My Life Oy Vay (DIARY OF A MAD DRUNK BASTARD) 1

                  MY! LIFE OY VAY 1
Stopped drinking - again. S'pose I'll start again in a couple of
minutes. Went into college today with monumental hangover, well not so
much monu as mental. Came back and re-wrote a children's story from
memory's twist. I pass Chelsea Clinton on my way back, she was walking
with a guy who was on crutches. Chelsea Clinton is in Oxford studying
for a year. I was aghast ( well o.k. not aghast) that someone who would
be a main target of terrorists, was seemingly walking without any
protection from crop-haired goons in dark glasses, with their hands
permanently inside their jacket pockets. It was only when I got home
that I realised that the crutches were obviously cunningly disguised AK
47 machine guns. What a wheeze.
I popped into a drop-in centre on the way and discussed going on their
treatment programme. The only drawback about it is that you have to
stop drinking. I also talked to an acupuncturist who works there to
discuss my dodgy knees (which have been bad recently - it's all that
genuflecting over the years) and he felt that the problem lies in my
lower back. He said that he'd also be treating me for my alcoholism
which lies in way back. I told him that my father was correct in one
thing, he always said that I was weak-kneed.
Mother in strange mood at the moment more than is usual. She's been
like that since YOB - my youngest brother - started coming around
again. He is most certainly her favourite - poor bastard. Well here I
am droning on when I only meant to write a couple of lines. Wouldn't
mind snorting a couple though. I suppose I'll have to make do with my
bottle of industrial grade cider.
Just for a joke some years ago before a party, I completely cleaned
out a bottle of bleach (it took a lot of time!) and filled said
container with white cider. I stashed it at the party in the kitchen
under the sink. When we inevitably ended up in the kitchen with all the
drink gone in the early hours with everybody smashed I decided that it
was time for my party piece. I had stayed fairly sober just for this
moment. I said fairly loudly that I was desperate for a drink. So I
turned and open the sink cupboard picked up the bottle of bleach
unscrewed the top, put the bottle to my lips and glugged. The look of
horror even on fairly drunk faces will comfort me well into my
dribbling dotage.
Poem.
In the chinchilla days
Of freezing air
You felt sometimes
That you'd been somewhere
And now it had gone
Without a care
For you
And your frosty airs.
Went downstairs this morning and resolved never to do that little trip
again without wearing shoes. My mother's waterworks are somewhat
impetuous at any given moment, so I squelched my way through a urine
sodden carpet quietly muttering expletives and wondering if I had been
terribly bad in a past life to warrant this. Yob came round and said
"Aren't old people supposed to piss and shit all over the place and
smell of urinals "? Charming boy. I know that she hasn't had a shower
since the district nurse came round about six weeks ago, and as she
neither changes over or underwear she is beginning to smell a bit
gamey. I suppose it's the stale vaginal smells that I find the most
detestable.
Decide to air my hangover with a walk downtown. On the way I was
bearded by a woman clutching a clipboard and a clipped smiled. She was
middle class pretty so I thought 'what the hey! - you never know' She
blurted out the preliminaries 'Would you mind answering a few
questions. It'll only take yada yada'. The first question was 'do you
ever go into pubs' ? After five minutes of maniacally ironic laughter,
I managed to blurt out "no - but pubs seem to have a tendency to
envelop me". I left her chewing on her pencil.
Got back after walk and realise I've only a few days before my
interview at the college and I have to have something coherent (and
recent) for my interview at the college next Tuesday. So I think 'fuck
it' I'll go for another walk without my walking stick as the knee is
beginning to hold up, although it's still giving me 'gip'. I ponder on
that word and can only surmise it was one of those words that came back
from The Colonies some time ago. I looked up 'gip' and it's spelt gyp
and is a contraction of 'giddy up', as in whipping a horse to move
quickly thereby causing pain. Isn't education a wonderful thing -
especially in the wrong hands?.
'You should not have your best trousers on when you go out to fight for
freedom or truth.'
This is a quote attributed to Henrik Ibsen or maybe it was Mike
Tyson.

'I object to violence because, when it appears to do good, the good is
only temporary. The evil it does is permanent.'
'An eye for an eye makes the world go blind'
These are quotes by Ben Kingsley, the great philosopher who liberated
vast swathes of Knightsbridge from the tyranny of New Labour voters,
supported by that libertarian Dame Shirley Porter. He was played in the
film of that great struggle by the great Bollywood actor Mahatma
Ghandi. There is talk that Madonna may well play the part of our Shirl
in the forthcoming film, but the word is that Madonna may well feel
that even she may not be up to the level of Machiavellian tendencies
displayed by Mrs. Tesco. She owes about 27 mill in used 'onecers' does
Madge Porter, but as she's hiding in Palestine there's no chance of a
monetary reconciliation with the destitute of Westminster. There was
some kind of scam that Madge Potty came up with, that if she fed the
poor of Westminster with Asbestosburgers then within a few years they'd
be too dead to complain about their misbegotten feckless lives, and
simply let in 'the better orf '
Now I'm sure that this is not a template even being considered my our
Shirl's mate Bunter Sharon, the owl of the Jewish remove.
I Have my interview at the college in 11hrs. and 50mins. and I feel a
strange calm descend upon me. Who says that drugs don't work. I'm
buggered but I feel a soliloquy coming on.
'The only nightmare is that you die as you are born, and that when you
die you become alive. To love and be hated in return, to never feel
your significance, to never get used to the unspeakable love and
beautiful parity of life around you, to seek pain in the happiest
places, to reach for ugliness as it beckons, to never simplify what can
be complicated, or simplify what is complicated. To respect the weak
for they have power, and above all that you are simply staring not
looking, and never try to understand and always look away, so that you
never never remember.'
Cor blime o'riley what ever that means. I must thank Arundhati Roy for
that, it's taken from The End of Imagination, I just paraphrased
somewhat. Maybe I'll call it the Beginning of Imagination.
Been awake since 6a.m. having awoken from a dream about Alicia Keys,
so the line about dying as you are born springs to life. The delicia
Alicia was not engaged in any sexual act with me but one can dream
can't one?. Can one dream about dreaming? This is quickly turning into
a nightmare of esoteric metaphysicality. (Didn't Olivia Neutron-Bomb
have a hit with 'Lets get Metaphysical' many years ago?) Anyway my
dream involved Alicia Keys some other soul singers a cassette tape that
kept jamming and the Mafia. Go figure.
'Many of our values were forged against the church. And when it comes
to democracy, the rights of man and equality, God is only a recent
convert.'
The above is a quote by Josep Borrell Fontelles. Spanish philospher
and socialist.
Bounced into town, well I accidentally caught a side image of myself
in a shop window and I was bouncing. I can't believe that I've put on
so much weight. Bought a coffee and sat in St. Giles's churchyard. I
noticed a woman vicar chatting to someone, she seemed to have an aura
of serenity about her vestments. I pondered upon the latest scandal
down under (how appropriate) about paedophile priests in the Catholic
church and realised I was looking at the solution to the problem. Women
priests.
I see that England are about to import the worlds strongest beer. It's
called something like Ye Olde Dogsbreath Head Batterer Ale - coming in
at a monumental 23% which is virtually as strong as your average bottle
of spirits. Don't be fooled by the labelling of spirits as 70% -
they're not. On one of my many trips to rehabilitation centres it was
explained that spirits get a different set of variables to label their
wares. If you drank anything that was 70% alcohol, you would begin to
whimper, you would speak in tongues and then die very slowly. So, back
to this new beer which is actually called Dogfish Head Worldwide Stout.
(I prefer my label) Safeway are about to import it which is slightly
ironic as after a few bottles of Dogbreath it is not a safeway that
you'll be walking. Staggerway? Now that's a name for an off-licence
chain.
Mr. Calagione the brewer said that "After the first glass, you see
things as you wish they were, after the second, you see things as they
are not, finally you see things as they really are - and that is the
most horrible thing in the world". Mr. Calagione brews this stuff in
his back yard. Now I'm getting a picture here and it's not a completely
wholesome one. Has the Drugs, Alcohol and Tobacco agency been informed?
It seems it's all on the up and up though. Mr Calagione insists that
his new beverage will elevate ale to a new level; while taking drinkers
to a new low - i.e. 6 feet under. Mr Calagione when asked said he'd
never heard of the mafia.
Had my interview at the college, it was with someone with the most
entrancing name of Mr. Whisker. Sounds like a character from Dickens.
We got on very well and don't ask me, I don't know how we got on the
subject but it seems he's a good friend of the poet Alan Brownjohn. I
built Alan Brownjohn's library many moons ago and got on with the old
duffer very well and I only mention this because I'm such a tart. Ah -
I remember how this arose now. I mentioned that I'd lived in Belsize
Park and Mr. Whisker said that a good friend of his the aforementioned
Alan Brownjohn lived there. Well anyway t'would seem that I'm only a
whisker away from being accepted at college. But isn't it odd how
disparate people link up, in this crazy honeycombed cobweb that we
think of as life? I probably have friends who know people who have
friends who's aunt's baby sitter knew Osama bin Laden's dog walker.
Fiction's stranger than life you know.
Got home and I was in the middle of doing yoga when mum yelled up at
me that YOB had phoned and that he needed some brake fluid. (He's
fixing my car - yes I know not a good idea!) I didn't - well couldn't
reply as I was performing The Scorpion's Embrace, which involves
twisting my body in such a way that I end up eating my own mouth. If I
should so wish. I phoned him later and he mumbled in that Neanderthal
way of his that he needed money for brake fluid. So I explained that it
could actually wait until tomorrow. He put the phone down and appeared
about five minutes later, drunk and even more incoherent than normal.
Has he been drinking brake fluid? Or maybe he's been brewing Dogsbreath
in his backyard, oh dear me Graeme leave the alcoholism to me.
Am still pissed. Cider rules house. Am finding it more difficult to
write anything resembling anything meaningful as I get more pissed. How
about; the Queen is a parasitic old hag and should vacate Buck House,
wear five overcoats and collect lots of plastic bags and put all kinds
of rubbish in them and walk up and down Oxford Street railing at all
the tourists. Oh she does that already!?
Christmas day. Post midday masticatory machinations. It'll be a relief
to get away from my sister Georgina's voluble vernacularisms at
velocity. Ah - there that's better, nothing like a little alliteration
to relax those post-prandial blues. Well, maybe a pint of absinthe with
a mogadon top might do the trick.
Have just heard that a cousin of mine has been buried, one hopes he was
dead. He was 40 stone and a special coffin had to be ordered from the
States. Where else? But the trag-comic thing that happened at the
funeral was that the coffin broke as he was being lowered into the
ground. If it wasn't so funny it would be tragic. That tells you all
you need to know about the American diet and it's consequences. So if
Osama Bin Hidin' just waits patiently the West will just gorge itself
to death. And they say the Americans don't do irony! Am listening to
Sam Cooke singing Change Gonna Come. He was shot dead soon after
recording this song by a woman he was harassing. Yup the Americans do
irony. Oh the persiflage of it all.
'This is a lie so I know it to be true
It's a love story full of hate
And bile and distress
It's too early in the day
For this kind of passion
So I'll write about it later
To ease your pain
It was an epiphany of unease
That came early that day.'
Crikey, what have they been putting in my drink!
I'm listening to Soul Limbo that fiercely funky tune used as the theme
for cricket programmes on the B.B.C. God it makes my teeth want to
emigrate.
'There is no more miserable human being than one in whom nothing is
habitual than indecision' so sayeth Henry James. Maybe I'll drink to
that. Will we ever see the death of murder? Life is nasty brutish and
short. Henry James. Or was that Mike Tyson again? What are the chances
of dying prematurely?
There was a knock at the door and on opening there stood my scag
riddled paphian babe. We'd met some months ago when I was in a bit of a
bad way and she was desperate for a fix,so I gave her some money, told
her where I lived and pop around sometime. This was now a regular
occurence. The great thing about heroin users is that - well the
females anyway - they lose their teeth and will give the most sublime
'head' you've ever had. Well this one did anyway.
I suppose it's the same with elderly women, which must me one of the
few consolations about entering the world of the twilit. My scuzbag was
desperate for a hit from desperation's look in her eyes. So I beckoned
her in, went upstairs took my trousers and pants down without saying a
word. I wondered if it was ever at all possible to have sexual congress
with another human being, even one as raddled as this without engaging
in intercourse of a verbal kind. You can with animals, particularly
goats.
"You've got a fucking cheek" she said hands on hips, half serious half
mocking.
"Don't go all niminy piminy on me now, you can't afford to" I added.
"O.k." she said as she knelt down in front of me. As her head bobbed up
and down I mused on how important blood was in what was, a pretty
emotionally bloodless sexual act. I hoped it wasn't bloody in that sort
of real physical kind of way as she may well be HIV positive. That's
another advantage of being toothless. As I got close to climax I patted
her on the head and grunted "Another fiver if you swallow". She earned
the fiver.
She stood up; she was very tall, close to six feet. In another life
given her trailer trash good looks she may well have been a model or
even an air stewardess. She would have lent some validity to the
'heroin chic' look prevalent in the modelling world. "What did you say
just now?" she said. "What do you mean?, I didn't say anything other
than 'uuuurrrrgggghhhh'. "No, that jiminy jaminy thing". "Oh that's
just an old Serbo-Croat word for don't get above your station" "O.k.
I'm gonna get sorted - ta". She turned around down the stairs and let
herself out. I checked that she had actually gone, you just can't be
too sure with addicts. No scruples.
I stared out over the arcadian view from my window as I 'tissued the
issue' from my slackened appendage.
'I do not believe that the meek will inherit the earth. It is the bold,
the loud mouthed, the cruel, the vital, the revolutionaries, the mighty
in arms and will, who march over the soft patient flesh that lies
beneath their cleated boots.' I wish I'd written that.
'I can stand brute force but brute reason is quite unbearable, it is
hitting below the intellect.' Yes that was Charlie Manson, don't tell
me that prison has no rehabilitative powers.
Dunno what's wrong with me I think I must have RSI; Repetitive Senility
Injury. God I need the Sanatogen Hot line. I think that the ambition to
communicate can elbow the desire to be unique. But I only think that
when I am drunk, but as I'm always drunk I think that all the
time.
Bugger! - I forgot to go to my amnesiacs anonymous meeting last
night.
I was thinking - as you do, about Chris Evans and Billie the pop
chanteuse.Not a hide nor hair seen since they were photographed
staggering out from Sainsco's with a truckload of booze. There's a
story in the making I fear. Red haired jackass T.V. presenter and
producer aged 38, marries 16 year old waifette pop singer. They sink
into abject alcoholism. She winds up choking to death on his vomit. He
discovers 12-step