Fear And Loathing In Suburban Greater London and the Thames Valley

Thanks to Betty and Pammie for expressions of sympathy, very kind of you both. Have to say, it's not really sympathy I need right now, it's a long time in the sack with a really dirty bird, plenty of imagination and sauce, and plenty of...well you probably know me well enough to know what else she needs plenty of!

And when that's done, I need some high quality weaponry - let's start with a machine gun and flame-thrower for the office, and a battle tank for the commute home. No fucking around there, then.

Aaaanyways, enough of me whitterings. Folks, if you like your music, have a look at this site. You'll have to put some effort in, you want to go to the bottom of the home page and follow the link labelled VPRO 3voor12, and you will find some red tabs, click the one labelled 'Kijk en luister', then the one 'concerten' and you will find an Aladdin's Cave of popular music, from Dutch tv, radio and festivals and general gigs. Some of the clips aren't very long, but some are whole sets, and there is a massive array of genres and artists - some are major acts, some I've never heard of. Anyway, have a look, and why not have a listen to something that takes your fancy.

I've got a new camera, needs must with the disappearance of my previous one, so Krusty-pics will soon return, and I am delighted to add that I have also found that the Chanel concession at John Lewis Brent Cross sells Antaeus deodorant sticks, which for the last year I have been forced to buy mail order from a man in Cardiff whilst all other retailers either deny the existence of the product or state that it is no longer made. Utter bollocks, of course, why would one stop making something so civilised as Chanel deodorant, but there we are.

For Christ's sakes, folks, Chanel deodorant. Why the fuck would you stop making that? And why did the bint at Superdrug expect me to believe that? What kind of fucking people are we? Do I want to stand about waiting for her to do me the favour of enabling me to part with my hard-earned cash? Yes, of course I do, 'cause that gives me a chance to listen to her regaling her mate with an account of how she got pissed on bacardi breezers last night, had a fight, then had a quickie behind the bins with some bloke she can't remember his name, then threw up all over his shoulder, funny innit.

Last Friday I went to a trade dinner at a well-known Park Lane hotel, where the speakers were Peter Alliss, who was well-rehearsed and amiable, and the execrable Dominic Holland, an alleged comedian. I understand that he is an 'observational comedian'. More efficiently described as a cunt. Anyway, it gave me a brief opportunity to describe football violence with Frank McLintock, admire Tessa Sanderson's tits - tell you what, a couple of drinks inside of me and she looked pretty game to me, I would've on Friday - and to have a chat with one the greats of the Darts world, Bobby George, whom I had no difficulty in persuading to gift me his autograph.

And after the dinner, and a drink in a bar at the top floor of the hotel, then legging it because I didn't want to discuss the poultry industry with some people from said poultry industry, so I went round the corner to the Royal Academy to enjoy their current exhibition of works by Auguste Rodin. I'd not realised this about M. Rodin before, but why have they all got such fucking big hands and feet? Hands like shovels, honestly, totally disproportionate. Huge. Makes them all look vaguely simian... I was expecting to have a net thrown over me at any moment.


Then I went shopping and bought a t-shirt with Les Dawson on it. Can't really improve on that, can you? No.

Any way, I'm tired now, so I'm going to go to bed and dream of brunette busty babes with beaucoup de la chatte noire who want to dance avec moi toute la soiree, tout le nuit, toute la journee, and make les bonnes reves. Gggrrrrrrr.

Freak-outs and Fractals

I was listening to some Serge Gainsbourg, when there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and in strode a tall, athletic woman, long thick curly brunette hair. She wore a coat that reached her mid-thighs, and bottes cuirs. She smiled, perfect teeth set in her face of beautifully tanned perfect skin, and led me back to the sofa. She pushed me onto it, then

Fuck, wrong place. Hi there, apologies if you've been here hoping for something vaguely new, but I haven't written for ages 'cause I was away, and then I've been really busy. Actually, truth told, I've had a major bout of apathy, really dreadful, so each evening I come home with stuff to say, then realise it's utter crud and don't bother to write it up, and sit here in a pool of self-derision and despising. Which is why I've been to see Socrates today, and very productive it was too. Amongst other things we discussed my continuing issues with the LPS, and he suggested I'm not taking enough!!

I did go away, that much is true, to Yorkshire for a couple of days, to see T and R. Amongst other things I got taken out on a blind date, which was nice but no spark, damn, we went to Fountains Abbey, beautiful, funny to see the stags in the park eyeing one another up for a punch-up and hustling their harems around. Then we ate some venison sausages.

T and I went for a really long walk, taking in a place called Dogloitch Wood. What is a dogloitch. Or a dog's loitch. Or perhaps one loitches a dog. And why at that particular wood? A lovely walk, some great views across the landscape including Ferrybridge powerstation, and in another wood someone had decorated the trees for Hallowe'en, with bats and pumpkins and ghosties and ghoulies hanging from the trees, and two giant serpents with luminescent eyes and fangs. It was going to be well spooky up there that evening. But we didn't care, 'cause we had another engagement.

We went to see this bunch.

Now, Leeds Irish Centre is not a big venue, so the lights were not shown to their best effect, but the gig was ok. Not mega, but then I always get a score draw at least, so I'm not beefing. And there were a couple of real treats; as one of the crowd pointed out when they played 'Infinity', "About fucking time."

I realise this means absolutely fuck all to most people, but hey, let me have my little indulgences, 'cause I need 'em.

And on the subject of little indulgences, some of my esteemed colleagues today spent the better part of two hours discussing the various ailments of their blessed offspring, and generously shared with all and sundry the details of their various snot, poo, sick and rashes. Delightful. I wouldn't mind, but one of the silly moos recently had the nerve to make a complaint about me along the lines that I was difficult to be around and could I be moved as she didn't like having to sit at a desk next to me. Apparently she didn't like the nature of my conversation, or my tendency to hum along to the iPol - which I've also been barred from using as the desire to block out the drivel of the infuriating menopausal cow and her cohorts is apparently making me antisocial - so she had a great whinge about me to various people. Now let me get this straight, I don't find the subject of her children utterly riveting, so I must be antisocial. If I follow Socrates's advice and make more effort with the social niceties, then I will go to the office tomorrow and joyously regale them all with a detailed description of the Mandelbrot patterns last nights beef kung-po and special fried rice left all over the bog this morning. No?

Fuckers.

Jesus, I feel so horny.

Did I mention the tragic news about Sparkly Eyes? She 'phoned last week to tell me that she's got engaged.

I'll try and make the effort to get something together worth saying over the weekend, I know I've got more to say, but I'm tired, it's late and I actually think I'll get a proper nights kip tonight for the first time in a week, so I'm going to try and get it. It's the only thing I'm getting right now.