My Life Oy Vay Eleven.

My Life Oy Vay Eleven.
Met up with my old millionaire mucker Felicity. We went to Kenwood which is a large stately pile on the edge of Hampstead Heath. There is plenty of scope for rummaging around in the thick foliage in an amorous manner, of which we took opportunity. While we were humping - in a romantic way of course - she began muttering "Do you love me? I thought she was singing the old Contours song but no: so of course I said "Yes. But then I lie with felicity.

David Cameron the leader of the opposition is saying that we should 'hug a hoodie'. In a sense he was paraphrasing John Major's phrase, when he said "we should learn to love more and condemn less - take a hoodie home for Christmas. On the subject of 'hoodies' and certain shopping malls banning them because they're deemed to be threatening. Are they going to ban the chador? There's nothing more threatening than someone the size of John Simpson, face completely covered, heading straight for you in your local shopping centre, with smoke belching from his/her waistband. Is that a stick of gelignite in there, or are you just pleased to see me?

Felicity went her way and I went mine and bought a carafe of red wine just to restore my poise. I went outside and sat in Kenwood's wonderful gardens with its resplendent trees. I sat down and was about to pour a glass of reviving ambrosia when 'plop'! A pigeon sitting in a tree above scored a bull's eye into the carafe of wine. Fuck! I had no more money, and I needed to get some booze down me to obviate the shakes. What to do? I can't throw it away; needs must and all that. I don't think anyone noticed, so I went inside, got a long spoon; stirred. Picked up a straw, and went outside with my strawberry smoothie.

"I live in a rough neighborhood "Where's that? "Israel.
I've just been reading about SADS or Sudden Adult Death Syndrome, whereby a perfectly normal adult's heart will stop for no reason. I suffer from SALS which is Sudden Adult Life Syndrome. Which is characterized by a constant realization that bugger me I'm still alive.

I've just been in hospital for my hernia op which went okay in that I didn't die. And my, hasn't hospital food improved! Out are soggy chips and mincemeat that reminds one of school dinners. On the first day I awoke after the op I had a starter of shark's fin soup, sourced from a shark farm off the coast of Dubai. Followed by lark's wing pate with stoneground whole meal bread. This is baked in the hospital bakery and matron grinds the stones herself. I then had quail's eggs washed down with organic decaffeinated tea made with spring water from Provence that had been drizzled over 17 year old Provencal virgin's bottoms.

I had little pain for a day and a half and thought this is a breeze: so I took no painkillers, but fuck me, when the anaesthetic wore off, oh dear me. I'd left the hospital without the painkillers I was prescribed, but luckily had kept the ones they'd given me whilst I was in there. So I took all of them in one go plus some Ibuprofen which I have at home, and that worked. So to contradict the song 'the drugs do work.' But my stomach looks like a very large beetroot at the moment.
'A pessimist is an optimist but with experience.'

I waddled into my local Sainsbury in Camden Town which happens to be an all metal structure that looks like a rather funky power station. It was designed by an old tennis partner of mine, Nick Grimshaw. On my way there I passed three young girls who were sitting outside a café, they were just 'chewing the fat' quite literally, it looked like they were eating lard sandwiches. These are considered a delicacy amongst the low-lifes around here. I must point out at this juncture that I am rather orbicular.

As I passed them a skuzzy looking one said "when's the baby due? Oh how I've waited years to use this particular put-down, and I acknowledge Winston Churchill for this one. I said "at least I can slim down but you'll always be ugly. How her face fell. The arrow was straight and true. I walked on and suddenly there was a torrent of abuse hurled at me, thankfully nothing else was hurled. "I'm going to get my fahkin' dad an' 'e'll beat the shit out of ya. I turned once more and said "I'm surprised you know who your father is. Steerike two, ha ha! They all got up en masse and I thought fuck me I'm going to get kicked to death by three fifteen year old scuz-bags. But no, they headed for a near-by housing estate.

Shit, I'm in for it now, I'd better scarper now. She's obviously gone to get the latest psychopath who happens to be living with her mother at the moment, who'll end up ripping my teeth out through my anus. Luckily there was an empty black cab going by, so I hailed it and got in and voila! In one bound I was free. I did my shopping and then headed for a free food van that's run by the Moonies, Unitarians the Hare Krishna mob or some such. And this food is wonderful. It's vegetarian (So it can't be the Unitarians) and you can get three cartons at a time. Which I did so.

This particular batch had a lot of very wonderful smelling gravy with it - and I'm not talking Oxo here, it was slightly spicy. And there was a lovely big wedge of ginger fruit cake with it. Separate of course you fool! So I squeezed the three cartons into my man-bag inside their plastic bag and waddled off home. But when I got home and opened up my bag, fuck. There was obviously a hole in the plastic bag and the three cartons had fallen onto their sides and all the fucking gravy was swimming about at the bottom of my man-bag. Luckily the bag's insides are covered in plastic. How to get gravy out without throwing it away?

Ah! The straws that I have for supping my tea when I have the shakes, and cannot hold a cup, because my hand resembles one of those paint mixers on top speed. So problem solved. I got a straw and sucked all the gravy out of the bottom of the bag. Mind you the rest of the soup/casserole mixture was slightly dry. Mind you I could put some cider in it. The ginger fruit cake was an interesting mix of - well - ginger and spicy gravy.
Pome.
With your knobbly eyes
And your glacial knees
You're the wrong way round
You make me freeze.

Went into the RAP tenants support division to see my support worker, to be told that their work has been 'restructured'. Yes you've got it in one. She can't see me anymore. I'm too well apparently. Maybe the 'suits' should be shown this blog and I'd end up with my little thatched cottage in Hampstead. She suggested that I should try to find interests outside drinking. Yeh what! Like fucking macramé or whatever those people do! I said that I'd thought of putting an ad in the paper for some young chick to come and fuck me but more delicately worded. She said in so many words 'that you have to learn to love yourself first.'

Fuck off! I hate all this inner child bullshit, if I ever get hold of my inner child I shall give him - or her - a right shellackin' and whilst smacking them around the ear will tell them how they've fucked up the outer adult, and 'AND IF I'D NEVER HAD YOU I'D HAVE BEEN ALRIGHT!' No I want a young woman, and lets talk legal here, over the age of 16 to tell me I'm wonderful, and how their miserable mis-begotten lives have been irrevocably changed by my stumbling into their world.
I think I need to see my festucine paphian babe.

I called her and her mum answered and I asked for Shindy because that's her name. What is it with modern parents and these totally stupid made-up names? It's almost as mad as calling your kid Beyonce. What is Shindy? Is it short for shindig? Anyway she came on the phone and said 'waddaya want?' I asked her if her brother was there and did they want to give me the show that she'd offered? "Oh yeh, that's cool, you know it'll be a 'undred. "Yep, that's fine by me, I'll be around in a minute. "Cool.

So I went round and was introduced in that lackadaisical way that cockney people have. "S'mum, s'dad s'Kevin. They both took their clothes off as did I; dad didn't take his eyes off the football. I lay down and she on her haunches, started blowing me while her brother started to fuck her from behind. It was surreal because her mum was making tea in the kitchen, banging cups and plates around while I was banging her daughter. "Do you take sugar Stephen? She yelled. "No thank you I gurgled as I was about to come into her daughter's gob. Her brother dutifully came at the same time, (you just can't beat familial timing) and then Shindy's mum came in with sheets of kitchen roll and doled them out so that we could clean ourselves. These working class people, so tidy, almost anal. I drank my tea, paid my money, made my excuses and left.

Oh the gift of shadenfraude was given to me today, courtesy of a young twat on one of those buzzery scooters. There were three youngish female teens on the other side of the road giggling away. Twat came out of an estate and as he accelerated he thought he'd show off in front of them. So he tried a 'wheelie', but in his urgency to impress he rather over-egged the cake somewhat. As he went up and up and up, and then over, backwards onto his arse and his helmet whacked the tarmac and the scooter fell on top of him, with the engine racing. Myself and the three girls just fell about laughing hysterically. And to top it all he hadn't noticed the policeman on my side of the street.
Cop went over to see if he was OK - he was sadly. He helped him get up, switch the scooter off and then book him for dangerous driving I presume. All the while the three girls and myself were pissing ourselves laughing! And I swear there were three puddles beneath each of the three girls. I was OK, these colostomy bags are a real godsend sometimes.