Tuesday, 31 March 2009

Losing the Plot

But am not going to take the fucking pills. I want to find out how long this shithole lasts unaided. I'll crawl out of this pinnace of pirrouetting before I fart in my astronomical bastard of a woodlouse.

Bows deeply

To the audienceth

And bravo! und krapp!

et tete de merde!

Thursday, 26 March 2009

I Dunno But...

Some aspects of this: http://the-mouse-trap.blogspot.com/2009/03/bipolar-phenotype-excessive-self.html rang a little bell with 'recognition' enscribed upon it. Any takers?

To me, it sounds like an over simplification with a grain of truth. But heck. Who's in the mood to quibble and argue when the world is a brief ball of blue and green, shortly to become red and grey. (Geologically speaking).

Wednesday, 25 March 2009

An Apology For My Life.


Theme: an attack on the Arts and Crafts Movement. The most pernicious middle-class, based-in-comfort movement ever to have plopped from a sedulous arsehole.


Playing at misery.

**** ***** Flybynight *******.

I despise the Arts and Crafts Movement. Morris, Ruskin, those well-fed, idle, wealthy-beyond-our-dreams *****.

(Thanks to the country I was born in, I'm a well-fed idle **** too, but hardly wealthy beyond my dreams, and I certainly don't wish to be so).

If you ain't suffered over and over and over again producing, don't dare talk about the 'beauty in the piece'.

And this goes for any git who extols my work in 100 years time on cathedrals. I can handle lime putty and a spatula, ok? All it takes is practice. I'd have never have done it if I didn't have the balls to charge for it either. £60/hour, if anyone wants to hire*.


That all sounds strangely Roman.

* Don't get excited: it never amounted to an income of more than 20K before tax.

p.s. This is the second post of the day. First here.

p.p.s. I couldn't bring myself to put the original quote for the title in Newman's Latin.

p.p.p.s. Edited for too-much potty-mouthedness.

I must be doing ok.

The taxman sent me a bill for about 10 grand the other week. And interest is running at 7%. Obviously, I don't have the money. There is a very natural and common reason for this. Let me explain.

When one starts a business, you can choose to draw up your accounts between whatever dates you like. I chose Sep 1st to Aug 31st. The tax year, of course, is April 5th to April 4th. The advantage in choosing a later date is that it gives you a year's headstart before you start paying tax big-time. In otherwords, it is very useful (and a practice encouraged by every business start-up advice manual or course).

When it starts to become a problem is when you either i) stop growing the business (because there is a backlog of debt in the system, or ii) if you go mad and have everything stopped dead.

If I had carried on as normal, I would probably be halfway there to being on top of it after last year. C'est la vie.

Anyway, to the MH aspect of the situation. Yes, getting letters like that make me shake for a day - yes, physically shake. And want to murder people and all the nasty things. THIS BEHAVIOUR AND REACTION IS PERFECTLY NORMAL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

But it isn't affecting me any more than that. Which is a good thing. I'm used to that sort of low-level stress. After all, the worst that could happen is that they make me bankrupt, which could lead to us being kicked out of our home (we rent, but there is often a bankruptcy clause in the agreement that fucks you - I haven't dared check - would rather hope for the best). On the plus side, they don't tend to declare people on benefits bankrupt (they wait til you're better!)... another spear in the side of the benefits trap?

I did talk to a lovely lady at taxaid.org.uk or whatever they're called. She soothed my troubled brow, but didn't tell me anything I didn't already know.

I suppose I'm dealing with the fallout. I'm finding it impossible to actually do anything practical about it, but at least I'm not going nuts. But that's not really anything to write home about. I try to sort it out. I do, I really do. I do! I Do! Honest! But then an overwhelming urge to smash my face in overpowers me.

Basically, I'm in a continual state of wanting to puke with irritation at the foul and ridiculous situation my life is in.

There is a point to this post (he remembers), and it is this: outside stresses are 'easy'* to deal with for me. It's the inside stresses that are destroying. I've felt well and truly suicidal several times over the last month - but have felt completely safe with it (a novel feeling, considering the last 18 months) - I know I would never ever give the taxman the pleasure.

* read 'easy' however you like... I certainly don't mean easy... Why use the word then? I really don't know. But easier than the bad stuff at any rate.

p.s. thanks for all the kind posts on my pots. I'm an absolute rank amateur - I have only the 2 and 3 of spades in a card game. Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmG5NOmQy_4&feature=related - there are four in all - you'll have to hunt down the others by clicking on the chap who posted them. I can't be arsed to do the linking. If Fred Dibnah made pots, he'd want to be as self-sufficient as this chap. And as good. And this guy was good.

Friday, 20 March 2009

Thursday, 19 March 2009

Just a Photo (Or Three)

From back when all seemed fine. Didn't know I was going to nearly jump off a high building a week or so later.



It's funny the way things go.

Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Post Patrick's Night Update and General Auld Stuff.

I've been feeling better simply by dint of refusing to describe myself as up or down or mixed or fucked-up or what-have-you. But I've been pretty down for a while, and have been fairly up for the last few days - manageably so. Nothing worth remarking on really. The suicidal gloom has blown away and the slow-motion crystal-clarity seventh-sense second-guessingism has taken its place.

Was out playing music last night. I was having a ball. I'm not being big-headed if I called myself one of the fiddle players others look to to lift up the pace or hold things together. Anyway, last night everything felt in slow motion. Playing away at eight notes a second (discounting ornaments and grace notes of course) but it felt like a football pitch of space between each one. It got me thinking (since when time slows like that you have plenty of time to think waiting for the next note to arrive) and it was the old truism: we have a finite number of heartbeats, breaths, curses, blessings, orgasms, smiles, farts, new-fangled obsessions... and it really doesn't matter a shite how fast we run through our allotment. Just so long as we try to bloody appreciate our lot while we have it. And last night was very lovely - we've got some very good, understanding and loving friends out there. Judgement is suspended - nay - sympathy and warmth is invoked.

Slowing of time... I came in while the boys were watching a film the other day: something called over the hedge. There was a scene where a cute cartoon animal drinks some caffiene pop and time stops. Oh! Hang on, let me check youtube... Ok... here we are

That is so true for me it makes me crack up with recognition everytime I see it. People GET IN THE WAY ALL THE TIME.

It's like being in a speedboat dodging icebergs. No wonder everyone hates me - I breathe down their neck making them feel slow.

Ach - enough. I'm boring myself. Take care all.

Sunday, 15 March 2009

The Night Before Larry Was Stretched.

Fair play to Graves for using this as one of the poems he talked about during his residence as Oxford Professor of Poetry. It's a great one. Been a favourite of mine for um.... nigh on twenty years. Interesting nine-line stanza, with the last line always a clanger. See wikipedia for the exegesis and footnotes.

The Night Before Larry Was Stretched.


The night before Larry was stretched,
The boys they all paid him a visit
A bit in their sacks too they fetched
They sweated their duds[4] till they riz it
For Larry was always the lad,
When a friend was condemn’d to the squeezer[5],
He’d sweat all the togs[6] that he had
Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer[7]
- And moisten his gob ’fore he died.

[edit] II

The boys they came crowding in fast;
They drew their stools close round about him,
Six glims[8] round his trap-case[9] were placed
For he couldn’t be well waked without ’em,
When ax’d if he was fit to die,
Without having duly repented?
Says Larry, ‘That’s all in my eye,
And all by the clargy invented,
- To make a fat bit for themselves.

[edit] III

‘’I'm sorry dear Larry’, says I,
‘For to see you here in such trouble,
And your life’s cheerful noggin run dry,
And yourself going off like its bubble!’
‘Hauld your tongue in that matter,’ says he;
‘For the neckcloth I don’t care a button,
And by this time tomorrow you’ll see
Your Larry will be dead as mutton:
- And all 'cos his courage was good’

(Alternative third verse)
‘’Oh, I'm sorry dear Larry’, says I,
‘For to see you in this situation
And Blister me limbs if I lie
I'd as lief[10] it had been me own station’
‘Ochone, It's all over,’ says he;
‘For the neckcloth I don’t care a button,
And by this time tomorrow you’ll see
Your Larry will be dead as mutton:
- And all 'cos his courage was good’

[edit] IV

"And then I'll be cut up like a pie,
And me nob[11] from me body be parted."
"You're in the wrong box, then", says I,
"For blast me if they're so hard-hearted.
A chalk on the back of your neck
Is all that Jack Ketch[12] dares to give you;
So mind not such trifles a feck,
Sure why should the likes of them grieve you?
- And now boys, come tip us the deck[13]."

[edit] V

Then the cards being called for, they play’d,
Till Larry found one of them cheated;
A dart[14] at his napper[11] he made
The lad being easily heated,
‘So ye chates me bekase I’m in grief!
O! is that, by the Hokey, the rason?
Soon I’ll give you to know you d—d thief!
That you’re cracking your jokes out of sason,
- And scuttle your nob with my fist’.

(Alternative fifth verse) Then the cards being called for, they play’d,
Till Larry found one of them cheated;
A dart[14] at his napper[11] he made
The lad being easily heated,
Ohoh!, be the hokey ya thief!
I'll scuttle yer knob wit me daddle
You chates me bekase I'm in grief
But soon I'll demolish yer noddle
- And lave ya yer claret[15] to drink’.

[edit] VI

Then the clergy came in with his book
He spoke him so smooth and so civil;
Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham[16] look,[17]
And pitch’d his big wig to the divil.
Then raising a little his head,
To get a sweet drop of the bottle,
And pitiful sighing he said,
‘O! the hemp will be soon round my throttle[18],
- And choke my poor windpipe to death!’

[edit] VII

So mournful these last words he spoke,
We all vented our tears in a shower;
For my part, I thought my heart broke
To see him cut down like a flower!
On his travels we watch’d him next day,
O, the throttler[19] I thought I could kill him!
But Larry not one word did say,
Nor chang’d till he came to King William[20];
- Then, musha, his colour turned white.


When he came to the nubbing-cheat,
He was tack’d up so neat and so pretty;
The rambler[21] jugg’d off from his feet,
And he died with his face to the city.
He kick’d too, but that was all pride,
For soon you might see ’twas all over;
And as soon as the noose was untied,
Then at darkey[22] we waked him in clover,
- And sent him to take a ground-sweat[23].

Saturday, 14 March 2009

The Fools, The Fools!

Have given me my driving licence back.

Only for a year, but that is better than nothing. Fourteen bloody months they've had it. That's all folks. May write more later.

I've Not Got Over The First World War

Let alone the Second.

Don't get me started on the Third.

And as for the Fourth...

Truism Etc...

You don't post. No-one looks in.

It's all quite natural, and why should I complain?

But I don't feel like posting, but more than ever, I need the help of the random and well-meant semi-anonymous pick-up?

Well. I'd hope I'm beyond that. I'd hope I'm always going to be beyond that.

I appreciate the "take cares", etc. I give them out often enough.

But when you can't summon up the energy to write. Then everyone forgets you.

It is probably all to the best. I've been trying to wean myself off blogging.

It is still a wrench, though.

Ah... fuck it. No doubt tomorrow I'll post a hundredweight of shite on here and it will be business as normal. But it is still a strange sensation how one feels forgotten - not really forgotten - the replies on my last were very touching. Seriously. But...

I'm just the same old fuck-up. I don't see how I can keep reiterating my 'self' and look myself in the eye in the mirror.

I will endure.

Take care everyone.

And I still don't know if I've kicked this blogging habit or not. Probably not.

Monday, 9 March 2009


The only time I heard this finale was in a flat in Paris, stoned, back in 1987 or 88. The wind among the gravestones indeed! (You can hear the whole sonata here.)

Apologies if I've been quiet recently. Thanks for your well wishes. I don't know if I've naturally reached a point of departure regarding blogging - I don't know if I have anything useful or entertaining left to say.

Oh well, keep safe everyone. I'm still reading you all, and you can take my well wishes to you all as read. D

Thursday, 5 March 2009

Ill and Down Hence Light Entertainment

Can't be bothered to talk about it. Watched a really crap film this evening (came free with a paper) - Charade with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. Dire. But one scene made me laugh.

Keep safe all.

Sunday, 1 March 2009

Happy Saint Me Day

Tis the 1st of March.

I feel fucking crap, but that's the way it goes eh?

Take care all.