen how bad their system was…”

I GIVE HIM THE BENEFIT OF SILENCE……

ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS UNIBIND BOY? 

ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!!

“Look”, I cut him short, “you sound like you’re about to spiel an overused sales pitch.  And I’m not listening.”

He hurriedly drums up another angle from his tired backlog of laminate excuses:

“I can speak to my manager.  I can see if I can get you a deal…”

“Look, don’t bother.  It’s a rip-off.  I’ll speak to my budget holder, and I’ll get back to you if we need any, okay?!”

*silencio*

“okay.”

“ and I MIGHT call you next week, but DON’T call me”.

“alright”

“and have a lovely weekend now, won’t you?”

*gasp*

*slam*

£72 fucking quid for a piece of shitty plastic.  Fuck off out of it, unibind boy….

and unto her a blog was born.....

 For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice…..T.S.Eliot

New year’s day is every man’s birthday Charles Lamb

The reason for me not writing sooner is the universal, impending sense of doom that new year’s seems to bring to all mankind. 

I wanted to inspire you all, offer you comfort for the coming year, fill us all with uplifting hope for a successful journey ahead….

Well call me temaze-Pam, and I could blame her for my sluggishness, but I could also blame a number of other factors:

1. spare time – I finally have it, meaning I have the arduous task of transferring all files, including a lot of documentary footage, from my PC to my mc.  Laborious.  Boring.  Frustrating.
2. lack of hot-rod.
3. the hopelessness that surrounds me – the most inspiring sight of late has been two homeless men sitting in the public toilet shelter near my house, shaving off half of their beards and blasting out nina’s 99 red balloons.

But I do feel change. 

“Doc was changing in spite of himself, in spite of the prayers of his friends, in spite of his own knowledge. And why not? Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass. Change may be announced by a small ache, so that you think you're catching cold. Or you may feel a faint disgust for something you loved yesterday. It may even take the form of a hunger that peanuts will not satisfy. Isn't overeating said to be one of the strongest symptoms of discontent? And isn't discontent the lever of change?” Steinbeck, Sweet Thursday

A sense of rebirth. 

Which began on christmas day.  Which went surprisingly well. 

I awoke in the witches tavern, hoovered, blogged my socks off and waited for willy b to arrive.  With a smile wider than cheshire, , santa hat at the ready, in mum’s new wagon we blast out a great choral version of we will rock you rock you rock you as the sun shines over the hills.

Armed with my bottle of taittinger and some tokenistic gifts, we get to the family bosom unscathed, and we are welcomed with open arms.  Dad has dinner on the go, and my older bro, his wife and her parents arrive, schnauzer in tow.

No one gets pissed.  We have an epic mini fussball and pool tournament.  Me and my brothers plug in and jam the funk.  I find a trumpet, which I pass around my nucleus.  We can all play.  That’s mum’s birthday present sorted.  (Anyone know a good trumpet book for beginners?)

G-ma is well-behaved, and her crazy probing comments are anaesthetized by the fact she gives me a cheque.  For £500.  Good news.  Suddenly ‘oo, you’ll find a man, have a baby and become a housewife all of a sudden – you’re one of them!’  isn’t an absurd comment anymore.  I pause before I react.  We all do.  It’s okay.

Apparently this is dead-woman’s money- and there was £20,000 to dish out so god knows where she stuck the other £18,000 or so.  But never mind.

Suddenly it’s past eleven.  And we haven’t watched telly, vomited, shouted or attempted to kill each other.  A mammoth 9-manned game of balderdash results in hilarity.  Seems the in-laws have a habit of stirring things up purposefully by reading people’s definitions wrong.

My favourite:

Tarassis

Of which my brother clearly wrote ‘bosnian pudding made of suet’.  (shit description)

To which said mother-in-law pronounced ‘bosnian pudding made from shit’.  Which she read out about five times. 

‘Paralysed carcass’ was another embellished great that tickled even the frostiest corners of the room….

Howling and clutching our co-op stuffed bellies this was all the entertainment needed to bring Christmas to a close.

Apart from, of course, the inaugural spliff with willy b to round everything off.  We sit in his den, listening to dubstep on his oversized telly via his laptop.  Our arian eyes turn decidedly asian as the weed slithers in and takes hold.  I remember how good he is to talk to, and tell him about my recent loss – the death of my friend.

As we sit side by side, grooving along absent-mindedly to his teenage music, talking about the other side, there is a knock at the door.

It’s dad.  On the other side.  In his p-js. 

Like a floppy rabbit in the headlights I look to my younger kin for guidance.  Will my drug abuse ruin this whole occasion?  Did I eat all my sprouts like a good girl in vain? Will dad go off on one? 

I mean, what must it look like?!  His offbeat, but vaguely glamorous daughter, (and one of the more successful offspring), monged out on a stinky couch with her surrogate son. 

Beavis and butthead.  At best. 

Patsy and a character out of tank girl more probable.

I look to the apple of my eye for behavioural guidance in this unfamiliar situation.  Yes, yes, I’ve been off my knob before in front of the olds; searching fro non-existent chickens in bushes in the front garden.  Piling a whole tureensworth of courgettes onto my plate and pronouncing ‘I LIKE COURGETTES, MUMMY, DON’T I?  DON’T I!’ over and over again whilst the tortorti got down to it in the radish patch.

But not for a long, long time now.  Not since I locked myself out after jiggying someone on a roundabout wearing nothing but a sarong at four in the morning…..particularly proud of that one. 

And the guidance from willy b on how to deal with da when caught green-handed is this:  look at him and snarl.  nonchalantly shrug your upper lip, shake your head and roll your eyes.  Lord, I don’t think I’m up to it.

What does dad want in the midnight hour anyhow?!

He looks shocked and panicked at the disgusting sight and smell that belies him, but decides to simply wave away the torrent of green smoke that launches a psychedelic attack on his equilibrium:

“erm….I’ve left the light on in case grandma gets up in the night and falls down the stairs”……

I splutter.  Not just, ‘leave the light on in case grandma gets up in the night’.  No.  Leave it on should poor old crazed g-ma tumble craggily down the stairwell to her certain death.

Ha!  I decide that seeing as my pubescent compatriot, (who I brought up, badly it now seems), has nothing to offer but utter disrespect, I should offer a morsel of response:

“erm….is the alarm on?”

The answer seems to be no - the mood, pure confusion.  Father exits.

I look at willy b.  he shrugs non-committally at me.

In bed, I lye? with some paper and a biro I’ve purloined from the den.  Blog is spurting out of me, but the THC has taken hold and has me in a state of euphoria.  Paralysed euphoria.

And I experience a deluded rebirth.

I feel new.  In every way.  A blank page.  Nothingness, me, now, allowed to go forth with a cleared record….

The next day I err against serving up the taittinger with the smoked salmon and scrabled eggs I’ve created for everyone – my mum got so excited about some prosecco, that I decided it would be unwise to piss all over her parade with a vintage so crisp to be wasted upon her spam-infused tongue.  More for me……..all in the christmas spirit.

I go to samsons for boxing night.  I force tarot on him and take some left-over fairy dust from the neighbour’s party the week before.

The next day sees me getting up at 3pm, and unable to cope with solitude, samson and mistress white come round for some doobie.  I am naked save for a quality seconds fleece.  And I should be on a train to london.  Jim pops round with emergency mince pies and chocolate and it fuels me.

Snowy footed, I land at the swanky converted mill apartment of a canadian film director and a dutch architect.  For dinner.  I blither.  I pop open the booze.  I stuff my face with barbecued venison and other high art, and find myself at the end of the evening lying? alone with the architect on a sofa, him caressing my inflated, bloated stomach.

I can’t freaking do this.  It’s all part of my weird rebirth!  I want to be me, just me.  Nothing anyone expects.  Not the belly-dancing, open-legged fool people add to the guest list for kicks.  Not the outspoken, vitriol-tongued wench everyone loves for tea.  Not the oddball, staggering artiste people love to ogle at in starbucks.  NO.

So when he says ‘goodnight darlink’ and stoops to conquer, I stare blankly at him.  I cannot bear the ‘sleep in my bed’ conversation.  I have successfully secured two of his pillows for my deathbed, and I am happy to rest in peace alone.

My god.  What has happened?

Dear readers, I am ready for love.  The coming of my jesus-age.  The tiredness of the revolving door that is slutdom.  The thirst for truth, peace and comfortable familiarity calls me.

I wish I’d fucking known this was on the way – all those years of wondering if I had a maladjusted attitude towards sex and relationships need not have happened.  Yes, you shall turn into a desperate, self-questioning thirty-something trying to leap off the shelf.  I wish I’d known before – I’d certainly have taken more advantage of those two slovenians…..

In preparation for my windfall, I join sugardaddie.com, to find 69 messages in twelve hours, from wonderful, rich catches such as these:

evil

Money can’t buy you love, it would seem.

And when on new year’s eve I awoke to find my entire hotmail inbox had vanished, and my mother telling me she’d been sent a message saying it was my birthday, I thought I’d better mark my rebirth.

I go for dinner at samson’s to dread the coming in of January 1.  We cook half-hearted, haphazard cuisine and I collapse under the weight of my temazepam withdrawal and several hundred mice pies.  Sorry, mince pies. 

At midnight we go to the beach.  An apocalyptic stench alludes from the crying atmosphere.  Eerie.  Apparently this is collective consciousness.  Five-a-pack death-lanterns from asda.  Pah.

I have prepared a witches treat.  I have scrawled upon paper my desires and fears for the new year.  I have declared what I am grateful for in my life.  The list is quite small. 

I trot up and down the shingle, fucking-up my suede heels and bulldozing through groups of people to steal their candles.  I set light to my dreams, and at the stroke of midnight the sea takes it.  Slurps it under its milky, sinister tide.  Takes my breath away.

And now, hurrah, be it all too late, I have blogged.  After spending the day evading my responsibilities by aimlessly wandering about he seafront in my mackenzies and a headscarf, in denial of writer’s block, I have blogged. 

I’ve had writer’s block, by the way.  The internet advice is ‘smoke pot’.  In a  minute, in a minute.

Saved, hence me putting finger to keyboard, by the voluminous ms mountain, who yanks me out of starbucks, (where I have to squat over the piss-riddled toilet.  Eat yer heart out those who got to thailand or india, keeping it real right back here on home shores), and gives me perspective.

I must put together my set list for the party of the century.  This saturday.  Aboard the wibbley wobbley.  I am honking some out on the geetar and have no set list.  The occasion shall be ‘wide-eyed’ she says. 

And the week after, I shall dine in my favourite chelsea restaurant with my first love.

And hopefully, hopefully, by then, the world will be the right way up again, all this rebirth bullshit will have conked it, and godiva will be back again……xx

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
 and remember what peace there may be in silence. (Desiderata)

  

what a lovely man